Prompt for you: The first time Sherlock turns down a case(like a 9 or 10) because John is too tired or ill and John realizes how much his detective loves him.
“Listen, we could really use your help on this. Three murders all the same, and now a fourth, but this one is different, it…”
“Probably not connected to the other three. Copycat with no attention to detail.”
John leans against the cold wall on the upper landing, listening to Greg and Sherlock chatting the floor below. He’d been coming down to use the loo, but now…
Greg laughs. “You know that’s a ridiculous theory right.”
“Call me again in a few days if your people are still failing at their jobs. I have too much on at the moment. There’s simply no way I can find the time.”
Greg sighs. “Fine. But I thought you’d jump at the chance. This has got to be a nine, eight and a half at the very least.”
John doesn’t hear Sherlock say anything in reply. After a moment Greg walks out onto the landing, and John sinks back into the shadows. His head is pounding, he’s drenched in sweat, and he’s only managed to keep down some dry toast this morning after almost three straight days of vomiting up everything that passed his lips. He doesn’t really feel like socializing.
“Call me,” Greg insists, before turning and jogging back down the stairs.
John waits until he hears the front door close, before coming the rest of the way downstairs.
“John.” Sherlock’s brows are knit.
“Should you be out of bed?”
“Need the loo. Thought I might lay here on the sofa for awhile, if that’s okay. Bit boring up there.”
“Of course.” Sherlock hurries over and starts gathering the magazines and newspapers that are spread out over the seat of the sofa. “Would you like some tea? I could make you some more toast.”
John smiles quizzically. “Just the sofa for now, i think.”
Sherlock stops his bustling, his mouth forming an ‘O’ of understanding.
“Oh. Yes. He had a case. Nothing important.”
“You haven’t had anything even approaching a five in months. Why’d you tell him you were too busy? You’ve been champing at the bit lately.”
Sherlock blinks at him, and then walks into the kitchen, pulls out the teapot, fills it with water and clicks it on. “I have more important things to concern myself with at the moment.”
John laughs weakly. “What? You have nothing on!”
Sherlock pulls two mugs down from the cabinet. “You’re ill.”
“Okay. Right. Yeah. But what’s that go to do with…?”
Sherlock is scooping tea into the teapot, very pointedly not saying a thing in return.
“Right…” John rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I’m going to go use the loo, but–maybe would like a cup of tea if you’re making it.”
Sherlock holds up one of the mugs, by way of reply.
John heads for the loo. He stops at the exit to the kitchen. “Sherlock?”
Sherlock’s head turns a little, but he doesn’t look at him, doesn’t reply. He just goes to the cabinet, pulls down his favourite jar of honey and sets it down next to John’s mug.
