Archive of Our Own ^beta

This case had gone on long enough decided John. Just over a week now and they were no closer to catching a jewel thief or figuring out how the fingerprints managed to morph when being transferred or within the same scene. It was baffling and that was why Sherlock had taken it. It had started promisingly enough, but somehow they'd gotten stuck trying to isolate a certain compound from the fingerprints. Sherlock was adamant that it was there and had spent nearly every waking moment for the past three days with his eyes glued to his microscope or flitting over page after page of notes on transitory compounds, John faithfully by his side but becoming more and more prone to nodding off as the days dragged on.

John and Sherlock had gone to Bart's yesterday, for Molly's input and for a much needed change of scene. It hadn't proved to help much however. Sherlock had just snapped and snarled at the poor pathologist whenever she tried to offer a suggestion. Which was really counter productive and only succeeded in making Molly's lip tremble. John did his best to console her and bought her some lunch so they could get away from Sherlock. Because he had really grown to be a terror as the days went on. It was understandable he was frustrated, but did he really have to lash out at everyone like some great fire breathing lizard guarding its hoard?

Sherlock had gone from haughty, abrasive, and rude to downright unpleasant. No one was safe from his wrath. Not even poor Mrs. Hudson who had attempted to bring them tea and biscuits earlier. The detective had given her such a brutal series of deductions that their land lady had threatened to chuck them both out on the street. John had done his best to make Sherlock's apologies for him afterwards. Still, he'd never seen Mrs. Hudson so angry. It was enough to make even a military captain quiver and quail, and he had sworn to forget some of the things Sherlock had said and then thanked Mrs. Hudson lamely for the biscuits. Of course, Sherlock, the colossal git, hadn't even deigned to look up from his microscope the entire time.

When Lestrade texted Sherlock to ask him to come look at a second incident, the detective had positively seethed, sweeping out of 221 like some ominous dark storm cloud. John barely got into the cab before Sherlock snapped it closed and barked at the driver to hurry up. John tried to speak several times, but each time Sherlock only exhaled sharply through his nose, expressing his extreme impatience. So John gave up and joined the man in his sulking. He hoped Anderson wouldn't be on duty today. He had a nasty premonition that Sherlock may very well eat him.

Luckily it was only Lestrade and a couple of other technician John didn't know. Sherlock swept past, still not speaking but to snarl at the others to leave the scene. The forensics crew scattered like birds confronted with a large and angry crocodile.

John and Lestrade chatted a bit. The detective inspector seemed tired and worn as well, though not biting anyone's head off like Sherlock seemed about to at the slightest provocation. God, what had gotten into the man? This was more than just Sherlock being Sherlock. He couldn't think what was different, usually a case had the man focused and clear headed, but now...

"John. We're going. Gavin, if you could have kept your imbeciles off my crime scene for just ten bloody minutes, I might have solved this within ten seconds."

Ah, the ray of sunshine was back.

"It's Greg," replied Lestrade, though his tone was more tired than affronted, "And it's not yours. You only consult here. Technica-"

"I don't give a flying toss," snapped Sherlock shortly, "You call me because you need me and you're all idiots. You couldn't solve a children's crossword puzzle without me. If you could just do your own God damn job and not come sobbing to me whenever things are the least bit hard then-"

"Now look here," growled Lestrade, looking wounded.

"Sorry. We're going. Sherlock!"

The detective glowered at Lestrade but allowed John to shove him back across the police line. He was still brooding when they got back to the flat and John had had enough of the man's antics for one day. Actually several. Possibly an entire month. He could do with a nice cuppa and something warm and hearty in his stomach. He wandered to the kitchen where Sherlock had perched himself before his microscope yet again. John sighed and did his best to open the cupboards slowly and quietly as he prepared his dinner. Sherlock still managed to huff and snarl now and again to indicate that John was being needlessly annoying. John pointedly ignored him, dumping pasta into the pot as it boiled and setting the timer.

He jumped as Sherlock suddenly let out a roar of frustration.

"John! What the hell have you done with my sample?!"

"Oi, I haven't touched anything on that table for two days," John replied, frowning at his flatmate.

"Oh don't give me that," the detective said, tone dripping with derision, "You're always bumbling around, moving my things, touching things you don't understand! That you couldn't possibly comprehend with your exceedingly average mi-"

"Sherlock, shut up right now, or so help me I will hit you so hard you'll be feeling it next week," growled John, his tone all hard finality. He had had it. Sherlock seemed to have realized it too because his expression shifted to a cool, calculating, but silent one.

"Thank you," said John shortly, drawing a breath to calm himself down. "Now for both our sakes, please, please go sit down and watch some crap telly or something. Take a break from this case. It's driving me bonkers and clearly turning you into some sort of raging maniac."

Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly to protest.

"Please," repeated John, his tone making it sound much more like an order than a request.

The detective rolled his eyes and swept out of the kitchen. There was a soft buzz of static as the television was flicked on, then a huff and a crumpling of leather as Sherlock clearly threw himself down on the sofa for a sulk. John took a deep breath, then set about finishing his pasta. He felt a bit guilty, even if Sherlock had been a right arse lately. John couldn't help it, but he always got a bit tetchy when he was hungry. In fact in med school they'd called him- Oh. John stopped as the realization hit him. All that snapping, and snarling and whining... it was all because Sherlock was bloody starving. He'd gone well past his usual case time. Nothing but hunger and stomach acid burning away at his middle day and night... And the last time John had shoved some toast at him was what?

