A/N: I apologize for the late update, dears. I honestly would have had the update as soon as I normally promise except my laptop got this weird virus that completely wouldn't let me go past the start up window screen. Luckily for me being a techy, I figured it out but it took plenty of tears and screams of frustration. That being said, I think today was one of the first days it has been acting okay since then. I will post four today and aim for three or four tomorrow.

I apologize. None of these will be updated because they are already late as is. If you don't understand anything, tell me. I will gladly explain my confusing mess. It's more clear for me now in the story line, but it is still extending to be a larger web. Expect more of this because I am planning a lot more than I originally expected to appear in this story.

So, with that note, you know the usual: read/review/fav/follow. Oh, and as a little fun moment for me: expect a Sherlock POV in the NEXT four (or three) I update. Just to try out. Enjoy the chapter!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Chapter 10: Chintzy

When Sherlock and I walked into the flat, I realized that I could count on Mrs. Hudson being one thing to me for sure. A mother hen.

"Sherlock! Oh goodness, John, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson walked circles around us, patting my back and wagging a finger at Sherlock. She looked torn between scolding us and fretting over our wellbeing. If she had been a bird, her feathers would be ruffled up to the best of their capability, possibly purposefully thumping Sherlock in the head a few times.

And to her, he probably deserved it.

I would have laughed at the scene if it wasn't for the increasing exhaustion and the throbbing pain. My feet were dragging and my lids were growing heavier with each syllable the two uttered around me. I knew I had to check my injuries, take a shower, and force something down, but sleeping sounded easier to perform. I didn't think I could do half the objectives I wanted to do correctly without doing something wrong like putting salt in coffee or attempting to pour said coffee and having the liquid flowing well over the brim of the mug.

Perhaps I can push off checking my injuries until tomorrow morning. Along with eating and showering and every other decency. As disgusting as that probably sounds, that was one of the perks I supposed I had living with a man who I have expected to come home one evening covered in blood and holding a spear to boot.

Breaking away from Sherlock's side, I hobbled over to the stairs and climbed up them one at a time, cringing at every little ache and jab of pain that shot through the ankle or sole. I was beginning to hate stairs with each little misstep or shuffle. My feet didn't want to even elevate. Sliding them horizontally was hard enough as is. I had a feeling if I attempted to raise them any higher than necessary that they would thump against the wood and I would tumble down.

Not only would that be utterly embarrassing, but I had an inkling of a feeling that I probably wouldn't even try getting up from that position.

"Sherlock! Look at him! What did you do?" Her voice rose an octave when I cursed after accidentally kicking the bottom of a step and stumbling.

I heard Sherlock quickly hush the landlady, "He's just tired, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing a good night's rest won't fix, right John?" He looked at me expectantly and I glared at him. I was tempted to fall and show my soot-crusted wrists and ankles along with my worrisome knee, but I refrained from doing so just barely. It was an intriguing offer but, again, I probably would not get off the floor after I would fall and Sherlock probably wouldn't help me either.

So, another idea out the window due to exhaustion and injury. Reminded me of a fraction of Afghanistan.

"Yes," I spoke, acid dripping from my voice, "Certainly after I sleep all of this will be cured. Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. Tomorrow I will be perfectly fine." She looked at me, not wanting to believe me, but then sighed in defeat.

"Fine. Do you two need anything? Tea? Stew?"

"No," Sherlock and I said in unison and we looked at each other for a moment before looking away. The landlady giggled to herself and walked away, the soft click of a door closing following her.

Sherlock was by my side a minute later, taking my arm and leveling the amount of weight I would have to carry. I thanked him with a grunt and allowed him to aid me in my trek up the treacherous stairway.

Once inside the flat, Sherlock led me to a door in the kitchen. Opening it, there was a bedroom. It looked barely used, a double-bed with a few end tables and a desk. I suspected this might have been Sherlock's room but he didn't appear to ever use it. Did he ever sleep?

"This, will be your room. You should rest. You do expect to go to work tomorrow, do you not?" he murmured, letting go of me so I could sit on the mattress.

"That was the plan though it depends how my injuries are tomorrow. I didn't expect to get electrocuted or a blasted knee from the event."

"Oh stop being dramatic," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You didn't get electrocuted. That would involve your entire body feeling the voltage given and a result of incapacitation or fatality, which you did not suffer from. Also, as for that knee, that was your fault. You should have judged the male with better assessments before the strangulation."

