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It took Sherlock a few seconds to realize John was speaking. It took him a few more seconds to comprehend what John was saying, but then again, Sherlock already knew. This very situation had already happened too many times for him to count.
'Sherlock,' John was saying, in between raps on the door, 'we need to leave soon, are you going to be all right?'
Sherlock listened to the hum of the bathroom fan and pretended he hadn't heard John's voice. He knew perfectly well what time it was - twenty to seven, which was the time of their dinner reservations - and on a normal day he and John would have already been on their way in a cab. But today Sherlock's body was betraying him yet again - starting with a faint stomachache just after breakfast, increasing to cramps by the afternoon, and finally leading him to lock himself in the bathroom shortly before six.
John knew, of course. The man was a doctor - he had obviously picked up on the signs of IBS no later than a week or two after they had moved into Baker Street together. However, John was also very tactful as a matter of course, and had never explicitly brought it up, but he had also shifted his behavior to accommodate.
There were so many things Sherlock liked about John. His companionship on cases first and foremost, but also all the little kindnesses that Sherlock would never admit he appreciated. John was an especially considerate man, even to people he didn't necessarily like, and his treatment of Sherlock's illness was no less considerate.
When Sherlock would ask him quietly if John would be requiring the use of the bathroom in the near future, John would simply shake his head and declare that he had actually just been planning to go out to the shops or the clinic. John always knew to give Sherlock his space, a fact Sherlock was eternally grateful for. John also never protested when it fell to him to explain to the Met why Sherlock and John couldn't work on cases that day, or when their dinner plans occasionally fell through and John had to content himself with reheated takeaway while Sherlock suffered in the bathroom, both of them pretending nothing was out of the ordinary.
Tonight, though, was an important night, and Sherlock felt a sharp stab of guilt at the thought. It was their one-year anniversary, and they had booked reservations at an extremely posh, expensive Italian restaurant to celebrate. Sherlock didn't see much point in celebrating anniversaries, and he would have been fine patronizing Angelo's for the umpteenth time that month, but John had kissed him on the temple and declared that it was a special occasion and that they were going to do this right, seeing as most of their dates usually ended up with one or both of them getting shot at/pursued by vicious criminals/kidnapped and thrown into a skip. Sherlock had agreed after some thought, and the look on John's face had been wonderful.
But that was before the flare-up, and now they were going to miss their reservations.
'Sherlock,' called John again. 'It's all right if we need to stay in tonight.' John paused. 'Should I call and cancel?'
Sherlock put his head into his hands, feeling torn-up and guilty. Finally he croaked out, 'I believe so.' He imagined rather than saw John putting a sympathetic hand on the door before padding away to get his phone. And then there was silence - John had likely settled into the living room wearing his nicest clothes, eating the leftover curry instead of the tandoori chicken because there was no way Sherlock was touching the curry after this.
If Sherlock was the type of person who cried easily, he would have been sobbing by now. Instead, he set about cleaning up, flushed, washed his hands, and turned on the shower. He shed his clothes and stepped inside, letting the water sluice over his skin. He always felt dirty afterwards, disgusting and covered with bacteria, and the shower was necessary for his peace of mind.
A few minutes of washing later, Sherlock heard the door click as John unlocked it from the outside. He kept his face turned to the wall, embarrassed to look at John, so it took him by surprise when John pushed the shower curtain aside and stepped in, suit and tie hanging from the door. Sherlock turned around to face him.
'Hello,' John said. He was smiling, a little sadly, but Sherlock knew the reason for the sadness. Not because their date had been spoiled, but because Sherlock was in pain and there was nothing John could do about it. Sherlock supposed this was why he'd fallen in love with John - the man had such a kind heart, it was impossible to not feel its warmth.
'Hello,' Sherlock said back, and swallowed around the lump in his throat. 'I've ruined tonight, haven't I?'
'Not completely,' said John. He reached up, scrunching the lather in Sherlock's hair. 'I wasn't much in the mood for Italian tonight, anyway. Or for crowds, for that matter.'
'John,' said Sherlock, feeling something suspiciously like a sob rising in his throat.
John smiled again, and this time there was no sadness in it. 'Just a quiet night in, you and me and the telly, how does that sound?' he asked. 'There's this movie I've been meaning to get you to watch, now's the perfect time.'
Sherlock couldn't help leaning in to kiss John. 'You are so good,' he said.
'I love you too, Sherlock,' said John, smiling against Sherlock's lips. 'Happy anniversary.'