John shook his head, feeling both amazed and guilty beyond measure. He quickly tugged two bowls from one of the cupboards and set them out. Once the pasta had cooked, John strained it and loaded up the two bowls. He added another generous heap to Sherlock's portion, then smothered it in butter and cheese before carrying it to the living room.

He spotted Sherlock flopped on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin as usual, eyes closed. John wondered for a moment if he'd managed to fall asleep. A moment later that thought was proven to be false as the man's eyes flicked open and eyed John haughtily.

"Come to berate me for doing my job again?" Sherlock asked grumpily.

"No, I've come with pasta," said John, thrusting the bowl into Sherlock's hands. The detective looked genuinely shocked and surprised for a moment.

"John, you know I don't eat on cases," he said, even as he straightened up and looked into the bowl. His tongue crept out to wet his lips.

"Yeah, I know," said John, plopping himself down on the sofa by Sherlock's legs with his own bowl, "But you haven't had a decent meal in nearly a weak and you're grumpy enough that I'm starting to worry you'll transform into a dragon. So please, eat. Take the night off. You can resume the case tomorrow after a good night's sleep."

"But-"

"Doctor's orders," replied John firmly, keeping his eyes on his bowl as he ate, but watching Sherlock in his peripherals. The detective still looked mildly astonished. Then he reached for his fork and lifted a bit of pasta to his mouth. In a matter of minutes, the man was eating with gusto, fork clinking against the bowl as it was swiftly emptied. John smiled and ate his own at a more reasonable pace.

At last, Sherlock sighed and set his emptied bowl down.

"Better?" asked John, looking over and giving him a small smile. The man's long fingers drummed against his bowl, his tongue wet his lips.

"Marginally," allowed Sherlock.

"Want a bit more?"

Sherlock considered his bowl for a moment, then handed it over, looking shy. "I- yes. Alright."

John stood and got them both seconds, Sherlock's bowl much fuller than his own. The man eagerly took it and resumed wolfing it down, sucking the noodles between those plump lips, jaw working in a smooth rhythm. It was oddly pleasing to watch.

John realised he'd been staring as Sherlock looked up at him and blinked at him, looking much more his usual self rather than the brooding storm cloud he'd been morphing into. John quickly looked to his own bowl and resumed eating.

"Er, John?"

"Mm?"

"... This is really very good. Thank you," said Sherlock.

"You're welcome. It's very simple, not much doing. Just pasta and cheese for seasoning," replied John with a shrug.

"Hm, good though. If it's not too much trouble... could you?"

John looked up, then let out a bark of surprised but happy laughter as his eyes fell on the emptied bowl. "More?" he asked.

"Please."

And so John brought him a generous portion of thirds, which Sherlock ate hungrily before slouching back in the sofa, some color on those pale cheekbones, and a hand on a rounded middle. John smiled, watching Sherlock yawn and stretch, his shirt riding up ever so slightly over his podgy looking tum. It warmed him in odd ways to see him soft and taken care of.

"Bed?" John murmured quietly. Sherlock's eyes slid lazily open again.

"Oh, yes... I suppose so," the detective answered, sitting up with a soft grunt and then toddling towards his bedroom, looking sleepy and full of pasta.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks... for dinner."

"Any time," John replied, watching him go. He then cleared up everything in the kitchen and went to bed himself, his mind oddly at peace considering how the day had started.

He was awoken the next morning by a tentative knock on his door. John sat up, drawing in a breath groggily.

"Hm-what?"

"Sorry. I just wondered... breakfast?"

John blinked to make sure he was awake. Yeah, okay, he was. And that was definitely Sherlock looking at him from the doorway.

"Er, yeah, that would be lovely. Thanks," said the doctor in mild surprise.

"Actually..." Sherlock looked awkward and John laughed as he realized what the man had meant.

"Oh! You git, you came all the way up here and poked me awake to make you breakfast?" John chuckled.

Sherlock pouted, a slight bit of a flush creeping into his cheeks, "I... It just tastes better when..."

That made John feel positively giddy. "Sure. Give me a mo and I'll be down to fix us something, yeah?" he said, pushing his overs back and swinging his legs out of bed. Sherlock disappeared silently from the door.

An hour later, Sherlock had ingested two bacon butties, three eggs, and two cups of tea.

"It's come to my attention," said Sherlock, looking awkward once again, "That I might... have left it too long with denying my transport sustenance."

"Has it?" replied John, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response, but there was a bit of a smile on his lips.

"Yes," murmured the detective, standing and swinging on his coat again, "I'm aware I've been rather unpleasant. I apologize. I was becoming frustrated."

"And hungry," prompted the doctor. He stood and went to prepare another bacon butty, wrapping this one in foil. He walked over to Sherlock and thrust it at him. "Here, take one with you. That way you've got some lunch."

Sherlock considered the small package for a moment, then reached out slowly and took it, slipping it into one of his large coat pockets.

"Thank you. John."

Then he was off again. John sat back down at the kitchen table, that warm feeling back in his chest and stomach. He almost blamed it on the tea, but that was fast becoming tepid. Well, whatever it was... Maybe it was just the knowledge that London wasn't about to be burned to the ground by a certain hungry Sherlock Holmes.