A study in friendship-Johnlock

Awkward...

When Sherlock woke up again, it was dark. He had no idea what time it was-or even what day it was. He slipped out of bed, and was surprised to see that he wasn't in his shirt and suit trousers anymore-but a loose t shirt, and just his boxers. He cringed slightly at the thought of however he'd been changed out of those clothes. Was it John? It must have been. Mr Doctor man. He supposed it was useful having him around-as evidenced by the fact that he'd been looking after him-but it was incredibly embarrassing to imagine him being fussed around, tucked into bed, and changed. He supposed John was used to it-he'd been in medicine a while, hadn't he?
He stood up, and pulled a dressing gown around him, before slipping out of the door. As he emerged from the corridor into the living room, he was surprised to see John there, curled up and asleep in his armchair. If he had put Sherlock to bed, surely he could put himself to bed? He slowly and quietly approached the sleeping man, unsure of what to do. He looked different asleep. His face was more relaxed, and looked younger, somehow. He took off his dressing gown, and draped it carefully over him-he supposed that was the least he could do for the person who'd done all that for him. He felt sort of bad-not something he usually experienced. What were these strange emotions? It couldn't be... Sentiment. Oh no. He was getting attached to John. He was going to start thinking of him as... A friend. How Mycroft would laugh. He dropped into his chair, and looked across at his flatmate. He'd never noticed that his hair was straw coloured in some places, and almost grey in others. It was interesting. He studied him further. He was in slippers-so clearly had been in bed. He was wearing his normal clothes though-so tired. He had bags under his eyes, and was a bit paler than usual-hadn't been sleeping well. On the floor next to him was a tea cup. Sherlock leaned over to look inside- nearly full. Clearly, he had fallen into bed, exhausted, slept for one, maybe two hours, then put in slippers to come down here and get tea. Why tea? He looked around for more clues, feeling his brain buzzing with the exhilarating work. It wasn't even particularly interesting. Another cup sat on the counter-full. He tested its temperature-cold. He tasted it it. It was normal tea, decaf, with milk and sugar. John didn't take sugar: therefore this tea was meant for someone else. But who? A girlfriend? No one else was here. No one else had been here. Mrs Hudson? Unlikely. Therefore-himself. He smiled slightly. John's doctor was showing through. He switched on the kettle, and went to the bathroom.
****
When he emerged a minute later, John was stirring groggily. He raised his head, and saw Sherlock making tea, in his nightclothes. The clothes he had put Sherlock into. He cursed himself as his cheeks started feeling hot and flushed. He hadn't seen anything he shouldn't have... Just took off his trousers and shirt and put on a looser fitting shirt he found in a drawer. As his nurse, he was entitled to do that, right?
Sherlock handed him a cup of tea, then sat back in his chair. 'Why did you do that?'
'Do what?'
'That. All that. Making me sleep, looking after me, making tea.'
'Because I'm your mate. Your medically qualified mate, who noticed you were getting no sleep, and turning into a zombie. It's bad for the health, Sherlock, not sleeping like that. Can kill you, eventually.'
'Oh. Right.'
He sipped his tea.
'You're welcome.'
'Thank you.'
John smiled a little, and sat up straighter. As he did so, the dressing gown Sherlock had wrapped him in slipped off his shoulders. He looked surprised. 'So I see we were both playing doctor today, then.' He laughed, and pulled the soft fabric tighter around him. That wasn't like Sherlock, was it? Self proclaimed sociopath. Caring for someone. He shrugged mentally. Maybe it was just his way of paying him back?
He looked across at his friend, who was looking straight at him, a look of confusion on his face. He couldn't help but notice the way that the shirt Sherlock wore really brought out his eyes. It was quite nice, actually.
He shook himself mentally. What was he thinking?
'Shall we go back to bed, or stay here?'
Sherlock shrugged. He didn't need any more sleep.
John sighed, and stood up. Suddenly, his bad leg gave way from underneath him, and he toppled forwards, grabbing the couch in his way down. 'I guess... I guess I'll just stay here, then.'
'I thought your leg was fixed?' Sherlock looked a bit worried.
'It is. Sort of. A limp like that can take years to fully disappear.' John sighed. He hated his leg. Hated the limp. Hated the way people looked at him, and treated him, on bad days when his limp required a cane. It was, apparently, psychosomatic-but still haunted him when he wasn't running for his life.
'I'll just sleep here then, I guess.' He wrapped the dressing gown Sherlock had lent him around him again, and lay in the couch.
'Sure?' I could help you up, if you'd like...' Sherlock looked slightly uncomfortable with the idea of being nice to someone, but hopeful all the same. John pondered this for a moment, then decided to trust the man.
'Thanks.'
Sherlock took his elbow on the bad side, and slowly raised him to his feet. Together, they slowly manoeuvred across the sitting room, and to the door. Sherlock opened it, and led John up the stairs with extreme caution, careful not to go too fast, or too slow, or too close to his leg, or too far from him to support properly. He was surprisingly good at it, actually. They got to his room safely, and Sherlock took him in, and set him down on the bed.
'Okay?'
'Okay. Thanks.'
Sherlock looked flustered. 'No problem.'
John swung his legs up on to the bed, and turned over so he was facing the door. Sherlock smiled, nodded once or twice, and then quickly turned and left the room, leaving behind a faint smell of tea, and, for some reason, roses.