Of all the stupid... inconsequential... annoying... useless things...
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, pushing his face into his pillow and muffling a groan. A quick estimate told him that it was about seven-thirty in the morning. The shower running in the bathroom also helped to paint the picture, admittingly...
Unfortunately, the shower running in the bathroom also didn't help to alleviate other problems, the main one being his bladder having urged his out of his unconsciousness and sending him signals to get to the loo.
It really was a stupid bodily function. Sherlock hated it. It could be such a waste of time. And, right now, a good waste of sleep.
He yawned and rolled over, wincing again. He was determined to ignore it; he'd be up within an hour or so, anyway. He was sure he could wait that long. He'd been in unfavourable situations before, ones less forgiving than having a bathroom five feet away. He could deal with it.
Fumbling, Sherlock gripped the edge of the blankets and pulled them closer, letting the plush fabric settle down heavily against his neck. He sighed tiredly and let his eyes flutter shut. He pressed his face into the spot where his two pillows met and, trying to shield his face from the light filtering into his room, tried to let himself drift off.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, his digital was shining seven-fifty and his bladder was throbbing.
"Not... now..." Sherlock moaned, wrapping his arms around his pillow and drawing it close to bury his face in it. He was so warm and comfortable and...
He let out an annoyed huff as if it would help alleviate the pain, but thirty-three years of living in his own body, he knew his limits. It was time to get up.
He sighed and shoved the pillow away again, reaching to push the blankets away. He felt tangled up and tied down, for good reason, he shortly found out: he couldn't distinguish his legs from the blankets, they were so entwined.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and sat up, trying to push the blankets away. It took approximately thirty-seven seconds, his sluggish mind processed, before he had untangled the sheet away from the blankets away from the duvet, from his legs. He missed the fact that his foot, however, still had the brunt of the fabric and, when he tried to swing his legs out of bed, got caught. He pulled, with more irritation and impatience now, and, suddenly, he had lost his balance and ended up flat on his arse on the floor.
Pain shot through his body, not worth any mention, but it didn't help any other problems and now anxiety flipped through his nerves as he pushed himself back to his feet.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes automatically followed the voice, his eyes falling on the bathroom door. John was still in the bathroom? What took him so long? He was a soldier; weren't soldiers supposed to be quick, on their feet, ready for anything? At least the shower wasn't running still; it would have been his undoing.
"John," he muttered, voice deep, rumbling from being asleep. "... Let me in." He rubbed his eyes and leaned against the wall next to his door, pressing his thighs together unconsciously.
"Why? What was that noise?"
Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose. "Nothing. I've got to use the toilet."
"I doubt it was nothing," John muttered in return. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
Pain jolted through Sherlock's body again and he clenched his teeth, determined not to make a spectacle of himself in his still half-asleep state. "John. Now. As in, now."
There was a beat of silence before the lock clicked on the door and John peered out at him. His face was lathered up with shaving cream. Oh. Logical. Why hadn't Sherlock made the connection? Must have been too asleep. Too distracted.
"Thank you," Sherlock muttered, pushing past him unsteadily.
John steadied him when he stumbled; his voice sounded like he was frowning. "Are you alright?"
"Will be in a minute," Sherlock mumbled.
"Right, I'll just... give you a minute," John muttered, stepping out of the bathroom.
At this point, Sherlock wouldn't have cared if John had stuck around or not, but he supposed it was more for John's benefit than his own that he left. John was oddly fussy for privacy after being a soldier.
Sherlock washed his hands afterwards - after, of course, walking straight into the counter and possibly bruising his left hip - and dried them on his shirt as he shuffled back to his bedroom.
"Too much tea?" John asked, amused.
"So it seems," Sherlock mumbled. Other inconveniencing things out of the way, he was drifting again.
John laughed and went back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Sherlock glanced to the clock, figured that he ought to get dressed, get ready for the day. But... five more minutes couldn't hurt...
He crawled back onto the bed, forgoing the blankets. He was getting up in a few minutes, anyway...
He was snoring before John even came out of the bathroom, face buried back in his pillows again.
It really is the most inconveniencing thing ever. Even Sherlock Holmes isn't immune. :P
Hurt!lock is coming. And so is sick!lock. I promise. xD
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!