Living With Sherlock
It was early on a Monday morning, and the first time John saw Sherlock that day he'd come down to breakfast to find his friend asleep on the sofa. He'd just finished working on his latest case, and so hadn't slept in days. John was pleased to see his best friend resting – it helped to remind him that he was human after all, and as a doctor John realised the benefit of sleep to the consulting detective's exhausted body. On more than one occasion he'd been tempted to slip a sleeping pill into Sherlock's tea just to force him to rest – but on this occasion there had been no need. He smiled, covering his friend with a blanket, and grabbing himself a slice of toast before heading off to work.
When John returned from work that evening however Sherlock was still asleep on the sofa just where he had left him, so he checked that he was still breathing and headed back out to the pub. His mood had somewhat sobered since that morning – Sherlock had just finished work on one case, but there were no others in the pipeline for the moment, and John knew from past experience exactly what that would mean for the residents of 221B over the next few days.
The next day Sherlock seemed a little tearful, but John didn't push his friend at breakfast. The consulting detective managed half a cup of tea and a few bites of toast before jumping up from the breakfast table and agitatedly scratching a few sharp notes from his violin in the corner of the room, before storming off to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. John sighed. Polishing off his last slice of toast, and finishing his tea, he shut his laptop down before concealing it in a secure location away from Sherlock's restless hands. On his way out he exchanged a few words with Mrs Hudson, asking her to keep an eye on his friend for him whilst he was at work. The long suffering Landlady simply nodded in understanding.
When John returned to the flat a little later that evening he was relieved to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock shouting at the television, and laughing mockingly at the guests on some American chat show he'd been watching on one of their many satellite entertainment channels – well at least he wasn't moping anymore John thought, but he wasn't sure how much of his best friend's shouting at people who could neither hear him nor understand the 'mundane state of their own existence' he could take, and when Sherlock had finally taken off his slipper and thrown it at the TV screen in a fit of temper, this had been the last straw for the long suffering doctor. The television had promptly been switched off after that, and John had been forced to spend the rest of his evening dodging sulky looks from his best friend.
When John came down to breakfast the next morning it was to find Sherlock drinking whisky for breakfast. He didn't say a word, but just took the bottle from the consulting detective and left for work without exchanging a single word with his friend. He'd been through this too many times before to feed into a redundant argument, which is what he by now realised Sherlock really wanted. As far as the consulting detective was concerned a battle of wills was almost a good substitute for a case, but John was too tired to argue. He could only hope that Sherlock wouldn't find out where he'd hidden the half empty bottle of alcohol whilst he was out.
When John arrived home later on that afternoon it was to find Sherlock stumbling in a disorientated fashion all around the flat – he'd found the bottle of whisky again, and according to the detective he was now in the middle of another experiment. John simply sighed, taking the bottle from his friend's fingers and promptly pouring the rest of the expensive liquor down the sink, before patiently putting a disgruntled Sherlock to bed to sleep off the effects of the intoxicating substance. Someone would have to clean up this mess before Mrs Hudson found out – the consulting detective's own meagre records were scattered all over the floor, and a smoking test tube was balancing beneath a flaming Bunsen burner on the kitchen table. John supposed it would have to be him, and he sighed.
He closed his eyes, shutting his ears to the world around him and took a deep breath.
Tomorrow would bring with it another case, he told himself, and life with Sherlock Holmes would go back to normal. With someone like Sherlock you just had to take things one day at a time.