A/N: Well, well, well. It's been a while. Every time I get a notification, I tell myself it's time to update. But I'm so lazy that it requires all 194389202 galaxies to align in order for me to actually get stuff done.
Anyway, thanks for the reviews to remind me! As usual, I don't own Sherlock, and please be mindful of any triggering content. Enjoy!
At first, John had been sure that he wouldn't need Mycroft's help. After all, Mycroft wasn't the one who had to live with Sherlock, so he probably had no idea about what to do.
You're a bloody doctor, John. You should be able to tell what's going on with him.
But it just wasn't that simple. He had never had a patient that was so utterly averse to being treated. In fact, Sherlock hadn't even let him come within a metre's radius from him - and that was on the rare occasions he chose to leave his room.
It had only been a few days, and already the letters and emails were beginning to pile up with people from all over the country desperately seeking the help of the great detective. The only thing that was missing was to have the actual police come knocking on the door asking for their consultant.
"Sherlock," John knocked on the bedroom door again. He tried to limit it to three times a day so as not to come across as too pushy. "I was just reading the emails, and, well, I found a case I think you might like."
As usual, he was met with silence.
Perhaps it should have concerned him, but John knew that the moment he went downstairs, the creaking of the floorboards would resume. Sometimes it appeared that Sherlock was just doing this to spite him.
Sherlock was busy lying in bed, his comforter draped over him tightly from head to toe, as if he was a corpse. He could hear John talking on the other side of the door, but no matter how hard he tried to force his ears to listen, they just did not want to bother.
How long are you going to live like this?
He swallowed and blinked in the manufactured darkness.
Maybe four days was enough? Maybe it was time to get up?
With the same amount of effort it would have taken an ant to lift a biscuit, he managed to heave the sheets off. Immediately, he squeezed his eyes shut, the glare of the sunlight through the window being a stark contrast to what he was used to.
Laying in bed, he lifted his left arm into the air, studying the scabbed over lines. They were quite faint, except for the most recent ones he had made last night. Those were still surrounded by puffed up reddish skin.
It wasn't a problem. He was going to wear a coat either way. No one would bat an eye, because Sherlock Holmes always had two things - his brain and a coat. And if one of those was missing, then he was screwed.
Just as John reached the bottom of the staircase, he heard the floorboards from the second storey begin to creak.
I knew it. The idiot is doing it to mess with me.
He had half a mind to go upstairs and feed Sherlock a piece of his mind, but that would only make him happier. He probably enjoyed seeing John get angry.
So he unlocked the door and walked out.
The cold air hit him as soon as he took a step outside, so he began walking at a brisk pace, hoping to warm himself up. His chin was tucked to his chest, preventing the cold air from finding an easy path through his jacket.
But that was a bad decision.
Because the next thing he knew, he had crashed into someone.
"Sorry-" he started apologising, but the person he had bumped did not seem frazzled in the slightest.
"Dr Watson?" asked the man before him.
Dread pooled in his stomach. In his rather extensive experience, it was never a good thing when someone he didn't know, knew his name.
As always, thanks for reading! Please read and review! :)