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The smell of dish soap filled 221b and smacked John straight in the face as he entered through the kitchen, carrying his small amount of luggage from a short trip to visit Harry. There was Sherlock, tall frame hunched over their small sink, studiously scrubbing a mug within an inch of its life.
“Sherlock?” John called, wondering at the sight before him; Sherlock never cleaned. Well, he would wipe out a beaker or a petri dish or a mug for tea now and again, but cleaning with the level of concentration he seemed to be putting into it was nigh unheard of. Deaf to the world but for what appeared to be, through the soapy foam, John’s RAMC mug.
Surveying the rest of the kitchen it looked as though Sherlock had gone on a bit of a cleaning spree, beginning with the lounge doors and spreading left across the counter, stove, and the table ending in a frothy mess at the sink. To be fair he’d seemed to be doing fine with the glass in the doors, they definitely looked cleaner. But the further he’d gone the worse the mess, soapy wet dish towels, paper towels and half corroded old sponges littered the stove and floor. Every cleaning supply they owned was piled onto the table in the middle of the room and any lab equipment had been shuffled off to the sides or had simply vanished, most likely to other areas of the flat, John supposed.
The detective himself was in his tartan robe with the sleeves rucked up under his armpits; His hair the same flurry of bed head it had been since John had left a few days ago. He had a bottle of some cleaning agent tucked into one of the pockets and wielded a fairly worn in sponge; which he was now using to scrub at a plate that soon joined the mug on the drying rack, still fairly foamy.
“Sherlock!” John raised his voice above the running water. The man in question snapped from whatever battle he thought he was having with the dishes rather violently.
“Shit!” Sherlock cursed as his head snapped up and he managed to clip the top of his head on a shelf, causing him to simultaneously drop his next plate on the floor and stagger backwards into the refrigerator, clutching at his scalp.
John was at his side in an instant, helping steer his bare feet away from the shards of broken ceramic. Once out of harms way Sherlock swatted at the hands that were holding onto his arms steadying him with his back to the fridge. John was having none of it looking up into his face, appraising whatever damage he’d manage to do to himself.
Sherlock looked tired. He had bags forming below his eyes with red edging and bloodshot veins to complete the picture. The usually piercing grey blue had gone a bit glassy, and now that he seemed to be collecting himself, just stared off into space somewhere above John’s head. When John had refused to relinquish his hold on Sherlock’s forearms he’d pretty much given up on shaking them loose, and now one of his hands was idly twitching against his thigh, as if it were still eager to do something.
“Sherlock, what is going on?” John said very clearly for him, reaching up to tilt his head down a bit so he could get a good look at those obviously sleep deprived eyes.
Now that he thought on it, how long had Sherlock been milling about inside the flat lately? The detective had finished his latest case a week prior (nothing spectacular according to him) and John definitely remembered Sherlock rummaging around the flat in a board huff, trying to find things to amuse himself with immediately afterwards. He’d irritated John a bit by playing his violin at odd hours off and on, nothing unusual there. He’d started at least a handful of experiments John was aware of, though where their components had gone now was a complete mystery in itself, now that Sherlock had cleared the kitchen out. He’d pulled out cold cases Lestrade had given him and had been working on those while waiting for something far more interesting to come along. As far as John was aware, Sherlock had still been flipping through files when he’d left for Harry’s three days ago.
Sudden shock now past, Sherlock yawned and looked lazily over at the mess he’d created as if realizing that rather than cleaning he’d really just made an even more spectacular mess of the kitchen. He blinked a couple times and yawned again, before finally bringing those striking eyes down to meet John’s.
“I think I may have been having a go at cleaning. It got a little out of hand by the look of things though,” Sherlock said, clearly deducing that he had caused the maelstrom of soap that had descended upon their flat.
“You think?!” John said incredulously, readying a lecture about how Sherlock had destroyed half the kitchen, before pausing mid-thought. Sherlock was clearly unwell if he was guessing at his own actions. Judging from the posture and chaos John had found the genius in the middle of, as well as the startle when John called him out of it, he would almost guess Sherlock had been attempting to do the dishes and had fallen asleep standing, leaving his body to run on autopilot.
As John stood internally debating his next course of action, Sherlock brushed his hands away and began to move back towards the sink, avoiding the broken plate pieces and reaching to turn off the running water. He was beginning to kneel to pick up the shards of plate when John made his decision, which was not the same plan of action Sherlock had in mind.
“Oh no you don’t,” John muttered as Sherlock bent, grabbing the taller man under the arms, and bodily hauling him out of the kitchen towards the sofa.
“Leave me alone! I was cleaning. Aren’t you the one who is always going on about how I never clean up messes?” Sherlock struggled, as his brain seemed to come whirring back into the land of the living momentarily.
