A white sandy beach that ended somewhere beyond the horizon. A warm, turquoise sea with the occasional foam-topped wave. A light blue sky, untainted by clouds or vapour trails. The sun shining down merrily, not too strong to make him sweat but not too weak either, just - perfect.

John smiled happily and inhaled the delicious smell of water and salt that surrounded him. The powdery sand was soft and warm underneath him and a light breeze stroked his skin that made the big leaves of the nearby palm trees rustle gently.

Life was good, yes, definitely good.

With a content sigh he let himself sink back, closed his eyes, and for a while he did nothing but listen to the lulling washing of the waves.

He was about to nod off when a shadow fell on him that cut him off from the warming sun-rays. Lazily, John opened one eye, only to see a well known flatmate in somewhat less well known floral swimming trunks stare down at him with a stern expression.

"Hmm? What is it Sherlock?" John muttered sleepily. A cool drink would be nice now, he thought, something sweet and fruity, maybe with an umbrella.

Sherlock opened his mouth. "Blip."

And ice, lots and lots of ice - hang on, had Sherlock just said-

"Blip!" Sherlock declared again, a bit louder this time.

John's eyes snapped open and he pushed himself in a sitting position.

"Sherlock? What - ?" he frowned, but Sherlock just kept going, growing more and more agitated with every utterance.

"Blip! Blip! Blip! BLIP! BLIP! BLIP! BLIP! BLIP!...

John groaned as the annoying noise kept nagging on in a constant rhythm. No way. No way was it already time to get up. He'd been at the beach! And why wouldn't this blasted thing shut up?

...BLIP! BLIP! BLIP! BLIP!...

John groaned again and sluggishly rolled himself over, then stretched out his arm and blindly fumbled on the bedside table for his alarm clock, too lazy to open his eyes. Once his searching fingers had identified the bothersome device they silenced it with a quick, firm tap on the button on the top.

Quiet. Finally.

He sighed contentedly into his pillow and was about to push his arm back under the warm, cosy duvet when an icy, stabbing sensation flashed through his war-battered shoulder and made him freeze mid-movement. John's eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply as the cold but nevertheless burning pain quickly gnawed its way down his arm like a wave of fire and ice, causing the muscles to harden and contract painfully.

Not again. Not another cramp.

He'd had way too many of them lately, probably due to the running, climbing and jumping he did since he had moved in with Sherlock. After months of invalidity, his body simply wasn't used to this kind of strain anymore and it seemed intent to remind him of his lack of fitness at every opportunity. Like now.

Careful to avoid hasty movements, John gritted his teeth and pulled his left arm back under the blanket, close to his side, trying to ignore the piercing sensation for a moment that pulsated through the muscles of his shoulder area. The warmth of the bed brought a slight relief, nevertheless, he tried to gently stretch the muscles of his arm and shoulder, knowing that only this way he'd be able to reduce the cramping. The exercise brought tears to his eyes but when he released the stretch after he'd held it for a couple of seconds a wave of warmth swapped down his arm that made him sigh in relief.

He continued flexing and relaxing in a constant rhythm until he could feel the spasms subside completely, then he began to massage the still aching area with his right hand in small, circular motions, cautious to circumnavigate the scar that lay in the centre of his shoulder.

After several minutes of experienced kneading and stroking, everything seemed to relax, the dull pressure that had lingered in his muscles died away and warmth returned to the area. John ended his ministrations, heaved another sigh and closed his eyes again.

What a crappy way to wake up. And he was still so tired.

Yesterday, after he'd come home from work, Sherlock had turned up and dragged him along to a crime scene on the outskirts of London where they'd spent several hours in a roadside ditch, looking at the rotting remains of an elderly man in the sparse light provided by police floodlights. It had been way past midnight when they'd eventually returned to their flat, consequently, the night had been quite short. Again.

Problem was that Sherlock knew no office hours, he was on duty 24/7, always at the ready to leave the house in order to solve the most recent mystery. As often as John resolved not to accompany Sherlock on cases late at night, the idea that he might get involved in something exciting always turned out too strong a temptation for him to actually decline. Chronic sleep deprivation had hence become the rule for him rather than the exception, one of the reasons why he now decided that just five more minutes of shut-eye really couldn't hurt. He'd still have more than enough time to get ready for work. Yes.

Snuggling deeper under the warm duvet John clutched his comfy pillow tighter and tried to find the beach again, just for a few minutes.

