Chapter 11

For a second John stared blearily at the ceiling above, his mind blank and peaceful before his brain rebooted suddenly with his memories of yesterday, and all that he had to do today.

Ha! Rebooted!

Only Sherlock would appreciate the computer reference he mused with a grin, yawning expansively. Languidly, he swung his feet over the side of his small bed but then jerked back.

'Good Lord,' he intoned softly as he peeped over the edge, trying to calm the hammering of his heart.

Now when they were in the thick of a case and bullets were flying, there would be no time for sleep. Together they would battle on, long into the night but if one of them succumbed to exhaustion (read John), the other would relent and find refuge for them both. This resulted in the doctor waking up side by side with Sherlock in a number of strange places; the kitchen of the National museum, one of the tables in the morgue, the Palace (don't ask), but John never had a recollection of Sherlock sleeping in his room before.

During the night, the young man had pulled together some cushions and made himself a cosy nest with blankets, right on the floor at the edge of the bed. John now propped himself up on one arm and stared down at his friend, who was dead to the world in his favourite fetus position.

This telling act of Sherlock of not wanting to be alone, tore at something vital inside of John. The other man on the face of things seemed to be handling his memory loss so well, but how frightening it must be to look in the mirror and not know the reflection staring back at you.

John gave himself a mental shake.

He had depended on Sherlock's strength time and time in the past. He could not fail his best friend now when the situation was reversed. He grinned though, when Sherlock's stomach rumbled loudly enough to wake him.

The detective blinked owlishly about him as he sat up and give his eyeball a good knuckle rub.

'Good morning,' the young man eventually greeted him in such a polite way that it was apparent he was still not himself. John smiled in return, even as he felt disappointment gather like a tight knot in his chest.

'Slept well?' John inquired, as he got up and automatically began making the bed.

The young man sprang up too and began tidying away his own blankets. He then trotted after the doctor, emulating what the other man did as he put away his extra pillows in the narrow wardrobe. John was tempted to remark that he wasn't usually this helpful, but decided to refrain and enjoy it while he could.

'I think I slept about three hours,' Sherlock said softly, 'I wasn't tired.'

John waved at him reassuringly, 'You don't usually sleep for long periods. That is normal for you. Sorry I fell asleep on you though. What did you do?'

'I spoke to my brother through the window,' he then unexpectedly answered, almost causing John to concuss himself on the bed frame.

'What did he want?!' John yelped anxiously, whipping around to face him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, analyzing this emotional response. Didn't he normally speak to Mycroft?

'He asked me how I was feeling. Don't we normally speak?' he asked out loud, as John waited for an answer.

The doctor bit his lip and turned his head away, 'of course you do.'

Sherlock scoffed under his breath.

'If this is what you look like when you lie, John,' he then remarked calmly, 'then you should not play at cards.'

The doctor huffed in annoyance and opened the door to go use the toilet. He was startled when Sherlock dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

'Where are you going?' the detective cried in alarm, as if afraid that the other man was about to walk straight out of the flat in his pyjamas, and abandon him forever. John patted Sherlock's arm gently, sensing the man's growing panic that his "insult" had stepped over the line of their friendship.

'I need to empty my bladder,' he informed in nonchalantly, trying to keep the atmosphere easy and casual. By degrees, the wild look left Sherlock's eyes and he released his arm in slow increments.

John made a note to himself not to let that happen again. Sherlock needed as much support as he could possibly muster while he was in this state of mind. As he pulled him down the steps, the doctor switched topics to distract him.

'You and your brother don't get along well,' he explained, 'you are very competitive; always trying to best each other.'

John walked into the bathroom leaving the door open behind him.

'Don't get me wrong though,' he added as he raised the seat of the toilet, 'he cares about you in his own particular way. He would flatten London if that is what was needed to protect you.'

'I see,' Sherlock remarked from outside in the corridor.

The doctor walked back out to the doorway with a bemused look.

'You usually come into the bathroom,' he explained as Sherlock stared back blankly.

'Why would I do that? the detective asked with a frown of confusion.

'Well...er...'

John found himself giggling ruefully in his head. He often wondered if Sherlock didn't understand the concept of personal boundaries, as much as he was distracted by The Work. Here was the answer apparently.

The doctor returned to use the facilities, switching with Sherlock when he was done.

'Hang on,' John directed towards the closed bathroom door as he put up the kettle on the stove, 'did you and Mycroft talk through my window? I am two floors up.'

'I can sign,' the detective said slowly as he emerged from the washroom, 'didn't you know that?'

'Wow,' John breathed in astonishment, 'Can I see?'

Sherlock obliged by signing good morning.

John even looked more astounded by this. Sherlock didn't find it so amazing. John was a doctor and when he moved his hands, he could sometimes bring a person back to life. Now that was astounding!

'Wait one God darned minute,' John then interjected abruptly, his face morphing into a suspicious scowl, 'Do you read lips?'

'Only French, I am afraid,' Sherlock admitted disappointingly, smiling ruefully as John broke down into an unexpected peal of laughter.

Sherlock didn't think he was funny but he liked John's laugh very much. He resolved to make him laugh at least once more before the day was out, but as he got out two mugs for making tea, he peered at the doctor from the corner of his eye.

John eventually gave him a questioning eyebrow.

'About what I said earlier,' Sherlock answered in turn, 'I can see that you were discomfited. It was only... an observation. You have an expressive countenance. My words were not intended as an insult.'

John busied himself with getting out the slices of bread as the other man helpfully and unexpectedly retrieved plates.

In the meantime, Sherlock worried his lip when the other man didn't look up to acknowledge his apology. Should he try again?

'Sherlock, the way you speak the truth is one of the best things about you,' John said firmly but with a sad smile, thinking back to those dark days before he had met the detective, when he was adrift and useless. God only knew where he would be now if Sherlock hadn't picked him up, dusted him off and dragged him all around London in pursuit of the truth, 'and besides, if you can't tell your friend the truth, what kind of friend is that?'

'Best friend,' Sherlock corrected his prose.

John smiled as he depressed the lever on the toaster, 'the very best.'

In the reflection of the kitchen appliance, he could see Sherlock's smug expression. John pretended to be thinking hard as he scratched at the morning stubble on his face, 'Well one of my best friends, at any rate.'

Sherlock's face fell and he pouted in such a sour but yet endearingly familiar manner, that John laughed again and threw his arms around him.

Surprised but pleased, Sherlock bent over awkwardly to return his hug.