John had been gone for a month and ten days.
An entire month.
Gone.
But he was back now, still apologising over it, though he shouldn't have to, as he himself had pointed out multiple times. John rarely saw his family, and even if he wasn't on the closest of terms with his sister, a man had to spend a little time with relatives, apparently.
The concept was foreign to Sherlock.
So when John had found himself completely free from work—not for the whole month, obviously, he'd had to do a little bargaining there—of course he'd chosen to 'take a holiday,' as he'd put it.
A holiday from Sherlock.
The detective knew that, even if John didn't say it. Had to be true… Sherlock wasn't oblivious, he knew he was… well, difficult.
Ah well.
John was back now.
"Worked any cases while I was away?" John enquired as he settled into one of the dining chairs—the only one that wasn't currently occupied by rubbish—with a fresh cup of coffee and the paper, not glancing up at the detective reclining on the sofa.
"Mm… nothing very interesting…" Sherlock didn't open his eyes, fingers laced over his chest in his habitual 'thinking' position.
"I take it I didn't miss much, then." John grunted, flipping the page with a slight rustle. "Miss me?"
"You wish." A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
John only rolled his eyes in response, and took a cautious sip of his coffee.
Still too hot…
The only light on in the flat was the lamp by the sofa, but it didn't really matter, what with all the morning light filtering in through the curtains. It might have only highlighted the dust, but that was beside the point.
John's eyes wandered over the flat as he waited for his drink to cool, taking in the familiarity of it all. He had to admit, he'd missed the place.
Even if it did smell slightly of… something.
Blood?
Tinned peas?
A mixture of both?
Not really something to think about over coffee, he decided. Especially not this early in the morning.
"So…" The doctor ventured, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Did you, um… get out much, while I was gone? …Looking a little pale."
At that, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and flicked over toward John with an annoyed expression. An unspoken 'how dare you?'
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you. My complexion is none of your business. Incidentally, no." He settled back into the sofa again. "Not many cases were actually involved enough to warrant leaving the flat."
"Right…" John straightened his paper, pursing his lips. "Y'know, now that I'm back, you are going to have clear out some of this… stuff." He nodded toward the box of paper cups on the seat next to him. "I'm going to need to be able to sit down in my own home."
"You are sitting down. And it's not stuff. It's things. My things."
"It's a bloody box of cups!"
"Very astute! I would have hoped you'd also notice that each one had soil in it, but at least you're making progress."
"Oh god…" John made a face at his paper, barely resisting a face palm. "It's a box of dirt…"
"Well if you put it that way—"
"You know what? No." John held up a finger, giving Sherlock a look. "We're getting you a case. A real one, a good one. So you can actually get out a bit, do some work, yeah? So you can stop… collecting… cups of dirt."
Sherlock just shrugged. "I'm writing a paper on the distinct differences between soil compositions in different locations throughout the United Kingdom. It's very interesting."
"What, the dirt? Or the fact that you're writing a paper on it? Because I'm very amused by that last one."
"Oh, shut up…"
It was John's turn to smirk as he returned to his coffee, which had finally cooled down enough to drink.
The quiet snuck back into the flat for a while after that, settling comfortably over the furniture and hanging about the windows like a heavy, imperceptible moth. And then, abruptly, it was gone again as Sherlock stirred, pushing himself up and getting to his feet—
John hadn't been paying attention, but as soon as he heard the thud he glanced up quickly, at first mystified at the sight of the detective practically on his knees, one hand on the coffee table for support, head down.
He paused there for several seconds, a heavy breath escaping his lips.
It took almost that long for John's brain to connect what had he was seeing to what must have happened. But—that didn't make sense—Sherlock didn't… stumble. Especially not over thin air.
"Sherlock—?"
"Fine." He waved a hand dismissively, managing to regain his footing, and now working on his shattered composure. "I'm fine… Just…" His eyes quickly scanned the floor, searching. "…the rug. Must have… tripped."
John just stared at him, coffee and paper momentarily forgotten.
Tripped?
That didn't exactly seem right… Sherlock hadn't even taken one step yet…
John may not have been a genius detective, but he was a doctor, and he knew enough to be able to deduce immediately that no, Sherlock did not appear to be fine.