He somehow must have dosed off completely because the next time he opened his eyes and looked at the alarm clock in mild confusion it was almost a full hour later. It took several seconds until John's sleep-fogged brain had processed the information - but then it kick-started.

"Oh, shit!"

He was out of bed in two seconds flat, thoughts wildly tumbling over in his head. Work. Late. Overslept. Sarah. Appointments. Should have been there 5 minutes ago. LATE!

He grabbed the closest pieces of clothing (his old suit from yesterday), stormed out of his room and hurried down the hallway in long strides. On his way he quickly threw a glance through Sherlock's open bedroom door, where rumpled but uninhabited bedclothes told him that his flat mate was already up and about somewhere.

Please don't let him be in the bathroom, please-

Shifting his armful of clothes from one hand to the other, he quickly walked to the bathroom door and pushed, only to be stopped short when it refused to yield.

Locked.

Shit.

"Sherlock?" John rapped against the wood in three hasty knocks.

"Just a minute, John." Sherlock's calm and slightly muffled voiced replied from within.

John was about to respond that he was really in a hurry when he noticed that he'd dropped one of his socks halfway down the hallway so he abandoned his place at the bathroom door and stomped back to pick the lonely thing off the ground.

When he returned to the door a few seconds later, Sherlock still hadn't emerged. John scratched his head. As sharp as he looked, Sherlock was actually an avid defender of catlick who saw excessive grooming as a waste of time, so why did it take him so long? John knocked again.

"Sherlock? I'm actually in a bit of a hurry!"

No reply.

He waited impatiently, mentally twiddling his thumbs. What was Sherlock doing in there? John leaned against the door and pressed his ear against the wood, listening intently for a moment but he couldn't hear a thing.

"Look, could you please hurry up a bit?" he tried again, sounding more than a bit strained this time.

Nothing.

After another minute of silence and another dropped sock, the door finally, finally opened and Sherlock emerged, dressed as usual in suit trousers and a shirt, sleeves rolled up, but apart from that his familiar self.

"Sorry, you said you're late?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

"Yes, about 300 times..." John grumbled as he squeezed past Sherlock into the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind him. A second laterhe was already tearing off his pyjama top, barely hearing Sherlock's retreating steps and the familiar creaking of the staircase as the other man descended the stairs.

John threw a quick look into the mirror and decided that he didn't look too stubbly so he could skip shaving today. He grabbed his toothbrush instead. While he was scrubbing away with erratic movements, a thought struck him.

I should have called the surgery. They're probably wondering where I am.

He rinsed his mouth with a gulp of water, threw down his toothbrush and dashed out of the door and back down the hallway to fetch his mobile and pass the news.

Sarah wouldn't be pleased to hear that he was late the past she had been spectacularly understanding when it came to his little adventures with Sherlock. She'd accepted that he'd canceled dates at the last minute, that they had been date crashed by his flatmate and that John had fallen asleep at work. She'd even taken the whole kidnapping thing with relative cool. But John knew that Sarah was only human and that her patience limited. He feared that another "I didn't come to work in time because I was chasing criminals with Sherlock last night" would be the straw that broke the camel's back.

Grumbling to himself, John rounded the corner to his room at a quick pace when he was quite literally swept off his feet. For a second he was floating in the air, arms flailing, then he landed hard on the wooden floor, his hip and shoulder exploding into a gazillion razor-sharp stabswhen they took the brunt of the crash. John briefly saw stars dancing before his eyes as the fall knocked the air out of his lungs and left him winded. A second wave of searing painfollowed, tearing all the way through the right side of his body like wildfire, a wave of blazing white heat that shot through every nerve, bone and tissue and made him utter a weak moan.

Finally, the room came back into focus and the burning sensation faded and was replaced by a dull throbbing. His hip and side felt heavy as lead and for a moment John just lay there like a stranded whale, feeling too weak and sore to get up.

"John?" he dimly heard Sherlock's voice float up from downstairs, sounding much farther away. "Everything alright?"

John took that as an incentive to slowly roll himself over and push himself in a sitting position, awkwardly holding his hurting side.

"Yes, fine. I'm fine. Just stumbled, that's all," he pressed out, shooting the rug that had decided to slip out from under him a murderous look.

With shaky hands he examined his hipbone for strains or even a fracture, but luckily there seemed to be no real damage done. All he could detect were lumps and bruises. That didn't mean that it hurt less when he tried to get off the floor and once he'd managed to get back on his feet he limped over to his bed and let himself sink down on the mattress to rub his hurting leg and hip for a moment.