"Of course it was my fault. It could never ever be his that he got me into this mess," I thought with a tinge of irritation.

"Which you voluntarily followed," a little voice added. Sadly, that was the more rational and less childish side.

I gnashed my teeth but not a second later a sigh slipped through. No, I didn't want to fight with this man tonight. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning or when – if – I get back from work, but not now. I feared that I would never rest my eyes if I engaged an argument with Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

"Yes, yes Sherlock. Now, while I would love to bicker about how my motives were what you should do and no one could predict the movements of every human being, I am tired. I'm sleeping. End of story."

It might have been my sight, but I thought I caught a glimpse of disappointment. Even though that probably should have sparked some sense of curiosity, it seemed the dark circles I spotted under his lids were something more to be concerned of.

Sherlock turned to leave the room but I stopped him, "Sherlock."

He didn't groan but he might as well have from the expression that was plastered on his face, "Hm?"

I scrutinized his face some more and felt a smirk wanting to tug at my tired lips out of sheer proudness. I knew it. He was tired. For some reason, spotting that in my exhausted haze made it all the more pleasing to see.

Sherlock had a few key signs that he was tired beyond what he would admit. The bags under his eyes and the way he appears to sway a little testified against his stubbornness. The doctor in me wished to chide the man for not taking care of his body. No doubt he hasn't slept for the past few days. Knowing him, he probably finds sleep boring.

However, I could not say that I didn't feel a smidgeon of surprise with how he was able to last so long with his meticulous mindset and even more complex dynamics. It was a mystery and it definitely spurred a sense of awe.

But I didn't want to fuel this habit. It was unhealthy and he was already underweight as is! Adding a sleep deprivation (insomnia?) antic with that and he might as well be a machine.

"Sleep, please." I looked at him, a little surprised with myself. He seemed so as well but still pursed his lips. Of course. I didn't expect him to give in so easily. That would be too simple for him and definitely concerning for me.

"I'd rather not. Sleep is just a way for my poor excuse of a functioning vessel to regenerate its incapability with more vigor. I'd rather drink a cuppa than take part in slumber. Such a boring way to waste the limited hours of the day."

"It's just sleep." I laid down on the mattress to make a point and he gave me a look. He didn't see the value in what I was proposing and probably thought I didn't understand where he was coming from. Oh, I knew where he was coming from, but I found it completely irrational and a wonderfully painful way into a quick grave.

"Yes, but it is also a way to get nothing done that is remotely productive," he countered smoothly. "I have other methods that are more practical and beneficial to my time than closing my eyes for some "well needed rest"."

I sighed, "Sherlock. You do know you are lying to a bloody doctor, correct? I can see all the symptoms-"

"Symptoms," he scoffed in dismay.

"-that you are tired and no matter how much you deny it, it isn't going to disappear just by wishing so. Just sleep for God's sake. Afterwards you can go on whatever rant suits your fancy about how sleep is apparently a hindrance in all that is dynamic and constructive to your various needs."

The detective looked torn between complaining more over the indecency of him partaking in sleep and between him not being tired. His eyes scanned the room from what I could tell and I saw them shine a little when he responded.

"And where shall I sleep?"

I glanced around with half-glazed eyes much as he did not seconds before. I thought of the couch as well but then remembered it was full of boxes with all kinds of chemical equipment. That only left the bed.

Wonderful.

"Here." I scooted over and motioned for him. Slumping and grumbling about how this was completely pointless, Sherlock sat down on the other side of the bed. He looked like he was waiting for me to pass out. With a glare from myself and a huff from him, he reluctantly laid down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling. Boredom could have been written in the air for all that he was giving it attention for.

"Happy?" he prompted with annoyance and a tinge of fatigue. I grinned despite my own annoyance on having to suffer any sparks if he made contact with me.

"Very. Now sleep. I'm very stubborn, Sherlock. I won't pass out until I see your chest rising and falling rhythmically." He glanced at me to see if I was being serious and then sighed when he saw that I was.

"I… suppose I could organize my mind palace as I sleep," he muttered, turning over to face away from me. His back was to me and I rolled my eyes, adjusting the comforter to cover him. Despite the fact we were both in our clothing still, it didn't seem to bother us.

That was good because I feared things would get very awkward very quickly if either one of us had anything off. Ah, no. Sherlock probably wouldn't but I sure as hell would. He probably would just examine me like some stupid science experiment!

Let's just say sleep came quickly and the morning even more so.

