So, I went kind of a different route for this prompt. CC recommended that John get hit on head and knocked out. So, I took that and... well, this is what I came up with. There is a bit of John whumpage, but this is a bit more of a touchy-feely chapter rather than straight-up whump. Hopefully you enjoy it still! :)

John furiously scrubbed away at the green-looking slime that had crusted onto the inside of his bathroom sink. He wasn't entirely sure what it was, but he was certain that touching it without gloves would be categorised as a bad idea.

As he went to re-wet the sponge in his hand, he heard footsteps stop right outside the door.

"Good. You're home." He dropped the sponge in the bucket of soap at his feet and brushed himself off with an annoyed huff. "Now, do you mind explaining to me what the hell you've put in my sink?"

The detective at the door cocked his head at his flatmate, the corners of his mouth slightly twitching upwards into a sort of smirk.

"Are those Mrs. Hudson's gloves?" he asked, amused.

John felt his cheeks turn hot, and he clenched his hands together into tight fists.

"Yeah. They are. Yours were um... too big."

Sherlock wiped the hidden grin from his face with his hand and cleared his throat.

"Of course. What was the question?"

John shifted his feet slightly as he regained his composure.

"Right." Tightening his jaw, he pointed to the sink. "What the hell did you put in there?"

Sherlock sighed.

"It's nothing corrosive, if that's what you're worried about."

"Then what is it?"

"An experiment, obviously."

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah. I gathered that. What I meant was..." He looked at the detective's confused expression and sighed. "Never mind. Just... how's the case?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and began rapidly typing out a text, hardly having to pay attention to the screen. John was sure the man had the bloody keyboard memorised.

"Closed. It was quite predictable. You would have been bored out of your mind, much like me."

"Great to know you've been having fun."

"I detect a bit of sarcasm in that statement," Sherlock said as he dropped his phone back into his pocket.

John sniffed.

"Yeah, well, I'm still pissed that I have to clean up after you."

"You speak of me as if I were a dog."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a child, but whatever works for you."

"By the way, don't be alarmed if you find some of the contents of your sock drawer out of place."

John blushed, his brow furrowing.

"You rummaged through my sock drawer too?!"

"I did say there's no need to be alarmed."

"Christ!" John yelled, kicking over the bucket full of soapy water, the clang echoing off the tiled walls.

Sherlock winced.

"You just have no respect for me or my privacy, do you?!" John shouted, his fists rapidly clenching and unclenching, causing the rubbery texture of the yellow gloves to squeak.

Sherlock, though unfaltering, seemed to draw back a bit.

"I really don't see why you're so upset, John."

"Because you have no respect for me whatsoever! It doesn't matter what I do or what I say; there you are to belittle me and humiliate me in your brilliant and fucking annoying 'Sherlock' way. There you are to pretend I'm your bloody skull because I'm too fucking boring for you or to put severed limbs in the refrigerator just to piss me off. There you are to disregard every bloody thing I say, even if it's a simple request! And what have I specifically asked you not to do?"

"Never to go rummaging around in your room," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Exactly!" John shouted. "And what did you do?"

"I went rummaging around in your room."

"And Sherlock Holmes finally shows some humility! Good Lord! Have my prayers been answered?" John threw the rubber gloves into the bathtub.

Sherlock looked down at his feet, not daring to say a word.

All was quiet for a while.

John was the first to speak again. He started off with a sigh and sat down on the edge of the tub.

"Well... that felt good."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes, well... I had no idea that you felt so... strongly about the matter."

John chuckled a bit.

"You having no idea? That's new."

Again, silence.

"Look, I... I guess I just wonder if you really give two shits about me. Or even one would be fine. I don't know, I mean... I don't know what I expected from you..."

"John..."

"You know what? I've fucked things up enough already. It's been a long day and I think we both could do with some-" as John started rushing out of the bathroom, he slipped on the puddle of soapy water that had spilled out of the bucket he had earlier kicked over, and he immediately fell backwards, his head bouncing off the tile with a loud crack.

"John?!" Sherlock said, rushing over to his flatmate.

Upon reaching his friend, he noticed that his eyes were closed.

"Oh, hell, look what you've gone and done now," he muttered. "John?" He lightly tapped John's cheek. "John, wake up. Can you hear me?"

John moaned a bit.

"Christ."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, allowing him to support the rest of his flatmate's weight as he dragged him towards the bed. With a grunt, he dropped John onto the bed and adjusted him into a comfortable position.

"John?" he said again as he tapped on his friend's cheek.

Another moan.

"I'll be back," he said, tossing his coat and scarf to the side as he rushed downstairs and into the kitchen. There, he quickly fetched an ice pack from the freezer and the aspirin from the cabinet before running back up the stairs.

Upon reentering the bedroom, he rested both the bottle and ice pack on the nightstand and perched himself on the edge of the bed.

"John?" he called.

John's eyes lazily opened and he groaned.

"Light. Ow," he mumbled.

"Ah. One moment," Sherlock said, moving only to switch off the overhead light and turn on the one sitting on the end table. "Better?" he asked.

John nodded and groaned.

"Fuck. My head."

"Are you able to sit up?"

"Think so. One sec."

Slowly, John eased himself onto his elbows and pushed his back against the head of the bed.