“Not when you are falling down tired,” John replied pushing the now more awake, but still weakened detective down onto the sofa. “Now,” John started, pushing Sherlock back down when he attempted to get up again, “Why exactly did you decide to flood the kitchen?”
“I did not flood the kitchen,” Sherlock replied petulantly, laying back into the worn in leather. Sherlock was in his usual inverted sleep shirt and pajama bottoms, both of which were fairly wet down the front from his undertaking with the sink.
“You almost did, you did everything but flood it, what happened then if you didn’t flood it?” John asked standing over Sherlock in case the man decided he wanted to get up again, though it was looking less likely by the moment.
Sherlock dragged a large hand over his face, pinching at his temples, and sighed. “I noticed you left a few dishes in the sink, and in a fit of insomnia decided to clean the kitchen,” he murmured out as if it pained him to admit that weakness, that he had been so tired and so bored he had given in and actually tried to make their flat less of a hazard to live in.
“Insomnia?” John latched onto the word instantly, “you haven’t been sleeping?”
“Of course not!” Sherlock spat, flinging his arm back onto the cushion beside him dramatically. “While you have been off staying with your sister, I have been trying to find a way to wear my body into slumber for longer than a few minutes at a time.” He suddenly pushed up and past John, quickly stepping over the coffee table and beginning to pace. He spared a quick glance at the kitchen before continuing, grimacing. He wore a scowl as he began muttering under his breath about other things he could try.
“Sherlock...” John reached for him, worried now that Sherlock might injure himself should he be allowed to continue on, gears spinning in his head like a whirling dervish out of control. Sherlock spun on him “John! I AM TIRED!” he bellowed, spitting as his face transformed in rage. He stopped pacing and just stood breath huffing out of his nose like a mad bull, frustrated and angry for no reason in particular. His hands began to tremble at his sides as he realized that he had just raised his voice at his best friend, the short doctor who might be able to actually help him.
John wasn’t bothered by the frustrated cry, his face softened as he moved around the table between them. He’d seen Sherlock fly into temper tantrums before, while never for this reason, he could handle a tetchy Sherlock.
“Shhhh,” he soothed, “Come here,” John beckoned, taking one of Sherlock’s shaking hands in his own and gently pulling the huffing man closer.
John carefully folded his arms around Sherlock’s chest, stroking his back in long calming motions and passively getting Sherlock to bend, resting his head on his shoulder. The normally brilliant man stood there in his arms, torso heaving out warm breaths onto John’s neck as the doctor stroked the curve of his spine, and whispered a long stream of soothing shush’s into his ear. Sherlock’s arms hung like dead weights over John’s as they stood like that in the middle of the flat, until Sherlock finally drew in a long clean breath and sighed against his neck. He brought up his arms slowly to hold onto John and mumbled, “I’m tired John,” into the short hair behind his ear.
“I know you are,” John responded, still stroking the taller man’s back as his wet clothes dampened his own. “Now that you’ve had your tantrum, I’ll see if I can help, is that alright?” he said lightheartedly, giving Sherlock a light squeeze before standing him up a bit.
“I don’t have tantrums,” Sherlock mumbled, all the fight gone out of him again as he let his arms drop off John’s shoulders.
John chuckled, keeping a hold on Sherlock by an arm around his waist, “Yes you do.”
He led Sherlock back towards his own bedroom, ignoring the still sopping mess in the kitchen as they passed.
“First thing we’re going to do is get you out of those wet clothes and into a nice warm bath,” John told him clearly, stopping at the bathroom door and pushing it open for Sherlock.
Sherlock mumbled an agreement and let John help him out of his robe after the water was turned on. By the time the tub was full Sherlock was stripped bare and stood, looking slightly shaky, on his feet in front of John. John had seen Sherlock nude before; After having to stitch him up and deal with naked strops on days when getting dressed was just too dull to be done, nothing was exactly surprising about Sherlock’s physique. He was simply tall, long, and a little underfed at present. John helped Sherlock get settled into the tub, and was about to leave when a dripping hand launched out of the water to grab the leg of his jeans.
“You’re not leaving me here,” He said, a bit slow, but with urgency; the warm water was already doing its job in getting him to relax more.
“I was just going to get you some fresh clothes,” John said plucking the white knuckled hand off his leg.
Sherlock dropped his arm back into the water with a groan.
“Come right back then, I’d rather not drown falling asleep in a bath,” he mumbled out, sinking in lower until he was in the water up to his neck, with his knees sticking out.
“Feeling sleepy already are we?” John chuckled. Sherlock just glowered at him from his prone spot in the tub.
John continued on, retrieving towels and spare clothes for Sherlock. He quickly went up stairs and shucked himself out of his own dampened clothes, changing into more comfortable wear. He was pulling Sherlock’s blue robe off the hook just as the man himself let out a dozy sounding call for him.
