Sherl Shots

John Heard It

A normal day in Baker Street...

John sighed as he hauled himself out of his chair, his headache splitting and his tea not strong enough to dull the pain.

Sherlock had fallen into another one of his silent spells, speaking only when deemed absolutely necessary and moving maybe an inch per two hours that is unless John forced him to use the bathroom or shower.

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and decided that the raven haired man needed food. He had lost weight and John didn't like how loosely the blue gown (which Sherlock had refused to take off or let John dryclean) hung on Sherlock's bony shoulders.

So, John busied himself with making lunch, cussing at his headache and at the lack of aspirin in the flat. He didn't like keeping any kind of drugs in the flat when Sherlock went into this state of mind. Last time; he found the detective drinking a concoction of sleeping tablets, anti-stress medication, anti inflammatory pills and tramadols. John had to get the imbecile to drink laxative to keep him from getting ill.

John sighed as he remembered days leading up to the last near overdose. They had fought badly about how Sherlock wasn't taking care of himself and John had left the flat, saying he'd stay at Molly's.

After a few more minutes of deep thinking and food making; John went over to the couch and tugged on Sherlock's gown.

The detective grunted, telling John that he acknowledged his existence.

"I, erm, I made lunch. I'd like if you ate some. You don't have to eat all your food. J-"

"Busy." Sherlock spoke hoarsely.

"But, you're losing weight and you were doing so well with eating. I don't want you to go backwards." The doctor urged.

"I. Am. Busy." He technically spat the words and John had had enough.

"Oh, I see. The case is more important than your well-being," the blogger said and threw his hands up in defeat "and obviously so much more important than me."

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes, piercing blue orbs meeting John's already burning gaze.

"What do you want from me, John? A pat on the head? To throw you a ball?" Sherlock said as he sat up.

"No," John shook his head "I want you to realize that you have most people dream of having."

Sherlock squinted at John "And those things are?" he asked dully.

"You have a loving family, friends who aren't arses-" John paused and looked down at his feet "a caring boyfriend..."

"Everyone has those things. It's nothing special." Sherlock said quickly then laid back down, steepling his hands in a praying position.

John looked up at Sherlock, half astonished that he could say such a thing. He felt his blood boil under his skin and his intestines knot up. He couldn't take it any longer.

"What do I have to do to convince you that you're loved, huh?" John snapped.

"John," Sherlock sighed "I am not doing this again. Not now." he said and got up, heading for his room.

"Sherlock," John said sternly, his eyes following the detective "You don't get to walk away."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and looked over his shoulder at John, his eyes alert and his pupils nearly non-existent making his gaze even more piercing.

John felt a shiver go down his spine at the gaze, not a good one. He knew that look. He knew what happened after he got that look.

"And why is that, John?" Sherlock asked as he turned to face John, folding his hands behind his back.