When his gaze fell on his mobile on the bedside table he remembered what he'd intended to do, so he reached over, picked it up and speed-dialed the surgery. He knew that by rights everyone should be there by now, Sarah, the secretary, and the other doctors. He hoped the secretary would answer, though, she'd ask the least questions.

Holding his side, he pressed the phone to his ear, but he was greeted by a constant beep-beep-beep-beep that told him that the line was engaged.

He ended the call and checked whether he'd dialed the correct number only to try it again with the same result. The engaged signal sounded like mockery to his ears and John heaved a frustrated sigh.

After the third futile attempt he gave up and threw the mobile back on the bedside table. Intent to try again later, he limped back to the bathroom and quickly finished his grooming before he stiffly climbed into his clothes.

He'd just made it to the first floor and was awkwardly shrugging on his jacket when Sherlock came out of the kitchen, a test tube containing the remains of a bromide-coloured substance in his hand.

"John, on your way home, could you bring me-" Sherlock began, but John, having decided that he now really didn't have the time for this, simply brushed past him and began to hobble down the stairs as fast as he could.

"Sorry, no time, I'm late." he called in Sherlock's direction and a moment later, the front door fell shut behind him.

It was a cool and overcast morning weather that didn't exactly lighten John's somewhat subdued mood. His breath formed misty clouds in front of his face as he hurried down the street to the tube station and he slightly regretted that he'd not thought of a scarf. At least the pain from his fall had subsided mostly, except for a dull throbbing in his hip. He'd probably have a spectacular bruise by the end of the day but that couldn't be helped now.

John's thoughts went back to Sherlock, who had looked a bit put out when he'd just been abandoned. John hoped Sherlock wouldn't be cross because of that. Sherlock was pretty much a lucky bag when it came to reactions. He'd freak out over things John had never even spent a thought on while accepting the greatest insults with irritable callousness. Most of the time this unpredictability fascinated John but today he didn't want to put up with it and only hoped that tonight everything would be fine when he got home.

He had been right in not entering a conversation anyway, John mentally defended his actions, it had been the most sensible thing to do. As menial as his job at the surgery was, he liked it and didn't want to risk it. He liked the thrill and the mystery of Sherlock's cases and was constantly amazed by Sherlock's ingenious deductions, but John sometimes couldn't help but feel inferior. Working as a doctor reminded him that he was a professional too, allowed him not to lose touch with his own field of expertise and showed him that he could very well earn his own money. It was also nice to have patients that were alive for a change. And of course, he got to see Sarah...

Lost in thought, he descended the few steps that led down to Baker Street station and hurried down the old hallway.

There weren't too many commuters around, the busy hour where everyone and their dog went to work already over thanks to his unscheduled lie in. At least the train won't be that crammed now, John thought as he scurried down the stairs that lead to the platform, for even he who considered himself to have pretty good nerves sometimes got mild claustrophobia in the crowded Tube trains during rush hour.

A small smile played around his lips when he saw that his train was already standing there, basically waiting for him. Most of the other commuters had already boarded the blue-white carriages with the red doors so he hurried up a bit, glad that he wouldn't have to lose any more time with useless waiting.

His joy rapidly turned into mild horror when suddenly the train's warning beeps began to sound.

Nonononono! Don't you dare leave without me!

By help of the handrail he scudded downstairs faster, ignoring the throbbing in his leg that flared up under the strain with new vigour.

As soon as he'd made it on to the platform he sprinted towards the nearest closing door as fast as he could. But it was too late. The door slid shut a split second before he managed to get his foot between the light barrier.

"Stop! Wait!" He patted his hand against the window, not that it was much use, the doors didn't open again.

"Oh, come on!" he cried towards the engine train, throwing his arms up in exasperation. But either the driver hadn't heard him or didn't care - the train slowly set into motion and drove away right in front of John's nose.

"Damn it!" John stamped the ground in frustration, which unfortunately only resulted in another pain spike through his leg. Muttering curses under his breath, he drew out his mobile to try the surgery again only to notice that he had no signal.

"You stupid - useless- " he swore and angrily pressed a few buttons before he stuffed his mobile back into his pocket.

With a scowl on his face he limped over to one of the small benches at the wall and sat down, absent-mindedly rubbing his leg. The timetable monitor read that the next train in his direction would leave in 10 minutes and John heaved a defeated sigh.

So much for not wasting any more time waiting, he thought gloomily and propped up his head in his cupped hands.

