Chapter 19

John busied himself in drying his hair with vigorous rubs using the edge of his towel; the better to stir up his tired thoughts into some semblance of order.

'Sherlock,' he began as he twitched opened the shower curtain, glancing across at the other man seated patiently on the toilet, 'reading our blog is not guaranteed to kick start your memory. You know that, right?'

The detective pressed his lips together as he gave his flat mate a sour look, not in the mood for another round of tolerating John's over protective mannerisms.

Reading the blog worked or it it didn't.

Anything had to be better than sitting around on their hands, waiting and hoping. At this point, he didn't care how god damned gory the case material was. A good mental jolt to the head, might actually be the thing that was needed. In any case, he wanted his memory back, and he wanted it back yesterday!

The doctor's eyebrows suddenly snapped together in a fierce scowl, completing misinterpreting his flatmate's intent, 'Hang on, just what are you thinking? If you see Moriarty again, you are to let me know. You are not to go haring off by yourself!'

Sherlock skewed him with a look of incredulously surprise.

Who the devil do you think you are addressing in that condescending tone of voice?!

'No, don't be like that,' John tacked on hastily as the other man shot to his feet, 'I am sorry, Sherlock.'

The detective stalked out of the bathroom in high dudgeon; two angry splotches of bright red on his cheeks. John hurriedly tied a towel across his hips to follow.

'Sherlock, please!'

His friend whirled around and placed a hand on his damp shoulder to quiet him. With the amount of "security" currently circling their flat, you didn't know who could be listened.

They strained their ears to hear but thankful no heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, demanding to know if there was anything the matter.

'John, it's fine. I know you are worried but I truly have no intention of haring off after anyone; not without you, ' Sherlock announced wearily as he massaged the bridge of his nose, 'Why is there no dinner? Is it my turn to cook? Where's the shopping from earlier?'

The doctor sighed softly in relief, knowing that he had stepped across the line by chastising the other man as though he was a toddler. But how could he explain how terrified he had been, when Moriarty had emerged in an almost flippant-like defiance of his worldwide manhunt, just to check on the detective's health?

Sherlock had his fingertips on the door handle of the fridge though, before John realised what he was about to do.

'DON'T GO IN THERE!' he roared out, a bit louder than he should have and naturally, Sherlock jumped back as if he had been electrocuted.

The man had one hand pressed against his heart, and the other clutching the back of a chair, breathing hard. 'What the hell?!'

'Sorry, sorry ,' John apologised quickly, struggling to keep serious even as the evil laughter kept bubbling out instead. The way Sherlock had jumped up in the air with all his long limbs flailing this way and that, was the funniest thing he had seen in days.

Goodness, he really needed to stop laughing now or risk making the man angry all over again.

Two muffled thumps suddenly came from the floor below, causing Sherlock to suck in another painful breath of concern. 'Good god, what now?! John, what is that?

'It's Mrs Hudson with her broomstick,' the doctor explained calmly,'she is warning us that we are too loud.'

Eventually, Sherlock placed his two hands on his hips and regarded him in an aggravated manner. 'Why can't I go into the fridge? I'm hungry.'

John sighed quietly to himself. Why was there never a good power outage when you really needed it? He hadn't looked in the fridge in a while, not since he observed the human hand in a jar in the crisper. Only the good Lord knew what else was in there.

'We're slobs,' John lied inventively, 'so the inside of the fridge is a fright. Besides, there is no food in there. Check the grocery bag on the chair. I think there are still donuts'

The detective narrowed his eyes as he crossed his arms across his chest.

'John, this is absurd,' he noted in a querulous voice, 'you cannot protect me from everything! You are slowly driving me around the twist! I thought for sure there was a bomb in the fridge or the like, they way you shouted.'

Close enough.

'You know what, John,' Sherlock blurted out with a sudden look of inspiration, 'I am going to open this fridge, and you are going to stand there and let me.'

'I am?'

'Yes you are. It will be good for you.'

Not bloody likely, especially if you vomit.

