Thanks to Rose0 for the prompt. :)
"Are you awake?" Sherlock asked as he flipped on the light switch in John's room.
John hissed at the sudden onslaught of white light emitting from the ceiling and pulled the covers over his head, irrationally hoping that doing so would ward off his flatmate. Much to his dismay, the action only encouraged the detective to shake him.
"Up, John. Now," the man insisted, taking on a child-like tone.
John groaned and yanked off his own covers as he sat up.
"Sherlock, you had better have a bloody good reason for getting me up at- what is it?" He squinted at his alarm clock. "-two forty five in the morning." He sighed.
He had only been asleep for roughly an hour.
"The case, John, the case!" Sherlock said excitedly.
"You've solved it, then?" John yawned.
"Yes!"
"Good. 'Night."
John flopped back onto his pillow and screwed his eyes shut. As soon as he had gone down, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him up again, making it so that they were face-to-face.
"We need to examine the body once more," Sherlock said, his eyes fierce.
John glared at him.
"'We'?"
"Yes, of course 'we'. I need you with me."
"Well *I* need sleep, Sherlock."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You'll be fine. Get dressed. We need to leave."
John rubbed his eyes.
"Sherlock-"
"Now, John."
With a sigh, the doctor swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up clumsily.
"At least grant me some privacy," he said, sounding a bit resigned.
Sherlock nodded and walked out the door.
"Ten minutes. No more," he said over his shoulder.
"Not even breakfast?" John called.
The lack of a response was telling enough.
John shuffled over to the closet and pulled out his cream-coloured jumper and jeans.
He was absolutely exhausted. Exhausted and, quite literally, starving. The most he had had all week was a bit of toast; and he had hardly gotten to finish what little there had been.
He could partially blame the state he was in on work. After all, Sarah was having him work longer hours in the mornings at the clinic in order to make up for his shoddy attendance.
And probably the inevitable failure of their relationship.
Then there was the case to place a larger amount of blame on. It had been a particularly puzzling one, surprisingly, even, for Sherlock. And whenever there was a puzzle to solve, John always fell victim to Sherlock's stamina. The man's engine never seemed to run out of fuel. Honestly, John could hardly understand how Sherlock could function without any food or sleep. It just wasn't normal.
But then again, Sherlock wasn't exactly the epitome of normality.
John buttoned his pants and straightened out his jumper, quickly checking the mirror to ensure that he looked decently presentable. He couldn't help but grimace at his own hollow appearance.
"John!" he heard Sherlock shout up the stairs, the voice rattling about in his head.
John took a deep breath and grabbed his shoes, running out the door and down the stairs.
"Can you not shout like that?" John scolded his friend. "We aren't the only ones who live in this building, you know."
"Get your shoes on," Sherlock said, completely ignoring the doctor's pleas.
John sighed and sat in his chair, tugging on one of his shoes.
"I've already phoned Molly, and she's expecting us at Bart's in fifteen minutes."
"Jesus, Sherlock, you woke Molly?"
"Of course. We can't examine the body without her there."
As John bent over to tie his other shoe, he hissed in pain when a sharp pain stabbed mercilessly behind his eyes. He immediately sat up again and began massaging the bridge of his nose.
"Do hurry."
The stabbing pain turned into a dull throb and John took a deep breath and sat up.
"Can I at least fix us some toast?" John called after Sherlock as his stomach audibly (and painfully) growled.
But the detective had already made his way down the stairs.
Grumbling under his breath, John ran after him, shrugging on his coat as he did so.
"Molly?" Sherlock called as he strode into the morgue. "Are you here yet?"
"Sherlock, would you quiet down?" John whispered. "The lights are off. She's obviously not here yet."
He heard his flatmate mumble something scathing, yet unintelligible.
"Sherlock?" a small voice said from behind the two of them.
The light was turned on, causing John to bite back a moan of pain. It felt as if someone were driving needles through the back of his head.
"Late, Molly," Sherlock said disapprovingly.
Molly yawned.
"What do you mean? You said 3:10."
"Early is on time. On time is late. I can't afford late right now, Molly. Do try to be more diligent."
The young pathologist sighed.
"Sorry."
She walked over to one of the drawers and pulled it out, revealing the body of twenty-four year old Grant Mulaney; apparently bludgeoned to death only a few days prior. Sherlock had determined the weapon to be one of Mulaney's many football trophies.