In the end he was over an hour late.

The waiting room was already packed with patients and the secretary gave him a very pointed look when he scurried past her to the back room where they had their lockers and took their breaks. He quickly hung up his coat and grabbed a cup of coffee before he squeezed past the short line of patients at the reception and hurried to his office.

Sarah was nowhere to be seen, probably busy with a patient in another room and John was almost a bit relieved about that. While he had no doubts that she had noticed his absence, he also feared that this time she wouldn't let him get off as lightly as before.

John only hoped that it wouldn't affect their relationship. Although they'd known each other only for a couple of weeks he and Sarah got on considerably well. There had been an instant empathy between them and John found her company both relaxing and inspiring. Being with her seemed the perfect balance to all the adrenaline rushes that Sherlock provided because it gave him a sense of normalcy. It also gave him a certain closeness and intimacy that he needed and Sarah enjoyed but that Sherlock didn't allow. The only thing that constantly seemed to get between them - besides Sherlock - was the work.

Maybe it was a mistake to date my boss, John thought as he pulled the door to his office open only to freeze on the threshold.

"Morning, John. Bit late, aren't you?" Sarah stood next to the supply cabinet of his office, a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other, inspecting a box full of ointment tubes.

"Hello, Sarah" John stepped into the office and eyed her wearily, trying to figure out her mood. She hardly spared him a look so he figured it wasn't the best. He'd better get it over with then.

"Look, I'm really sorry that I'm so late. I completely overslept. I tried to call but the phone was engaged and then I missed the train-"

"Had another late one?" she interrupted, shooting him a quick glance, eyebrows raised, before she turned back to the cupboard.

John swallowed and walked over to his desk where he set down his coffee cup. "Uh - kind of. Look, it won't happen again, I promise."

Sarah had started digging in a box full of disposable syringes. "What is it that people say - let me think - 'Don't make promises you can't keep'?" She gave him another piercing look.

John frowned. Okay, she was right, he probably wouldn't be able to keep that promise so he shouldn't have given it in the first place. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"All right, I take it back. 'I have no intention to be late again.' Is that better?" he said with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. "Of course I can't guarantee that Sherlock won't interfere with that plan..."

Sarah huffed a laugh and shook her head. "No, that's not really better."

John shrugged, still grinning, not entirely sure what to make of her reaction. "Then what else do you want me to say?"

Sarah turned around, her face serious. "I don't want you to say anything else, John, I want you to be here at eight sharp and do your job."

John's smile slowly waned as she continued.

"I can't keep covering for you, John. You often either come in late or leave early. Some days you don't even appear in the first place. Last week you left while you still had a patient sitting in your office! And the orders for your medical cabinet?" she raised the clipboard "that's your job. That's not on, John, and you know that. Either you work here or not. If you're so busy in your spare time that you can't come to work on time then maybe this isn't the right job for you - or you're not right for this job."

John stared at her, taken aback.

"Are you - firing me?" he asked with a nervous laugh, unsure what to make of her words. The phone on the desk started ringing but he ignored it. If Sarah fired him he was screwed. He needed the money, he wanted this job.

She shook her head. "No. I'm just saying maybe you should sort out your priorities. I can't grant you exclusive rights, it would be unfair to the others, so if you want to work here you have to follow the rules like everybody else. I understand that what Sherlock does is a lot more interesting than locum work but you signed a contract and I need you here."

"Yes, of course." John muttered. The phone wouldn't stop ringing and it was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"And speaking of Sherlock," she continued. "I know that he's very important to you and he's not easy to get on with but the way he hogs you to himself is not okay. I feel left out, John. I know that he doesn't really like me but I think that..."

John rubbed his brow. The ringing was too loud and shrill in his ears and mixed uncomfortably with Sarah's words.

"...Sherlock doesn't respect..."

Too loud. Too shrill.

He interrupted her. "Sorry, I'll just -" he motioned to the phone before he took up the receiver and pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"John?" John froze. Of all the people that could have called it had to be him.

"John?" Sherlock's inquiring voice was loud in his ears. John cleared his throat.

"I - I'm sorry, I can't talk right now."

"It's Sherlock, isn't it." Sarah said calmly, pressing the clipboard against her chest.

John's guilty look was answer enough.

She gave him a resigned nod. After an awkward moment of silence she pushed herself away from the cupboard and stepped in front of his desk.

"Maybe it's not such a good idea that we meet tonight, John. I think-" She hesitated. "I think we both need to figure out what we want. Who we really want."

