Normally, when the doctor woke up, he showered, put on his robe, made a cup of tea, and read the newspaper. This routine, up to the second half of the reading, was normally completed in solitude. If Sherlock was up, he was still up—never having gone to bed—and was so focused on a case that he didn't say a word, much less show any sign of true consciousness.
This morning, though, when John stepped out of the shower, Sherlock was simply up, sitting in his chair, reading the paper for himself.
"You slept?"
"Two hours."
John said nothing and made himself a cup of tea. "Do we need to have a talk again?"
Sherlock put the news down and made his way to the kitchen. The last thing he wanted was another lecture from his doctor about "poor eating habits" and "lack of sleep." He was fully clothed, fully cognitive. John didn't know what to do with it, so he said nothing, sipping on his tea and sitting at the kitchen table.
Sherlock took his coffee and smiled, smugly, when John jumped at the toast he hadn't known was cooking. Watching with curiosity, John was silent as Sherlock grabbed a knife, stick of butter, and a plate. The detective cut each piece of bread into four squares and, to John's absolutely horror, used half the butter on the eight small pieces.
"Is that your normal breakfast?" John leaned back in his chair and moaned. "Sherlock, I get up early enough as it is. Don't make me wake up earlier to babysit you."
"Babysit?" Sherlock turned his back and plopped one of the squares into his mouth.
John grabbed the toast and scraped off as much butter as he could. "Yes, Sherlock, babysit. It's enough work getting you to eat a decent dinner or get a full night's rest. It's a wonder you're not four hundred pounds."
Sherlock took the plate and threw it—along with the bread, knife, and remaining stick—into the trash can. "To answer your question," he said, walking away, "no, John, that's not my normal breakfast."
John let Sherlock leave and tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Sherlock wasn't sensitive about his weight—he had no reason to be—and, though cracks about his health habits were annoying, he'd never thrown a temper tantrum before.
He let it go, knowing that it was just Sherlock—he'd never be understandable—and picked up his mug when he smelt something burning.
…..
Sherlock heard a small knock on his bedroom door and ignored it, closing his eyes and lying back on the bed. John came in anyway, of course, placing two blackened scrambled eggs on the bed.
"You were making breakfast?"
Sherlock didn't answer and, rather juvenilely, rolled over to face the opposite wall.
"You were trying to cook. Hmm?" John sat on the bed and sighed. "Sherlock. Hey, look at me." Nothing. Fine. "Thank you…for trying. Honestly. I'm sure they would have turned out fine if we hadn't argued." He paused. "The toast turned out well, didn't it? Other than the four tons of fat?"
Sherlock groaned. "John, it's five in the morning. I know we've been flat mates for a while, but I'd appreciate some privacy." When John didn't move, he sat up. "They're not that burnt."
"To a crisp, Sherlock." John smiled, but it quickly faded when the joke wasn't appreciated. "I don't care about that. The butter, though. You'll die before you're forty, Sherlock."
"Don't worry about my health."
"I do. I will."
"Why?"
John's voice caught in his throat, and he was forced to clear it. He couldn't—wouldn't—tell Sherlock that he spent hours wondering how to get him to eat healthier or sleep more. How he did everything in his power to keep junk food out of the house (except for emergencies, when Sherlock wouldn't eat anything else). How he talked to other doctors at the clinic for advice. He couldn't explain it. He just…well, he just cared. And that meant he'd worry.
"I don't know," he finally said.
"Then you cook from now on."
…
The next morning, John woke up to the smell of coal and cigarette smoke. Before he'd thrown the covers off, he was already screaming. "If you're touching a stove or cigarette, you're dead. Either way. I don't know what you think you're doing, Sherlock, but I won't have—"
He stopped at the kitchen door. The trash can was overflowing with discarded eggs from countless attempts; the floor was covered in eggshell and yolk. The stovetop was blackened from…well how had he managed that? The fridge was ajar, revealing vials, eels (hadn't he thrown those out?), and—no, it couldn't be—three feet.
But John couldn't care less about all that. His eyes fell immediately on the small, porcelain plate on the counter. Seven squares were dripping—quite literally—with butter, but one was bare.
"I know, I know. I'll clean it up," Sherlock was saying. "Really, John, you shouldn't be so uptight. I'm working on it, alright? I won't try anymore." He fell silent when he saw the way John was looking at him. "What?"
"Well. At least you're making progress."
"No, John. No, I'm done cooking. Understand? I haven't made an ounce of progress."
John shook his head and thought about how to explain that…that it was things like that, the little things, that told him Sherlock actually cared. When he burned a hole in the carpet and bought a chair to cover up the spot. When he tried to learn to cook even though he hated the thought of it. When he pretended to drive when he thought John wasn't looking. When he buttered seven squares instead of eight because he knew John worried. Things like that, well, they made all the difference in the world.
No, Sherlock was wrong. He had been making very good progress, indeed.