Sherlock tentatively handed the ice pack to John who gladly took it, wasting no time in placing it on the back of his head.

"I've brought some aspirin up too in case you'll be wanting it."

John nodded, his eyes closed.

"Yeah. Thanks."

John sat for a few minutes icing his head, trying to keep his eyes closed in order to focus on dulling the pain. Sherlock remained quiet.

After about fifteen minutes, John took a deep breath and lifted the ice pack off his head with a hiss.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Can you hand me two pills? Please?"

"Certainly."

Sherlock unscrewed the cap of the aspirin bottle and shook out two pills, gently placing them in John's outstretched hand.

John hesitated to swallow them.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

"Are you positive this is aspirin?"

"What?"

"Is the bottle labelled?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course, John. I'm not *that* irresponsible."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Well I'm not!" Sherlock protested.

With a huff, John popped the two pills in his mouth, swallowing them both dry.

"Would you like some water?" Sherlock asked.

"That would be nice, thank you."

Sherlock was out and in again, returning with a glass of tap water from the kitchen.

"Here," he said, handing the glass to John.

After downing the drink, John set the glass and ice pack on the bedside table, leaning against the head of the bed with a sigh.

"Are you sure you don't need to ice it a bit longer?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

"I should take a break from it. About five, maybe ten minutes. Then I'll ice for a bit longer."

"Oh. Alright."

More silence.

"Sherlock..." John started, "I-"

"Say no more, John. I've heard your piece. I think it's about time I offered you mine."

John sat attentively.

"John, you're right. About everything," Sherlock said. "Since rephrasing is a bit redundant, I'll put it simply: I am an arse. That nicely sums up what you were saying. I am a disrespectful, pompous, genius who can't help but flaunt his skills any chance he gets. I'm not afraid to admit that, for that is all true, as unpleasant as it sounds and, truly, is. I am also a relentless sociopath, and proud of it, whose only outlets for the longest time were cocaine and experiments, and whose only friend was a skull. That, again, is all true."

John nodded.

"Then you came along," Sherlock said, "And you disrupted the routine. You changed everything. I was forced to constantly be in contact with another human being; someone who had emotions, thoughts, opinions, likes, dislikes, etcetera; all of which a skull, on its own, lacks. I apologise if, when speaking to you, I sounded resentful that you were present instead of the skull. It wasn't resent. It was simple absent-mindedness, you must understand, when you've adjusted yourself to constantly talking to an inanimate object for years, it becomes a habit."

John nodded.

"Yeah. I suppose so."

"Despite this habitual behaviour of talking to skulls and experimenting on random odds and ends, you still managed to catch my attention. I sincerely thought at first you'd simply be just a shadow in my day-to-day life, going about your business while you let me go about mine. But you showed me you actually cared. As if shooting a man for me the day after we met wasn't enough, you took time out of your schedule to insure that I was eating and sleeping and other trivial things like that. Perhaps that concern was simply coming from the medical man in you, but your care and concern for me has come full circle, and I've discovered that I care quite a lot about you. Perhaps I have a very strange way of showing it, going by what you told me. But don't ever question my loyalty to you. I have and always will care about you, John Hamish Watson. After all, you are the only friend I have."

John was completely silent, mouth slightly agape. Sherlock knitted his brow, slightly concerned.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

John closed his mouth and smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"Nope. Not at all."

He leaned in and wrapped Sherlock in his arms, squeezing him tightly.

Sherlock was dumbstruck for a moment, unsure of what to do. Hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around John, lightly squeezing, but progressively getting more and more comfortable with the position, allowing himself to squeeze a bit tighter.

The two sat like that for a while, cherishing the moment before John released his hold.

"That was borderline poetic. Where the hell did that come from?" he asked, the astonishment not having fully worn off.

Sherlock shrugged, still a bit shocked from the embrace.

John shook his head and smiled again.

"I'm not quite sure what to say now."

Sherlock smiled back.

"I suppose nothing more needs to be said about it." He stretched and yawned. "I suppose I'll help you clean up your sink in the morning."

"Damn right," John said with a yawn.

"Will you be alright for the night?"

"Luckily, I don't seem to have a concussion, so I think I'll be okay. My head'll just hurt like hell tomorrow."

"Right. Well, I suppose I ought to wish you a good night."

"Wait, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What did you snatch from my sock drawer?"

"I didn't 'snatch' anything. I was just curious."

John raised his eyebrow.

"About what, exactly? What did you expect to see in there?"

"I might be able to deduce your backstory, but that doesn't mean I know everything about who you are as a person. One's sock drawer can be very telling."

"Oh? And what could you tell?"

"Each pair of socks were hastily rolled up and thrown into the drawer, which tells me you like to get tasks, especially the more drab ones, done quickly; you like being productive, but not exactly thorough."

"Good."

"And furthermore-"

"I think that's enough deductions for now, thanks. My head's aching and I would really like to get to sleep."

Sherlock nodded.

"I understand. I'll see you in the morning, then."

As Sherlock started to walk out of the room, John called after him.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Go digging through my sock drawer again, and I'll make you a miserable man."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"Two words: Friendship bracelet."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Rest assured, I won't be going anywhere near your sock drawer."

"Or my sink."

"Right."

John smiled.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

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