John stared at her dumbfounded. "What do you mean who...?"

"I sometimes have the impression that Sherlock-" she continued, but then shook her head dismissively. "Never mind. Just- use the time to think, about the job. And us. And sleep a bit, maybe." She gave him a tense smile before she turned around and walked to the door.

John threw the receiver on the desktop and hurried after her. "Sarah, wait!"

But Sarah had already left the room. "I'll send you the next patient." she called over her shoulder as she rushed down the corridor.

John stared after her, feeling confused and defeated. She'd canceled their date? Because he'd overslept? Because of Sherlock? He had apologized, hadn't he, so why had things taken such an unfortunate turn?

Head full of thoughts, he shuffled back to his desk. He had been lax with his office hours which was very unprofessional, and he knew that giving him special treatment would be unfair to the others, but he'd hoped that this work trouble wouldn't affect their personal relationship, partly as they'd always tried to keep these two areas of their life separate. As for the things she'd said about Sherlock - well, he could be a nuisance and there was a reason why most people disliked him but John didn't see what this had to do with him and Sarah.

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounded from the receiver that still lay on the desktop so John sat down and picked up the phone again.

"Yes?"

Sherlock either didn't notice John's strange mood or was determined to ignore it, for he went straight to the subject. "When you're on your way home, could you bring me some methylene chloride? I ran out and I need a proper solvent. The paint supply store in Paddington Street sells it in cans at a reasonable price, so if you could bring me-"

"This isn't a good time at the moment..." John interrupted him with a dull voice. He'd picked up his pen and started scribbling ragged lines on his prescription pad.

"Why not?" Sherlock immediately retorted, sounding puzzled. "You obviously don't have a patient right now, so what's the problem?"

John threw down the pen, his patience wearing thin. "I'm at work, Sherlock!" he snapped into the mouthpiece. "You can't just call here and order things!"

There was a brief pause before Sherlock spoke next. "You're frustrated. I'm sorry, I should have noticed."

"Yes. Yes I am frustrated." John replied heatedly, the annoyance finally getting the better of him. "And I really don't have time for your silly games right now, so would you please just leave me alone?"

John regretted the words as soon as they'd left his mouth, but it was too late.

When Sherlock spoke next, his voice was a lot cooler. "I see. Very well then, I'm sorry that I bothered you with my... silly games."

John cringed.

"No, listen, Sherlock, I didn't mean it like that-"

But Sherlock had already hung up.

John stared at the receiver. Great, now he'd also managed to fall out with his flatmate. Fantastic. He threw down the phone and ran his hands over his face. What was wrong with this day? It seemed as if everything that could go wrong would go wrong. What had he done to deserve this?

He pinched his nose for a moment, then he pulled out his mobile and typed Sherlock a text.

Sorry. Having a bad day. Didn't mean to take it out on you. JW

After that he welcomed his first patient with a lot less open-heartedness than usual.

The rest of the day brought the usual patch of mundane ailments. Flu followed by cough followed by gastroenteritis and high blood pressure. Once the morning was over the afternoon dragged on endlessly. And it wasn't devoid of mishaps either:

Old Mrs Davies accidentally bumped into his leg (the right one, of course) with her Zimmer frame and little Daisy Collins first threw a tantrum when he tried to look down her throat and then threw up all over his shirt sleeve when he actually did.

On top of that, Sarah now seemed to give him the cold shoulder. Whenever he tried to talk to her she replied in a highly professional tone that now was neither the time nor the place. Sherlock apparently had decided not to speak to him anymore either, he hadn't replied to John's text and when John tried to call him in his lunch break Sherlock didn't answer his phone.

Eventually, John gave up and bore it all with a sense of gloom, resigned that Murphy's Law was on a roll today and appeared to have chosen him as its victim.

John thanked every deity that was out there when it was finally time to call it a day. As soon as his last patient had left he quickly straightened up his office a bit (no need to further enrage Sarah by being a slob) and then went to fetch his coat, intent to go home as fast as he could so that he could crawl into his armchair and lick his wounds in peace.

Sarah was in the break room, chatting away cheerfully with the secretary while putting on her jacket. She didn't look as put out anymore as before and John felt a spark of hope flare up inside his chest. Maybe not everything was lost between them.

When he stepped into the room, however, the smile vanished from Sarah's face and the secretary quickly excused herself with raised eyebrows.

John looked after her for a moment before he turned to Sarah, but all she did was wordlessly put on her jacket.