'Yes, it will,' Sherlock crowed confidently, 'It will be like a baby step in letting me face something unpleasant, and realising that I am not going to fall apart.'

'I don't think that,' John stammered out in surprise.

Sherlock rewarded him with a withering look of exasperation.

'On three!' he then announced excitedly.

'Sherl, I would rather...

'...oh how bad could it be?!'

His recovering flat mate yanked opened the door as if he was tearing off a bandage.

John stood there rooted to the spot, torn between laughter and horror. He was at the wrong angle entirely though, as the door blocked his view. All he could really see was the yellowish hue on his flat mate's face, which he hoped was from the light inside the fridge compartment, and not because Sherlock was about to be sick.

'See, I told you it was a mess!' John remarked, as Sherlock continued to stare. 'You never listen.'

In response, the detective reached in and removed a large platter, heaped with freshly made sandwiches, covered in cling wrap.

'Wait? That was in there?!' John cried in amazement, as he ducked around a chair and pulled open the door of the fridge to look for himself. The fridge, ladies and gentlemen, was not only completely empty save for two bottles of Heineken, it's freshly scrubbed surfaces gleamed cheerfully up at one and all.

'Clearly, you have a different opinion as to what constitutes a clean kitchen appliance,' Sherlock snorted sarcastically, as he removed the cling wrap and happily helped himself to a delicious roast beef sandwich.

Absently the doctor reached over and crammed a sandwich into his mouth too.

'I don't believe this,' John kept mumbling over and over to himself as he continued to stare, so entranced that he didn't seem to be affected by the cold air hitting his bare chest.

'There's a note on that beer bottle,' Sherlock pointed, and the other man quickly snagged it with his fingers. Sherlock looked over John's shoulder, frowning at the single "M" on the yellow post it .

He glared at the platter suspiciously, 'Moriarty made me sandwiches?!'

'Not Moriarty,' John replied, as he hurried to his armchair to collect his mobile, 'Molly.'

Oh.

Sherlock took the opportunity to smile as John had his back turned. Here was evidence that she had perhaps gotten over their rough patch from earlier. Life was suddenly grand again, and he childishly bounced around on his toes while he inhaled another sandwich.

'Hey, it's me,' John said by way of greeting when Molly answered her phone. The doctor ducked his head back into the fridge as if he thought the situation had changed since last he looked, 'yeah, we got the sandwiches, thanks.'

John glanced over his shoulder at him, 'the beer and clean fridge is from Molly, and the food from Mrs. H.'

'Thank you, Molly,' Sherlock said loudly, hoping she would hear his voice and know that he too had put the incident to one side, and wanted to visit with her again as soon as she gave the word.

A warmth spread across his chest as Sherlock pictured his loyal friend infront his refrigerator cleaning, doing whatever she could to ensure his comfort, in mind and in body. They must truly be dear friends for her to come here, roll up sleeves and scrub their fridge. And she brought beer too! How very thoughtful of her.

I should get her some flowers to say sorry again and thank you.

John started giggling at something, and turned away to peer into the fridge again. Methodically he checked the compartments, 'what did you do with the hand?'

'The what?!' Sherlock barked out.

John raised a finger to shush him, even as he continued to laugh at whatever the pathologist was saying. Sherlock normally found John's laugh to be pleasing to his ear, but all of a sudden it was seriously starting to get on his nerves. For someone who proclaimed earlier that he "didn't know Molly very well", they sure were acting like old chums.

'Text me later, okay?' John insisted, 'it doesn't matter if you wake me up.'

Sherlock scowled in confusion. What was John doing? How dare he make such an intimate request of the lady? Text me later? It was already close to one in the morning! And in any case, what did John have to discuss with Molly? She was his friend, not John's!

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, when he realised that he was being nibbled by jealously. Sherlock crammed another sandwich in his mouth and chewed with renewed determination. The fact that it tasted a bit like sawdust, was ignored.

As far as he was concerned, if he couldn't trust John, he couldn't trust anyone!