"Why do you need to see the body again?"
When the detective ignored her, she looked over at John for a response; all she got was a simple shrug.
Taking a cotton swab from a box on the table, Sherlock took a sweep beneath the dead man's fingernails.
"What re you doing?" Molly asked him.
"Precautionary research. Bring a microscope down here."
Molly sighed and walked out of the room to the laboratory.
"Y'know, there's really no need for you to be such an arsehole," John told the detective. "She doesn't deserve to be-"
His stomach clenched and he gasped in pain.
"John?" Sherlock asked him.
The pain, though intense, lasted a mere five seconds and then quickly subsided.
"Just a cramp," John reassured him. "What was I saying before?"
Just then, Molly came back in with a microscope in tow.
"Here," she said as she set it down on the examination table. "I brought some slides, too." She set those down beside it.
Sherlock gave her a nod and pulled up a stool in front of the table. He took the cotton swab in his hand and wiped whatever substance was coating its surface on a slide. Having gone through this procedure hundreds of times, it wasn't long before the slide was prepped and he was peering through the eyepiece of the microscope.
"Thanks, by the way," John whispered to Molly.
She beamed.
"I was right! I knew it!" Sherlock exclaimed, startling the other two. "I thought that substance looked familiar; I just couldn't place it."
"What is it?" Molly asked, yawning again.
"Jammie Dodger," Sherlock said.
John subconsciously licked his lips.
"A what?" Molly cocked her head.
Sherlock grinned.
"Jammie Dodgers and tea. An easy way to administer poison."
John's stomach growled, and his headache intensified.
"Poison?" Molly gasped.
John gripped the bridge of his nose and blinked.
"I thought he was bludgeoned to death?" he asked as he placed his hand by his side again.
Sherlock pushed the drawer shut.
"It was the poison, not the blow, that killed him, John. Of course, I'm ashamed I missed that detail, but then again, you're the doctor. I'm surprised you hadn't noticed the man's true cause of death."
John narrowed his eyes.
"Everyone has bad days."
Sherlock put his hands behind his back.
"Whatever restores your dignity, John."
The doctor had a comeback ready, but was stopped when the pain in his head began to stab his skull once more, the original needles feeling like knives. He pressed his fingers against his temples, desperately massaging them.
"John?" Sherlock asked. "What is it?"
John took a deep breath.
"It's fine," he said. "M'fine."
Damn those hunger headaches.
Again, the stabbing pain turned into a throb and John relaxed.
"I'm fine."
Molly, obviously sceptical, furrowed her brow as she stared intently at him, while Sherlock simply returned to his original train of thought.
"Right... well, the only one of the suspects at hand who has access to poisons would be the one who-"
There was a high-pitched ringing in John's ears and the room started to blur.
"...John?"
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
"John!"
He blinked a few times.
"Hm?"
He looked over to find Molly staring disapprovingly at him.
"John, are you sure you're alright?" she asked. "You don't look well."
Sherlock stood by the body, his lips pressed tightly together as he seemed to also wait for a response. John couldn't tell if he was concerned or annoyed.
Most likely the latter.
"I said I'm fine, Molly," John insisted.
He knew he sounded tired. Weak.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over him.
"I just... air. Fresh air." The words were barely mumbled.
Before either the pathologist or Sherlock could say anything, he rushed out of the room, crossing his fingers that he wouldn't collapse on his way outside.
Molly bit her lip and turned around to face Sherlock.
"Maybe you should go check on him," she said. "I think he might be sick."
"If he is, he's capable of escorting himself home," the detective said, putting up his usual cold front.
"I'm sure the case can-"
"It really can't."
Molly placed her hands in her pockets.
"Well... I'll go down and make sure he gets home safely."
"Fine," Sherlock waved her off.
With a sigh, the young pathologist walked out the door and made her way down the stairs.
She opened the door outside, rubbing her arms together as the cold hit her.
"John?" she called. "You alright?"
She shivered.
"Joh-"
She stopped when she saw the doctor leaning against the wall of St. Bart's, taking deep breaths.
"I'm fine, Molly," he muttered.
His voice sounded shakier than what seemed normal.
"Only people who aren't fine say that they're fine. What's wrong?" Molly stepped towards the doctor.
