Wrong On One Point
John looked down at Sherlock's plate and sighed.
"You've let your food go cold. Mrs Hudson will play hell." He declared.
"Not now John." Sherlock groaned. He was deeply engrossed still in the previous night's case, and John knew all too well from experience that Sherlock Holmes rarely ate when he was working. Today though he sensed that there was something slightly different about his friend. His complexion was still an unhealthy shade of pale, and there was a thin sheen of sweat upon his forehead and bottom lip.
"Were you sick again?" John asked, immediately putting two and two together.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, but it's nothing." He explained. "I'll be alright."
"Have you taken anything?" He inquired, despite his own discomfort immediately displaying concern for his best friend. He knew the answer to his question before the words had even left his lips – but that didn't stop him asking all the same.
Sherlock had already returned to his work but shook his head as if to answer in the negative.
"I'll get you some aspirin," John sighed, "and some black coffee."
He turned to leave the room, but before descending the staircase he turned back to take one last look into the communal sitting room of 221B, in the direction of Sherlock, his back bent stiffly over a dozen laptops, and his fingers dancing frenziedly from one keyboard to another as he worked at a pace far too fast for John to decipher what he was typing.
A pang of sorrow, and something else – possibly nostalgia – tugged at him. Mrs Hudson's words still resounded in his mind. Things were going to change now he realised, but John was determined to prove her wrong on one point. No matter what happened from now on he would never forget, nor would he turn his back, on his best friend Sherlock Holmes.