No reviews AGAIN? I am ashamed of all of you. Seriously, I got more Story Alerts, and I KNOW you're reading it, and yet no one reviews! Thanks a ton, guys. Makes me feel real great. Now, I know this is being updated pretty quickly, but I have no desire to keep this going for too long. I love it but I can't keep it so spread out.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Sloth, n. reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness
Sherlock Holmes can be physically extraordinary. Tall and slender, long and lean, with narrow shoulders and slim hips and mile-long legs, he can race across London to chase a cab or fly over rooftops, leaping like a cat. He is surprisingly strong, wiry muscles hiding under soft skin and silk shirts. He is more than willing to do the legwork for a case and while on one, he seems tireless.
And then sometimes he doesn't move for days.
Without a case, he won't even get dressed without a good reason– and precious little qualifies as a good reason. He will wrap himself in a sheet and curl up on the couch, loudly complaining about his boredom all the while. John will usually humor him by fetching things, his mobile or food or, well, anything. Anything but drugs, which John flat-out refuses to bring ("It's illegal, Sherlock, and we can't afford to have me sent to jail!"), if only on the grounds that Sherlock ought not to risk his health or the efficiency of his mind.
John knows he's just an enabler, that we merely encourages his friend to lie around and refuse to budge, but he can't help himself. The doctor in him always wants to help out, and the part of him that clings to the hope of wanting a family, that yearns to be a father, cannot resist doting on someone so helpless. Not that Sherlock is weak, he's far from it, but something about seeing such a strong man reduced to motionlessness makes John lose his will to argue.
"Make me a cup, too," Sherlock called into the kitchen one evening. It had only been a day since his last case, so his boredom hadn't yet progressed to the point where he was completely insufferable. How he knew John was in there making himself a cup of tea the good doctor didn't know, but he pulled out another mug with a sigh.
"You know," he chided, setting one cup on the floor by the couch and flopping down in an armchair with the other, "someday I'll just refuse to do this. I'll make you take care of yourself."
Sherlock rolled over, tangled in his sheet, and stared reproachfully at John with his curious bright eyes. "No, you won't."
Not wanting to admit the detective was right, John sat and nursed his tea in silence until Sherlock fell asleep. That was why he kept on, he realized. Sherlock sleeping on the couch. His face was smooth in rest, the harsh angles of his cheekbones were softened, those sharp eyes were hidden, and his hair felt sweetly over his forehead. Many would admit he was almost beautiful if they saw how the cold, hard mask fell to such childlike peace.
Yes, that was why he did it– to see the cleverest man in the world curled up on the couch like a dozy cat. Because for once he needed John, not the other way around.
John got up and reached for Sherlock's empty mug. "Why do you do it, Sherlock?" he murmured. "Why can't you have a normal schedule?"
A long, slender hand snaked out and closed around his wrist. "Because a mind like mine won't allow it, John," the deep baritone voice rumbled, cloudy with sleep. "I work so hard that I crash. I don't eat on cases, I don't sleep, I don't do anything but think, which is extraordinarily physically taxing. When I don't have to I break down and reboot."
John made a noise at the back of his throat that might indicate sympathy. "It'll be the death of you, you know. It'll kill you. You'll just up and die."
"No, I won't," Sherlock mumbled, already miles away as he fell back asleep, releasing John's wrist. "I've got you..."
I am a shameless review whore. No reviews, no next chapter. Come on, how long will it take?