"I'm just a bit ill, s'all," John said through a deep breath.
His knees suddenly buckled and he collapsed on the ground with a grunt.
"John-?!" Molly exclaimed.
She dashed over to the fallen man and went to help him up.
"S'fine," John said, waving her off. "Please just- oh..." He grabbed his stomach when another charley horse hit him.
Molly knelt next to him and pulled out John's torch from his pocket, flipping it on and shining it on his face. The doctor swore as the light exacerbated his preexisting headache.
"John, you're really pale," Molly said.
And it was true; he really was. Pale and gaunt, obviously lacking at least a week or two of necessary sleep. She didn't need Sherlock to tell her that.
"We should get you inside to see a doctor..."
John frowned.
"And what exactly am I?"
"There's really no need to boast your credentials, John," a deep voice said from the shadows, making Molly jump.
"I thought the case was more important," Molly said with more than a hint of disapproval.
Sherlock walked forward and knelt down next to her.
"You were gone for more than five minutes. I assumed that meant John was being as stubborn as he usually is." He looked at John with penetrating eyes. "It looks like I assumed correctly."
"Look who's talking," John spat.
Sherlock nudged Molly to the side and took the light from her, once again shining it in John's eyes.
"Could you two stop with that?" John growled.
Sherlock flicked off the light and shoved it back into his own pocket. He then wrapped John's arm around his shoulders.
"Up we go, now," he grunted as he lifted John to his feet, Molly following suit as she pushed herself up and brushed off her pants.
"Thanks," John said. "But I'm okay now."
He managed to wriggle himself out of Sherlock's grip, but as soon as his feet hit the ground again, he immediately started falling. Luckily, Sherlock and Molly seemed matched in reflexes and caught him before he could fall too far.
"Are you finished?" Sherlock asked him as he held onto his arm.
John rolled his eyes.
"Sherlock, we should really get him inside to see a doctor," Molly remarked, adjusting her grip on John's other arm.
"Not necessary," Sherlock and John seemed to say in unison. They looked at each other with some amusement.
Sherlock looked back at Molly.
"As much as it pains me to say so, he needs to get home and sleep. He's rather useless like this."
John was practically seething.
"Fuck. Off."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow
"And irritable."
Molly nodded.
"Yeah. He could also use a good meal."
"Not a dog," John said.
"I'll escort him to the flat. I need you to stay here, Molly. I'm not done with the body yet."
Molly nodded.
"Sure. Take your time. Make sure John's alright."
"I'm FINE."
"Do shut up, John," the detective told his companion as he readjusted him so that he was supporting him again. "You're severely sleep deprived and borderline malnourished, an inconvenience that not only affects you, but me as well."
John wanted to respond, but his eyelids were already drooping.
"Idiot," Sherlock mumbled.
And with a dramatic swirl of his coat, he half-dragged John down the street in search of a willing cabbie, leaving Molly on her own.
John opened his eyes to find that his room was just as dark as it was when he had gone to sleep. Strangely enough, he felt well-rested. Groggy, of course, but rested. With a great yawn, he stretched and sat up in bed.
Lazily, he got to his feet and went to exit the room when he stopped.
He looked around.
Unless he had drunkenly purchased a periodic table to go on his wall one night and made some serious renovations, this was not his bedroom.
He slowly shuffled out of the room and into the hallway leading to the kitchen. He sniffed the air, surprised to find that it smelled... nice. Not like pickled eyes or burning flesh, but like a normal, homey flat. In fact, if he wasn't so accustomed to his flat-mate's usual ways, he could have sworn it smelled like the oven was in use. For cooking.
"Sherlock?" he called out.
His stomach growled loudly. He'd completely forgotten his hunger due to sleep deprivation.
"Awake and hungry, are we?" Sherlock remarked.
John couldn't spot him immediately, but after letting his eyes wander briefly, he saw the detective in the sitting room, seated in his chair with his laptop rested on his knees.
"Yeah... how long have I been asleep? It's still dark out."
"That's because the sun is setting," the detective said, his tone resembling that of a parent talking to their child.
Being a prat as usual.
"Wait, what? Setting? How in the name of-?"
John looked at the clock on the microwave.
"5:30? I've been asleep all day?"
