THE BLACK

Blue eyes shot open in a dark room. The clock ticked with a sickening steadiness and pulsed inside Sherlock's head. He kicked the white sheets to the end of the bed revealing pale, bony feet. He breathed out slowly and was about to reach up and scratch his shoulder when he heard a loud bang coming from the kitchen followed by a muffled swear.

John.

Sherlock glanced at his glowing watch - 03.20 - what was John doing?

Another five minutes, another bang, followed by a yelp. Was John in danger?

Sherlock dragged himself out of bed and with painful slowness moved across the room to the door. He dragged his feet across the rough wooden floor and gained a splinter in his right toe for his trouble. He reached the door and reached his hand to the cold metal handle, pulling the door open. He thought about leaving it there, retreating to the safety of his bed. Even if John was in danger he wouldn't be able to do anything. Despite this thought, Sherlock managed to mentally push himself out the door and along the short hall to face the kitchen where he was surprised at the sight which met him.

John was slumped, sleeping, on a stool. He had his hand loosely gripping the end of a wooden spoon which was dangling by his side. In his other hand, he held a saucepan which was on the kitchen surface. Sherlock could see the sauce pan edging slowly off the surface with the weight of John's limp hand. As well as the unsteady saucepan, Sherlock could also see John's whole body sliding slowly off the edge of the stool. So John must have fallen off of the seat before - that explained the loud bangs and the swearing. It wasn't surprising, why did John think he could cook four hours before his usual waking time?

Sherlock walked silently over to the scene and glanced into the saucepan - there was a dark, thick liquid inside which also dripped from the wooden spoon onto the tiled floor. It smelt of sweet caramel. Toffee sauce. Toffee sauce? He glanced around the kitchen for further explanation until his eyes settled on the large tub of luxury vanilla ice cream sat near the fridge. Sherlock smiled. Wonderful, wonderful John.

Suddenly, John started to fall sideways and Sherlock only just managed to hook his hand around the other man's shoulders. He pulled him up into a sitting position, careful not to disrupt him. He took the spoon and saucepan from John's hands and pushed them further onto the counter. He pushed his arm around John's back and held his other hand under John's legs. He lifted him with a struggle and held him close whilst he walked to John's room, pushing the door open with his back and shoulders.

He looked around the room, John's army badges were on the mantelpiece and his wardrobe was opened showing mostly casual clothes and a suit for any formal occasions. Not that there were many anymore.

He gently lifted John down onto the bed taking care to keep his arms locked supporting the man. When he was securely on his side in a natural sleeping position, Sherlock kept his hand on his body for just a moment before moving it down to pull the duvet over his shoulders.

He looked down at him. His blond hair was getting long and fell over his closed eyes as he slept, Sherlock kind of liked John's hair this length. Before he left the room Sherlock leaned down to John's head and planted a light kiss on John's head. He smiled at the sleepy grin which flew across John's dreaming face.

'Night John'

John woke four hours later and the first feeling which entered his head was confusion. Wasn't he doing something? Wasn't it - wait. The situation came flooding back - the toffee sauce, the ice cream, falling off the stool, falling asleep and then... What happened then? How was he now in bed?

He practically ran out of the room, into the kitchen and took in the scene.

Sherlock stood over the cooker feverishly stirring the toffee sauce. There were two bowls with ice cream set to the side and Sherlock started to pour the sauce over the ice cream.

'Sherlock - what? I-'

'What made you think you could make me breakfast four hours before you normally wake? I've had to take matters into my own hands.'

'So I see. Sherlock, you don't need to do that, you should be resting.'

'I'm a little sick of resting. Besides, this provides a distraction from The Black.'

'The Black?'

'I've decided to call it The Black; it suits it much more than depression, far too boring.'

'Always with the drama Sherlock'

Sherlock smiled before turning around, bringing the ice-cream over to the table. John retrieved spoons from the draw and sat down opposite Sherlock.

'By the way, what exactly inspired you to give me ice cream at three-twenty A.M?'

'It was the thing you ate most of the other morning and I wanted to help. I knew you'd wake early.'

'How is your hip?'

John reached down to his right hip and found a bruise; it must have been from the fall.

'How did you know about the hip?'

Sherlock looked down and blushed.

Blushing? Blushing from Sherlock? Sherlock was the most straight talking and non-embarrassed person John had ever met.

'I just noticed'

John smirked playfully 'how did you notice, Sherlock?'

'For God's sake John, how do you think you got to your room, the Fairies?'

John thought for a moment. He hadn't considered it. The only way Sherlock would know about that bruise was by feeling the skin as, it would not have yet coloured.

'Ah. Thank you.'

'You're welcome'