Many apologies for this being late; you'll get two chapters as compensation! I'm sick and my parents-in-law are here, so everything's twice as crazy. Aanyway, enjoy!
John tossed and turned in bed, trying to get comfortable. He'd been limping slightly all day after the Lestrade incident. Lestrade had been really great about it actually; about a half-hour later John had gotten a text asking if he was all right, and Lestrade had actually shown up later in the afternoon (knocking carefully) to drop off a peace offering in the form of more info about the case. All in all, the day had gone well for a "danger day", as his old therapist had called them.
Except now he couldn't sleep. He turned onto his right side, curling into his shoulder, then growled as his other shoulder throbbed and he flopped onto his stomach, glancing at the clock next to the bed.
2 AM. Brilliant. He would be hell to work with in the morning; ever since he'd gotten back to England he'd been grumpy if he hadn't gotten a full ten hours of sleep the night before. He figured it was his subconcious figuring he'd earned the rest after one too many nights sleepless in Afghanistan.
He got up, wondering if Sherlock was in his sitting room again. The floor was cold, but his slippers were under the bed and he didn't want to fetch them, so he tiptoed along, trying to ignore the shivers it sent up his spine.
Sherlock was sitting in his seat again, and when he tried to walk past her to the kitchen, she stopped him with her cello bow, then nodded to a cup sitting on the coffee table, filled with a steaming brown liquid.
Tea. John looked at her and blinked. "Ah, right, thanks," he said, surprised, and sat on the sofa, curling his hands round the drink, and his feet up next to him and off the cold floor. It was even warm. He didn't know how she'd deduced when he'd get up.
"This is when you got out of bed last night. You didn't even fall asleep tonight, though," Sherlock said, answering his unspoken question.
John just nodded wearily, staring into the milky swirl of his tea. Sherlock plucked at her cello in a random pattern, no real melody involved, and the low thrum of the instrument underscored John's heartbeat.
"You're limping again," Sherlock stated after another minute.
John shrugged. "Psychosomatic. It'll leave."
"It leaves when you're under stress," Sherlock got up and spun her chair with her bow hand, clambering over it and pulling her cello round, sitting in that strange crouch she used. "Why?"
John blinked at her, with her curls everywhere, staring at him as if he were being particularly illogical just to spite her.
"I'd have thought Mycroft would have given you all my information by now," he said, feeling the warmth of the drink seep into his fingers.
Sherlock frowned. "He never gives me anything useful. Besides, secondhand evidence is almost always inaccurate." She plucked at the cello again, this time a bit quicker, the notes reflecting her mood.
John took a sip of his tea, then went back to staring at it. "I don't have time to panic during trouble."
Sherlock tilted her head. John braced himself, but all she said was, "Practical."
And then she turned back to her cello, drawing a low, humming melody out of it deftly, and staring straight through John, as if he weren't even there. John sighed and finished his tea, then set it down and curled up on the sofa. Sherlock blinked at him halfway through a song. "You're going to sleep there?"
John shrugged. "No. I can't sleep at all, so I probably won't do it here."
"You'll be on edge tomorrow," Sherlock warned him. "Don't strangle Simon."
John cracked a smile. "That was a joke. Sherlock Holmes made a joke. I should tell the Met."
Sherlock rolled her eyes. "It's hardly breaking news, John," she scoffed, but the tune she played was soft and soothing, and a moment later John blinked his eyes only to realize it was morning, and the humming noise was no longer Sherlock's cello but his mobile vibrating against the table. His duvet was once again tucked round his chin, and he shivered at the chill as it slipped off his arm as he grabbed his phone.
"This is John Watson, hello?" he answered, and the voice on the phone breathed a sigh of relief.
"Oh, good, John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I don't suppose you could haul Sherlock down here, could you, we've got another one and she's not answering her phone."
John nodded, realized Lestrade couldn't see him, and quickly followed with, "Yeah, I mean, I'll tell her. No promises, though."
The DI gave a dry laugh. "Course not. Just text me if you're coming, then."
John yawned as the DI talked, then tried to stop in order to reply. "Yeah, got it. Thanks, Lestrade. Sorry about yesterday, again."
"It's fine, and I'm Greg," the DI supplied, and John chuckled.
"Nearly choking you gets us on a first-name basis, right."
"Actually, I'm just grateful to have someone near Sherlock who will pick up their phone," Greg replied, and John grinned. He could believe it.
"Right, well, let me get dressed and I'll see what I can do," he said.
"Got it. See you later," Greg said, and the click on the phone told John he was gone.
When John walked into Sherlock's flat it was quiet, and he realized the detective was actually asleep. She must really be stumped on this one, then, he thought, knowing the detective didn't normally sleep or eat on cases. He knocked on her bedroom door, and at the groan in response, he opened it a crack.
"Lestrade said to tell you there's been another one," he said, and was greeted by a flurry of noise and shouting.
"Where? How? Why didn't he call me?"
"You wouldn't pick up your phone. And I thought you said secondhand evidence is normally inaccurate. Get your trousers on and we'll find out," he replied, amused, going to get his own clothes on.
"I thought you had work at the clinic today," Sherlock shouted as he walked away, and John checked the clock on his phone.
"Not till noon, and it's what, nearly eight? Four hours ought to be enough to tell you how a bloke got murdered," he called back before closing the door to his room to change.
He'd barely got his last button buttoned when the front door banged and he heard a shout of "Come on, John!"
He smiled and grabbed his coat and gun on the way out.