After an awkward moment of silence John cleared his throat.

"Um. I'm done." he beckoned towards the office. "Just finished the last one."

Sarah nodded. "Good." She finished the buttons on her jacket and shouldered her handbag. "Well, then see you tomorrow."

But John didn't want to give up so easily.

"Sarah wait, please." he quickly followed her when she made towards the door. "About tonight, I thought maybe-"

"John, I really don't think it's a good idea. See you tomorrow, okay?" she said as she scurried down the hallway.

That's how Sherlock must have felt this morning, he thought when he watched the door close after her.

The streets were busy when John left the surgery a couple of minutes later, rush hour London being in full swing. Usually John quite enjoyed the hustle and bustle around him, all the people, the chatting - it made him feel alive.

Today, however, everyone seemed to grate on his nerves. People were constantly blocking his way, little children were crying louder than sirens and the noise, stink and hurry of the heavy traffic made him wish for a job in the country. The peace and quiet of his flat couldn't come too soon.

However, when John entered the tube station, a surprise awaited him:

Where normally hundreds of people waited for the trains that would bring them back to their homes the platform was almost empty today. A police constable stood near the stairs, a small group of people gathered around him that listened intently to what he had to say only to walk away towards the nearest exit once he'd finished. John frowned and drew nearer.

"Sorry, what's going on?" he asked the plod, another group of equally puzzled commuters already forming around him.

"I'm sorry, sir, but there's a bomb scare in King's Cross station, we had to close down the line." the mustachioed constable told him with a serious face.

John could feel his hackles rising. This had to be a joke. "And how am I supposed to get home now?" he asked with a fake smile.

"We suggest you take some other form of public transport or you wait until the line's open again."

John had to force himself to stay calm. "And when will that be?"

"Sorry, sir, but I don't know." the constable shrugged and then turned to another group of clueless people.

"Right." John muttered under his breath and turned away.

Typical. Typical.

That's Transport for London for you! he thought as he padded over to the exit, balling his hands into fists. He very much wanted to hit something. Anything. Or scream loudly and then kick the shit out of something, let everyone see and hear what a crappy day he was having. He wanted to get home now and not in three hours!

Seething, he left the tube station and looked about, suppressing the murderous thoughts he was harbouring.

The easiest way to get back to Baker Street would be to take a cab, but he'd spent his last cash on coffee and bagels during his lunch break and the 99p he had left wouldn't get him anywhere.

Maybe he should take the bus, but then, everyone else had probably had that idea and it would be terribly crammed.

Biting his lip, John looked up and down the busy street.

In the end, he walked. It was more than three miles and it was already getting dark, but he was a soldier and not that invalid, thank you very much.

His grudge had rapidly stewed down once he'd set into motion only to be replaced by a feeling of resignation that slowly spread through his body as he trudged onward.

When he felt the first drops land on his face a good ten minutes on his way he paused and looked at the darkening sky that hung full of thick gray clouds.

God must hate me, he thought as he dragged himself forward, pulling up his collar in a weak attempt for more protection.

His leg started hurting a couple of minutes later but John had already given in to his fate and didn't particularly care, after all, he was used to walking with a limp.

It was getting dark quickly. The rain became heavier and heavier as he made his way through the streets heading west and a strong wind picked up that chilled him to the bone. He really really wanted to get home.

But then, Sherlock would probably be there, a very grumpy Sherlock, and a very grumpy Sarah would also await him at work tomorrow morning. The idea that even more trouble awaited him after a day like today, that it would go on endlessly, that being wet and cold and sore wasn't enough - it was suddenly too much.

He felt the emotions bubble up inside of him, a feeling of despair, loneliness and powerlessness that spread through his veins and dragged him down like leaden weights. Every step through the deserted side street seemed suddenly so much effort, as if his feet were stuck to the ground and he too weak to rip them loose.

He managed a few more steps but then he couldn't go on anymore and when tears suddenly welled up in his eyes John just leaned into the nearest wall and let them come, feeling too faint and depressed to fight them. The small drops of water were warm on his chilled cheeks as they ran down his face in a constant stream but John hardly noticed it, feeling devoid of all emotions and his head empty from all thoughts.

After a minute or two the dark cloud on his mind shifted. His crying subsided and when his breathing slowly returned to normal, he felt somehow lighter. Not happier, but a bit relieved, as if a small weight had been taken off his shoulders.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket and stole a few furtive glances around, but the street was dark and empty, it looked like no one had witnessed his outburst.

