"Coffee, Dr. Watson?"
John shook his head, his nose buried in an article about a string of missing invalids. No bodies, no signs of struggle, no apparent connections. They were people of all ages and all backgrounds - sharing only the facts that they were terminally ill, and that they lived either at home or in hospices. The police had found no leads, no fingerprints, no witnesses.
"Sherlock would have loved this case," John murmured, not realizing he'd spoken out loud.
"Sorry?"
"Oh - " John coughed and folded the newspaper, setting it on the coffee table. "Nothing. Coffee - yes, sure." He stood up, moving slowly into the kitchen. His leg was feeling stiff again, his limp returning in the face of a - God, he hated to say it - "normal" life. There was no more running around the city for him, no more chasing cabs or mysterious gunmen or phantom, drug-induced hounds. Niles was an interesting conversationalist when he was around: talked of medicine, of work, of his curious patients, of his studies abroad. He was friendly and cheerful and a little strange, and John saw his resemblance to Sherlock diminish in that aspect, but Niles was hardly ever home. He spent most of his time at the surgery, or… well, at the surgery. The boy was almost unhealthy devoted to his work. What was it about John and living with workaholics?
"You sure? The caffeine won't help that tremor."
John looked down at his left hand, clenched it quickly to stop it from shaking. Niles was observant, too. He was an analytical mind, and from what John had heard, quite the intelligent one. Couldn't John just, for once, be able to keep his personal details to himself?
"You know what? Nevermind. I'll pass on that." John grabbed his coat, his keys, and his phone and beelined for the door. He didn't' feel like being at Baker Street, didn't feel like being around people, really.
"Dr. Watson - wait." John stopped at the door.
"What?"
"Oh, come on. We've been living together for a good few weeks now and I can't even be a little bit concerned?"
John turned to his new flat mate, saw the concern in his eyes and the crease in his brow, too deep a crease for a young face like Niles'. He sighed, feeling a little bit guilty. There he was, a busy young surgeon with a stressful schedule, a human being taking the time to worry after him, and he was being rude.
"Sorry, look. I'm not… not feeling well. Just need a bit of air."
"Oh, alright, well - " Niles looked down at the reports he had sprawled across his desk, at his laptop, then closed it with a snap and stood up, gathering his own coat from the back of his chair. "You know what I think? I think you need a drink."
"No, I think I'd really rather not."
"Well, too bad, I'm insisting. Mrs. Hudson tells me you haven't had a night out in ages, and a man does need to unwind. Come on, let's go. Besides, all the company I've had in a while have been anesthetized. It'll be good for the both of us, I'm sure!"
Niles was all bright and cheery and stubborn, ushering John out into the hall and cutting off his excuses and retorts. It was a familiar disregard for John's protests, barked commands and persuasive phrases - even if they did lack the power and outright dominance that Sherlock's had. John finally agreed. He couldn't refute that alcohol sounded lovely.
A/N: Stay tuned for drunken Watsons!