"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the 'p'. "Dinner is in the oven. Mrs. Hudson will return shortly to take it out and serve it."
John stared, completely dumbstruck. Sleep? Dinner?
"What about the case?"
Sherlock was typing something out on his computer.
"While you were asleep I brought things to a close."
John scratched the back of his neck, still unsure of how to react to the situation.
"What was it, again? Poison in Mulaney's pastry?"
"Jammie Dodger. And his tea."
"And how in the hell did you miss that the first time?"
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Even I am prone to error, I suppose."
"Sherlock, dear, has the oven- oh, John! You're awake!"
Mrs. Hudson strode over to the doctor and enveloped him in a tight embrace.
John grunted as the landlady crushed him with her surprising amount of strength.
"Good to see you too, Mrs. H," he wheezed.
Looking over the older woman's shoulder, he could see Sherlock grinning at him. Slyly, John managed to flip him off before Mrs. Hudson pulled away.
"Dinner's just about ready, dear," she said with a smile. "I've made a nice chicken, a homemade loaf of bread, salad, and a large red velvet cake for dessert."
John's stomach growled again.
"Poor thing. We'll fill you up," the landlady clucked.
"Like a turkey on Christmas," Sherlock said as he closed his laptop.
"Shut up," John said, teasingly.
Before long, Mrs. Hudson had cleared off the kitchen table, laid down a spare table cloth and set the table, and laid out dinner, finishing off the chicken with a lovely garnish.
She and John sat at the table and immediately dug in. John, without thinking twice, scarfed down his first helping of food.
"My goodness, John, when was the last time you ate?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Wednesday," Sherlock said from the sitting room, now flipping through the newspaper. "Toast."
John paused his eating, giving Sherlock a disbelieving glare.
"How do you know that?"
Sherlock peered over the edge of the paper, knitting his brow.
"I'm a master of observation."
"Deduction," John corrected.
"To deduce, one must observe."
Mrs. Hudson turned around in her chair to look at the detective.
"If you knew, why on earth did you prevent John from taking proper care of himself?"
Sherlock flipped through the newspaper.
"I do tend to forget the needs of an average human being. I'm still not quite used to living with one."
John put down his glass of water.
"I've lived here for three years."
"And not once have you complained to me about your limited stamina."
"Are you saying this is my fault?"
"Are you saying it's mine?"
"Boys, please!" Mrs. Hudson intervened.
John grumbled and took another sip of water.
"Sorry."
Sherlock scoffed and flipped through another page of the paper.
"What?" John sighed.
"Nothing," Sherlock said. "I just never noticed how irate you are when you're tired."
"I swear to Christ..."
"John, dear, eat your supper. Pay him no mind," the landlady told him. "There's no need for fighting."
John bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something he would regret and he continued eating. He just had to remember that whatever Sherlock said was just Sherlock being Sherlock and not to take it too personally.
"More bread, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she offered another buttered slice.
John smiled and graciously took the piece.
"Thanks."
He took a bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully for a minute before he swallowed.
"Who put me in Sherlock's room?" he asked after a moment of silence.
Mrs. Hudson stopped cutting through her chicken and looked back at Sherlock who had frozen in his spot.
John furrowed his brow.
"Really?"
The detective licked his lips and set down the paper.
"You... you fell asleep. In the cab. And you looked content. I didn't find it sensible to carry you all the way up to your room, so I thought it better to deposit you in my bed."
John turned red.
"Well... thanks. You know, for not leaving me on the couch."
"I know how easily that couch makes you sore. Personally, I don't understand it, but I can't deny what's fact."
Mrs. Hudson smiled to herself as she continued to eat.
"Do you want to join us at the table?" John asked Sherlock. "I mean, I know you don't eat a lot, but..."
"Perhaps I can allow myself to indulge."
The detective took a seat close to John and smoothed out his slacks.
John handed him the salad bowl.
"Have at it."
Sherlock took the bowl from him and gave him a playful look.
"Do try not to fall asleep on your plate."
John glared at him as he took another bite of bread. But honestly, even with the sixteen-plus hours of sleep, he was still tired.
"I'll try not to."
Sherlock took a bite of salad.
"Good."
"For goodness sake, were you two raised like farm animals?" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "Don't talk with your mouths full."
I had to give John a break from the merciless amount of bodily harm. A character can only take so much. ;)