Feeling somewhat numb, he pushed himself off the wall and trailed on towards Baker Street.

When his shaking hand finally opened the door with the familiar 221B, he was greeted by darkness, no light was on in the hallway or Mrs. Hudson's flat, it looked like no one was at home. John was quite glad about that, he really couldn't be bothered with Mrs Hudson's small talk right now, let alone a sulking Sherlock.

He trudged upstairs with heavy feet but glad to be at home at last. He was tired and still wet and cold after his walk. All that he now wanted was a nice hot shower, something to eat, a bit of telly and then bed. Relax in peace and quiet and forget that this hell of a day had ever happened.

The living room was dark when John pushed the door open but a small light seemed to be on in the kitchen, judged by the faint glow that threw long shadows on the old battered carpet.

"King's Cross still closed?"

John jumped, his heart skipping a beat.

"Jesus, you gave me a scare!" he blurted out, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, facing the window, staring into empty space. John didn't even bother to ask how he knew about the bomb scare, he'd long accepted that Sherlock somehow managed to keep track of quite a lot of things that happened in this rather big city.

"Yes," John said once his racing heart had calmed down a little. "Bomb scare."

"I figured." Sherlock replied in a low drawling voice.

So he was cross, just as John had feared. John wasn't sure what Sherlock expected of him now. Another apology? Some crawling? Whatever it was, he'd do it later, first he had to get out of his wet clothes.

John lifted the plastic bag that he'd carried along for the last half mile and took out the tin it contained. After a moment of hesitation he put the round container on the lounge table. "Here's your solvent. The shop assistant said he'd add it to your bill."

Sherlock's arm extended and his hand grabbed for the tin. "Thank you."

John waited hopefully for a moment but Sherlock said nothing else, so John nodded towards the door. "I'll go upstairs and change. Is there anything left in the fridge?"

"Yes." came the monosyllabic reply, the tin now hidden behind a mop of curly hair.

Sighing inwardly, John left the room and slowly shuffled to his room.

When he came back about fifteen minutes later, wearing some dry jeans and a warm cuddly jumper, the sofa on which Sherlock had lain lead spread out was empty and the tin of solvent had disappeared too. A fire was sizzling in the fireplace and soft music was playing in the background, not something classical, it sounded more like - radio? The standard lamps were lit and along with the fire they gave the living room a warm and cosy feeling.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, rummaging about. He wasn't wearing his ratty shirt and bathrobe combo but actually still his suit trousers and aubergine shirt.

A delicious smell wafted through the flat that John hadn't noticed before. When he stepped to the passage to the kitchen he could see that Sherlock had cleaned the kitchen table off its usual assortment of bric-a-brac and laid it for two, complete with candle, napkins and all.

"Are you expecting guests?" John asked, looking at the display before him. Sherlock never had guests, except for Mycroft, but he didn't really count.

"Just one." Sherlock replied, whisking in a small bowl.

John frowned, his eyes darting between Sherlock and the table.

The way Sherlock had dressed, the way he'd prepared the kitchen - it almost looked as if he was expecting a date.

"Oh." John said lamely, fighting the feeling of disappointment that burgeoned inside his chest. He'd hoped he'd be able to make up with Sherlock, eat something warm and watch a bit of telly, but like so many other things today, it was not to be.

He motioned towards the fridge. "Well, then I'll just grab a sandwich and-"

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock cut him off.

John frowned. "Because I'm hungry and you just said you'd have a guest?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be daft, John. You're my guest."

"You... cooked dinner? For me?" The idea was so out there that John suspected he'd somehow slipped into a parallel world, one where 10-hour-weeks, three-headed monkeys and cooking Sherlocks existed. For Sherlock never cooked. Never. Cooking was another one of those things that "didn't pay", or, as Sherlock put it: "Two hours in the kitchen to prepare food that's eaten in ten minutes? I know better ways to waste my time." Another reason to doubt the reality of the scene.

"I made lasagne." Sherlock told him matter-of-factly and put a bowl of salad on the table. A second later, he was back at the oven, briefly looked through the oven window and then leaned against the worktop, arms crossed in front of his chest.

John shook his head. "Wow, that's... You've never cooked dinner before."

"I saw no need to." Sherlock declared.

John gave a nod. "Ah. And you saw need to now, because?

Sherlock shrugged. "I thought you might appreciate it."

"I do. I absolutely do." John quickly replied. "It's just unusual. I mean, for you."

