Sherlock bent over his food and sniffed at it curiously, which ended with a grimace. John rolled his eyes from across the table and continued eating, knowing exactly what he had put in the food he had just cooked, and knowing that it was perfectly fine. Sherlock, on the other hand, knew better. Immediately upon leaving the confines of his bedroom, a strange, but not altogether foreign, smell invaded his nostrils. For John sake, he had acted as if nothing strange was going on until he realized that the smell was coming from the food that the doctor had been preparing.
“Just eat, Sherlock,” John mumbled as he shoved a bite into his mouth. Sherlock looked up at him worriedly before pushing his plate away.
“I’m not hungry,” he stated.
“Shut up and eat,” John drawled.
“No.”
“You’re not on a case. Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
John sighed and continued eating, shaking his head. He was always like this after Sherlock had finished a case. Sometimes the detective wondered why, but he always came to the conclusion that John was simply concerned about his unhealthy habits. However, he was still at a loss as to why the doctor cared so much. Finally, Sherlock stood up and left the table, taking the food with him. John turned to watch him sweep through the living room, blue dressing gown billowing behind him. “I thought you weren’t hungry?”
“Experiment,” Sherlock snapped, entering his bedroom and closing the door behind him.
John sighed again from the kitchen table and finished his supper. As he was clearing off the table and washing dishes, the detective returned to flop down on the sofa. His legs were elevated on top of the arm of the sofa, and his head at the other end. It honestly amazed John how tall he was sometimes, but then he was reminded of how unbearably short he was, and he didn’t like it all.
“Where’s your plate?” John called from the kitchen, disturbing Sherlock’s thought process.
“Bed,” he called back, closing his eyes tightly and pressing his hands together beneath his chin.
With an exasperated sigh, John trudged through the living room and into Sherlock’s room to retrieve the plate. After washing it, he turned back to the living room to sit in his chair. As he picked up the newspaper from the table beside him, he became suddenly aware of a pair of bright bluish-green eyes watching him from across the room. Deciding to ignore it, he opened the paper and blocked the eyes from staring at him.
“How do you feel, John?” An abrupt, deep voice rumbled.
“Just fine, thanks,” John muttered, flipping a page.
“No headaches? Dizziness?”
“Nope.” Actually, now that Sherlock had mentioned it, the doctor was aware of a dull throbbing in the back of his head, but it was probably nothing.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Sherlock was silent then, returning to his ominous thinking stance. About an hour later, John finally set down the paper and got up to head upstairs to his room. Glancing at his flat mate, he decided it best not to disturb him and continued right up to his bed. After kicking off his socks, trousers, and jumper, he crawled languorously under the sheets and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
