"That was tedious."
John awoke to the shocking sound of Sherlock's voice coming from directly above his head. His heart leaped as his eyes snapped open in early-morning terror at having been woken in such a manner. He rolled further onto his back so that he could see Sherlock, who was beaming down at him with a cup of tea in one hand and his other resting on the bed next to John's ear.
"Sherlock," said John within a yawn. "You're back."
"Yes. The investigation proved to be very brief after I explained to the exactly what had happened, and they let me go as soon as I told them that the chances of your death increase with every moment that I spend away from you." He passed John his mug of tea as soon as he was fully upright, the duvet only reaching around his waist, making visible the entirety of his chest. "All in all," he continued. "It was a waste of time."
"Right," said John, and took a cautious sip of his tea. It tasted like tea should, so he continued to drink.
"I'm going to an official trial on Wednesday," Sherlock stated. "Just to clear everything up with the public. Nothing you have to worry about, but you do have to come. I'm not letting you out of my sight."
John swallowed. "Okay, but I've got work on Wednesdays."
"Then you're going to a trial with your friend," Sherlock said. "I'll take care of it."
John nodded his consent, and glanced to his bedside table for the time. His clock, however, was not there. "Sherlock, where's my clock?"
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I threw it out the window."
"Wh– What, Sherlock, why?" John spluttered.
"It kept beeping, and I thought it was going to wake you up."
"That's the point," John spat. "It's an alarm clock. It's meant to wake me up so that I can get ready for work. What time is it?"
"Half-past eight."
John looked at Sherlock confusedly. "You woke me up at the right time?"
"Of course I did."
"Right. Thank you." John began to get out of bed, but stopped. "Can you get out for a minute while I get dressed?"
"Certainly, John," Sherlock replied, and he stood, leaving the room, taking the empty mug with him. John waited until the door had fully closed, then he heaved himself off the mattress, picked up his clothes from the floor and tossed them on before descending to 221B once more.
Sherlock was in the kitchen when he arrived, stood at the cooker with a frying pan on the gas and several rashers of bacon sizzling there. John watched in amazement as Sherlock scooped the bacon onto perfectly buttered slices of bread once it was done. Sherlock closed the bread into sandwiches, one on each plate, and carried them to the chairs. He held one out to John. "Eat something, please?" Sherlock requested, almost pleading as he sat down.
"I haven't got time, Sherlock. I've got to –" John tried to say.
Sherlock cut him off. "You need to eat. You'll be hungry. And I made this for you. It took effort." He said the word like it was alien.
John's feet danced on the spot with indecision. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't, he concluded, and then accepted the plate, sat down opposite Sherlock, and bit down into the beautifully cooked sandwich. John was impressed at Sherlock; usually he couldn't cook anything, nor did he. It was always John who made dinner. Sherlock concealed a smile in his breakfast as he watched John's face portray his surprise. And, even though it was just a humble bacon sandwich, Sherlock felt a sense of great achievement.
When John's breakfast had been demolished, he dumped his plate in the sink and hurried to the door as he pulled his coat on. "See you later, Sherlock," he said. "Thanks for breakfast – it was… Excellent."
"You're very welcome, John," Sherlock said in a soft voice as John's footsteps faded down the stairs. And there Sherlock sat in wait for his blogger's return.
Sherlock's blue dressing gown was hung on the back of John's bedroom door.