They didn't talk about The Incident after that night. Sherlock noted that John stayed home more often than he had previously. When Sherlock asked about Sarah and whether he would be going out with her that Friday night as usual, John had shrugged.
"I don't think it's working out between us."
"Really? You said you really liked her."
"Yes, well, sometimes that's not enough."
That was the end of that conversation. The Yard still hadn't given Sherlock any cases. The website wasn't providing any cases more intricate than a lost dog. He spent his days mainly on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. John had asked Molly to send over anything interesting she had, but so far, her autopsies had been run of the mill, nothing out of place. It wasn't until just over a week after The Incident that John really started to worry about what was going on with Sherlock.
Sherlock had simply... stopped. He wasn't pacing, he wasn't shooting walls, he wasn't even playing his violin. He stayed on the couch. The only times John had seen him move were when he got up to use the bathroom, shower, or go to his bedroom to sleep. He left the door open on purpose, so that John would be able to keep an eye on him. It was meant to be reassuring, but John found himself even more worried by the sentiment.
Another week passed, and seeing Sherlock wearing the same pajamas he'd been wearing for the previous 3 days and still refusing to eat anything pushed John over the edge. On a trip to Tesco to pick up food (because someone in the damn flat had to eat something), John called Lestrade.
"Hey, mate. What's up?"
"Listen, Greg, how much longer is the ban in place for Sherlock?"
"John..."
"Please. How much longer?"
"I honestly don't know."
"Fuck. Greg, listen, he needs something. Anything. Can you send over cold cases? I don't care how old they are. Something."
"Christ, John, is he that bad?"
"He's not doing anything."
"I didn't think he'd be back to the drugs, not with you around, if that's what you mean."
"No, I mean, he's not doing anything. He's shut off. He just stays on the couch. He's not playing the violin. He's not pacing. He hasn't experimented on the milk. He's even sleeping. It's... God, Greg, it's fucking terrifying to watch. I can't handle it."
"I don't know what I can do, John..."
"Please. I'm literally begging you here. I'll make it up to you somehow. We can work something out. Free medical treatment. Anything. Just, for fuck's sake, Greg, I can't handle it anymore. It makes my skin crawl to watch him just... waste away."
"I'll bring over a few files tonight."
"Oh, ta, mate. Really. Thank you so much. Whatever you can give him."
"You owe me."
"Anything."
"See you tonight."
When Lestrade showed at the flat that night, John was in the middle of making dinner. Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot on the couch except to shower and switch into a new pair of pajamas when John mentioned that his hair was getting so greasy, it was sticking to his head. Always attack the vanity. That's the best course of action for dealing with Sherlock Holmes.
The second he saw Lestrade, Sherlock was up and off the couch.
"Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, tell me the ban is lifted."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged in a way that clearly said 'I told you so.'
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know how much longer the ban is going to be in place."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said those things. Please, I need something. I need to come back. I'll even be nice to Anderson, just please, I need to come back."
"Sherlock-."
"Please-."
"Let me finish a fucking sentence, Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped and Sherlock sank back down onto the couch cushions. "Thank you. Sherlock, I'm going to try to push it through faster. I talked to the chief today, and he's warming back up to the idea. Until then, I brought you some cold cases to look through. I'm not sure if you'll find anything-."
"I'll take them. Whatever you've got."
Lestrade handed over the case files and Sherlock took to them eagerly, opening the first file with so much enthusiasm that he almost ripped the folder that was holding it together. Lestrade stayed for a beer while John finished up dinner.
"Care to stay tonight?"
"No, thanks though. I've been heading back to the gym recently and I want to get there before it gets too late or I'll never manage to keep up with my routine."
"Ah, right, gotta buff up now that you're back on the market, eh?"
"Oh, shut up. Thanks for the beer, and let me know how he's doing, alright?"
"Sure."
"Especially if there's any... danger nights, yeah?"
"Of course," John lied smoothly and ushered Lestrade to the door. "Let us know the second you have a case he can work, alright?"
"I will. Bye, Sherlock."
"Bye, Greg, and thanks for these," came the response that had both men stopping and turning to stare at the detective, then back at one another.
"The second I get something, I swear I'll call," Lestrade said seriously.
"Please do. See you then."
The flat was silent again, except for the sounds of John in the kitchen and Sherlock flipping through case files. It was almost as though things had returned to normal. It took half an hour for Sherlock to solve the first one, an hour for the second. John sat in his chair, reading a new book (since he could, now that Sherlock was distracted and no longer prone to shouting out the ending at him). It was almost midnight before he realized he hadn't heard Sherlock's muttering or exclamations in a while and looked up.
The man was slumped over the coffee table, his head resting on an open file, mouth slightly parted, fast asleep.
John shook his head. The down time must have allowed his body to resume its natural cycle again. Sherlock would have to work at it again, getting his body to respond well under the lack of sleep as it usually did, but for now, John's instincts were all medical. It was a chance for Sherlock to catch up on some of his missing hours. His current sleeping position could be problematic, though...
John set his book down on the table and walked over to the man.
"Sherlock," he whispered and touched his shoulder. "Come on, time to get to bed."
"But... there's cases..." came the mumbled reply.
"You won't be able to solve them if you are sleeping on the paperwork, now will you? Come on, up you go..."
John walked Sherlock to his bedroom and pulled back the covers, waiting until Sherlock was tucked under them.
"This is so inconvenient."
"You get used to it, Sherlock. You're only human after all."
"Boring."
"Go to sleep."
Perhaps, John thought, a little bit of laziness was okay every now and then.
It didn't last long, however. Lestrade showed up at the flat a week later, stress radiating off of him.
"Triple homicide, second one this week. We could use some help."
Sherlock went from pajamas to suit and Belstaff in just over two minutes. John had barely enough time to put his tea in the sink, fetch the Sig, and get his own coat on before Sherlock was bustling him into a taxi and they were on their way.
"It's probably not appropriate to be as excited as you are while we're on the way to the scene of a triple homicide, you know," John said, fighting back his own smile. He had missed the cases too, the puzzles, the running, the heroics, the fun. Sherlock was just worse at hiding it than he was.
"John, my first case back, and there are three bodies. Three! It's better than Christmas. God, I hope it's bloody. I hope it's clever. I want this one to go on for a while."
At the cabbie's startled look, John shot him an apologetic smile.
"Just remember, no laughing at crime scenes."
Their shared look lasted less than 5 seconds before they were both dissolved into giggles that only turned into outright laughter as they pulled up to the crime scene. Even Anderson's idiocy and Donovan's mouth couldn't dampen the mood.