John returned and set about helping Sherlock wash his hair, which, on closer inspection, looked like it hadn’t been washed in at least a few days. Before he set about washing it he felt around and inspected the spot where Sherlock had hit his head earlier; Sherlock reassured him that it was fine, that he had just startled him, and it didn’t hurt now. John put the faintly strawberry shampoo on and began massaging Sherlock’s scalp. The detective hummed happily as he leaned his head into John’s hands. He seemed to quite like having his head rubbed, and became putty in his hands as he continued, even after they rinsed the product out of his hair.
“How long have you been awake Sherlock?” John asked quietly, rubbing temples and eyebrows over closed eyes.
“Hmmm, four days not counting microsleeps, not very long,” he murmured, cracking one sleepy looking eye open. John watched that pale orb drift over to look at him then shut again.
“That is a long time to be awake,” John said calmly, no need to get upset with the brilliant moron now when he’s got him so close to where he needs to be.
“You fell asleep doing the dishes, did you notice that?” John asked just keeping light easy conversation so that the man in the tub didn’t conk out before he reached the bed.
“Of course I noticed, I may be tired but that doesn’t make me an idiot,” Sherlock rumbled out.
Deciding to not take the argumentative bait of, ‘well you’re an idiot for not asking for help sooner,’ John chose to just hum and agree, “of course not,” a beat of silence stretched out between them as Sherlock just lay with his head suspended in John’s hands.
“Nothing has been keeping me active,” Sherlock said, “That last case was over and done too quickly,” he sighed turning his head slightly to rest his cheek on the porcelain of the tub and open his eyes a bit.
“You’ve been keeping yourself busy enough,” John replied remembering the various small projects Sherlock had begun over the last week and a half.
“Pithy little nothings, attempting to stave off boredom, I haven’t been able to sleep properly since that last case, an hour, a few minutes, and my brain is awake again screaming. ‘Get up! Get up! There must be a case to solve out there!’ When it is two o’ clock in the morning and I would rather Lestrade not punch me in the mouth upon our next meeting, because I woke him at some ungodly hour poking around for a murder.”
John smiled at that, good to know the genius had learned enough to be polite and not bother Lestrade at all hours of the night for nothing. He’d stopped tweaking Sherlock’s hair and was just sitting leaning over his face as he talked.
“Well you seem to have worn yourself down,” he said, watching as Sherlock blinked tiredly up at him, red rimmed grey eyes twitching beneath the thin lids, as his pale chest rose and he let out another longsuffering sigh.
“I wish you had called, I could have come home, I could have helped you know,” John said before leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to the wet detective’s forehead. Sherlock let out a small huff, but didn’t reply.
The water was cooling and Sherlock’s fingers had begun to prune, it was time to get out. Sherlock grumbled and grumped about having to stand up again, but with a little work, and help from John, the lanky pale man was dried and into his new clothes and robe.
Out in the bedroom the lights were all off, leaving the low afternoon sunlight to be the only thing barely brightening the room. John had pulled the curtains a bit further closed to let as little of the light in as possible creating a warm dim environment for Sherlock to sleep in. He helped Sherlock crawl into bed and was turning to leave when Sherlock grabbed him again, the hem of his old shirt this time.
“What is it?” he asked looking down at his very drowsy friend clinging to his shirt with a couple long fingers.
“Could you do that head thing you were doing earlier?” He yawned wide, he was rapidly falling it seemed which was a good thing, “I feel that was helping.” A smaller yawn followed.
John smiled, “knew you’d be a sucker for a good old fashion scalp massage,” he said quietly, pulling Sherlock’s fingers off his sleeve. “Sit up a bit,” he climbed in behind Sherlock and plopped the pillow down in his lap, spreading his legs out and letting Sherlock lay back with his head on his lap. He set out massaging his head again, Sherlock letting out what almost sounded like a purr as he dug his fingers through the now squeaky clean curls. John’s fingers kneaded down cradling the base of his skull, up to rub across his temples, and comb back through his curls again and again. After a while the hums and purrs of pleasure began getting quieter and quieter, until they ceased all together.
John looked down at the sound of a light snore. Sherlock had finally managed to fall asleep, his mouth hung open slightly, and his eyes were relaxed. John pulled a curl up out of his face as another snore emitted from him. He had not seen the detective so peaceful in a long time. It was at that point as he admired his sleeping friend’s face that he realized he was somewhat trapped. With his legs sprawled out on either side of his head, any attempts at moving off the bed would wake the poor man in his lap. John sighed, he really did need to get out and fix the kitchen, no doubt if he waited too long Mrs. Hudson would find it, and he’d rather not bother their landlady with Sherlock’s stupidity today.
“Oh well, at least his bed is comfy” John murmured as he leaned back, and settled in for a long rest with the weight of Sherlock’s head in his lap.