Grumbling against the light, I opened my eyes. For a moment, I was unsure where I was and I grew tense. I was not in my old bedroom at Harry's. Bloody hell, I wasn't even in the same house as Harry and Clara. Where was I then? Did I drink too much and accidentally came home with a woman? Doubtful.

Scenarios and objectives rolled through my rejuvenating mind as I woke up. Words and phrases from kidnapping to being wasted. Once my rationality woke up, so did my actual sense. Soon after, it came flooding back in along with last night's events. My knee was in pain, pulsing and rejecting any movement involving twisting or rotating, and my wrists and ankles were thoroughly bruised and scorched from the electricity. A few scratches here and there were spotted on my arms and legs but that was probably from the scuffle with the two poorly-trained guards.

I moved my hand to wake Sherlock but I found his side cold. He had been awake for a while then. Fumbling a bit more to get the covers off of me, I heard something scrape the comforter and found a note. It was folded with "John" written in messy scripture on the front.

"Sherlock…" I groaned. Really. I knew I wasn't the only one who suffered injuries. I knew this for a fact. He didn't even let me check them. God that man. I swear he will be the death of me.

The notes contents were simple and to the point although I couldn't decipher some of his words at first. It was almost worse than the doctor scrawl I use for prescriptions.

"John, I will be gone for most of the day and possibly the evening. I'm sure you are well aware of my abhorrence of boredom and a case has come to my attention. Berate me over my injuries and such when I return. Sherlock."

Crumbling it into a ball, I threw it into the waste basket and got up. Every part of me was sore from the strenuous work I have not placed on my bones and muscles since Afghanistan.

I stripped out of my old clothes and hopped into the shower, enjoying the warm water cascading down my skin and washing away last night's evidence. Well, except for the injuries of course. All the knots in my muscles fell away like paint on a window.

When I got out, I observed my injuries more carefully, not amused with what little I did sustain.

The scratches were minuscule. It seemed at one point they did somehow bleed, but they were already beginning to scab over and heal. Every other part of me was worse for wear, so-to-speak. My wrists, ankles, and abdomen was painted in dark splotches of grey and some black. I was heavily bruised and any contact with the skin made me gasp and grip whatever ledge I could, nausea quickly following.

My knee was a different story although I was a little cautious of the injury altogether. The kick didn't tear a ligament or muscle though there was certainly a good amount of swelling and discoloration around the knee cap. Testing it slowly, I attempted to kneel and pain flourished almost instantly. I straightened it out again.

Perhaps I'll have Mary look at it. Tell her I fell down the stairs.

…Like she would believe me. She's observant. No doubt she would notice everything else with it that I didn't want her to see.

Sighing, I got ready for work and made my way down the stairs. Each step caused a jolt of pain in my knee and I would breathe in quickly. I was grateful for Mrs. Hudson not being in the lobby or she would probably fret over it and keep me home. I smiled at the thought and shook my head. Landlady? No she was more like a surrogate mother.

Much better than my own.

I hailed a cab and prepared myself for when I got to work. Most of the building consisted of stairs and the lifts were in the back of the building itself. I would be on this knee all day and I knew that that wasn't the best thing for it right now. The bruises would definitely cause problems but I could play them off. It wasn't easy to pretend nothing was wrong when anything besides a limp was painful. As it is, I shouldn't be testing it. If I do anything sudden the ligament would rip and I would be in even more pain than this. Hell, I wouldn't even be able to move.

And I would probably be murdered by Mary's chastise and heated glares.

The hospital was already bustling with life when I arrived. Speak of the devil and he will appear as they say. Almost instantly Mary was at my side with the clipboard of my patients. I was about to thank her when she grabbed my wrist. I flinched and she scrutinized me, pulling down the long sleeve shirt under the scrubs to view my bruised skin.

She gasped, her grip tightening.

"John…" she began but I cut her off.

"Later. I'll explain later. It's a long story." Shaking my wrist away from her handle, I grabbed the clipboard and made my way to the stairs, dreading going up their steep steps.

"John? Is something the matter with your knee?"

I cursed, "Like I said, a long story. I'll tell you over lunch." Probably not. I didn't want her to know that I went on some escapade with a dangerous detective. She would probably hang him by his neck or shoot him. Or both.

I flipped the pages, counting 4 patients today, and sighed.

Today was going to be a long day.

And I was already missing the thrill of the case Sherlock introduced me to.

I was in debate whether I should damn him to the bottomless pits of Hell or thank him for finally introducing something interesting in my life.