Sherlock gave him a penetrating look before he started rambling off deductions.

"You've had a rough day, John. You overslept, you fell and hurt your hip, your shoulder's been working up too, you missed the tube, surgery's been wild, Sarah canceled your date, someone threw up on you, you walked three miles in the rain with a hurting leg, it even made you cry a little. You're cold and wet and hungry and feeling overall miserable. I thought that wasn't a good state of being."

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, mouth agape. Then he smiled and shook his head. "You never cease to amaze me."

"That's good, isn't it?" Sherlock asked and nodded towards the table, indicating to John to take a seat.

"Absolutely." John pulled back his chair and sat down. "I'd just not considered you so..."

"Considerate?"

"Yes."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then gave him one of his smiles that could mean everything and nothing. The next second he'd turned around, picked up a tea towel and opened the oven door.

"Maybe you can open the wine? I hope you like Chianti." Sherlock said as he pulled out the lasagne.

"Sure." John reached for the bottle and began to uncork it.

Sherlock carried the casserole dish over to the table and loaded big chunks of the steaming dish on their plates while John filled their glasses.

When they were both settled and served John took his glass.

"Uhm, what I said to you on the phone..."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

"I'm used to worse." Sherlock said and lifted his glass. "Cheers."

John was not entirely happy with that reply but he was relieved that Sherlock wasn't upset anymore. After giving his flatmate a contemplative look, John lifted his glass to his mouth.

"Cheers."

While they ate their dinner John told Sherlock in detail about his terrible day. Sherlock was mostly silent but occasionally he'd make a comment or ask a question that proved he was actually paying attention. John was surprised that Sherlock could handle such a normal situation, having dinner and talking a bit quite well if he wanted to. John wasn't quite sure why Sherlock wanted to but he appreciated his efforts, it was good to get it all off his chest and have someone listen to his moans.

It wasn't until they were finished with the lasagne that John's narration came to an end.

"And you, what did you do today?" John asked, beginning to feel the effects of the wine. He was warm all over, his cheeks had reddened and his head felt slightly fuzzy.

"Not much. I worked on the Lawrence case again. Anderson had not had the blood checked for ricin and potassium chlorine so I went to Bart's and made the tests."

John stacked his empty plate on Sherlock's and pushed both aside.

"Why won't he work with you anyway?"

"Anderson?"

"Yes."

"Because I don't do things the way he does, because he knows that I'm better than him, and because I saw him fall off a carousel once."

"Anderson fell off a carousel?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock took a sip from his wine glass before he replied. "Yes, and I happened to witness the whole scene. He wasn't even hurt but he couldn't quite handle my comments."

John snorted. "I can imagine that." He waited for Sherlock to tell the story but Sherlock just stared at the flame of the candle. "So how did it happen?" John asked.

"Hm?"

"The carousel."

"Oh. It was two years ago at the Hyde Park fairground. I was investigating a simple robbery case when there was a hubbub nearby. Apparently, a man had climbed out of his seat on the running swing carousel with the intention to get into the seat next to his. I don't think I have to say that he wasn't quite sober anymore and that he never arrived there because the distance was too big and the centrifugal forces too strong."

Sherlock took another gulp of his wine. "So he went flying and landed in a burger van fifteen yards to the right. As I said, he wasn't even hurt but it was quite a sight, they even brought it in the newspaper the next day."

The mental image of Anderson catapulted through the air and landing head over heels between sausages and ketchup bottles was just too hilarious. John burst into laughter.

"He landed in a burger van? No way! You're having me on!"

Sherlock broke into laughter too, not completely unaffected by the alcohol either and infected by John's outburst. "Yes, I am. But it's a good story, isn't it?"

John just nodded, still laughing as Anderson flew past his mental eye over and over again.

Eventually, their laughter died down and there was a moment of silence.

"Feeling better now?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, it was a great evening, just what I needed. Thank you." John said.

A light blush spread up Sherlock's neck and the sight of his embarrassed flatmate made John grin. He nodded at the empty casserole. "You should cook more often, you know, you're really good at it."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's all just chemistry, in one form or the other."

"And what's with the candle?" John pointed at the white stump that had almost burned down completely.

"Well, I thought..." Sherlock scrunched up his napkin, avoiding John's gaze. "Angelo always says..."

Something inside of John's brain clicked. "It's more romantic."

Their eyes met.

"Yes."

A lot of things suddenly made sense and a smile began to spread on John's face.

Maybe the day wasn't so bad after all.

Fin.