A/N: written at the request of grannysknitting and set after "In the Silence". I do not own, nor do I profit from. Enjoy!

It had been a long day.

Scratch that, it had been a long– what? Two weeks? Almost.

He'd taken as little time off of work as possible, because he had patients who needed him and the other doctors could only cover so much before they became bogged down, but until today, this had meant finding people to mind Sherlock while John was at work or sleeping, because John was not at all convinced that his husband would follow any doctor's advice and actually rest. Mrs. Hudson, Sam, Tricia and Josephine, Sibyl, Mycroft, even Lestrade once, with the DI threatening to charge for his babysitting services until John had pointed out that Sherlock worked for him for free and that Sam was willing to babysit for free.

But it meant having someone else in the flat a good deal of the time, even if they were quiet and unobtrusive, and even if Sherlock was sleeping. It meant more small messes to tidy up, mugs and glasses, things moved that otherwise wouldn't be, nothing major, but John was falling behind on everything as it was and he was tired enough already and the extra work seemed to loom above him, piling on top of itself.

Between his patients at work and his patient at home, he was exhausted and starting to become forgetful about small things that normally wouldn't slip his mind. He'd put money on his Oyster card three days in a row and then once left his wallet in his office so he'd had to double back to work to get it at the end of the day. It didn't help that the fallout from the Bainbridge case was touching them in the form of paperwork and lawyers, and that the police, when searching the man's flat after finally locating it, had turned up the keys to a storage unit in a facility in the suburbs, which probably meant Sherlock would be back to work on that, tracking down more bodies.

He'd would be lucky if Sherlock was home, John mused, rather than already out turning the city upside down for Lestrade and shallow graves. It was the first day that Sherlock had been home by himself the whole day, without anyone staying with him, although John had had Mrs. Hudson check in on him a few times and she'd left him a voicemail saying Sherlock was doing fine, much to John's relief.

He was almost at his front door when he realized he'd forgotten two more things: Sherlock had dry cleaning that needed to be picked and now he'd have no clean suits, which would probably mean he wasn't out chasing down criminals, and John had meant to stop at their favourite Chinese place up the block and get dinner.

I'll have them deliver, he thought. And I'll– Sherlock can get his own dry cleaning tomorrow.

John let himself in wearily, locking the door behind him, listening for the sounds coming from upstairs instinctively. No explosions, no extra voices, so no drugs busts and no Mycroft stopping by unexpectedly – good. He climbed the stairs slowly, right hand on the railing, then went into the flat gratefully. Despite all of the chaos and the things he'd forgotten to do and the mounting chores, he was at home. The police had come round already and taken away the evidence from the scarves cases, including the mirror on which Sherlock had written Bainbridge's message, so they needed to replace that – another thing to do.

John shucked his coat and scarf and then noted the unexpected smell of Chinese food permeating the air. It made his mouth water and stomach rumble and he realized he'd forgotten another thing that day – lunch. He'd been too busy at work and hadn't noticed until now. And now that he had noticed, he felt suddenly lightheaded and aggressively hungry.

Sherlock came out of the kitchen with a bag of take away containers, dressed in a pair of his dark jeans and a very dark red long sleeved silk shirt, put the bag on the coffee table and crossed the room, kissing John soundly.

"You're hungry and tired. Sit down," he ordered and John felt the world tilt out of balance as Sherlock was the one saying that to him, instead of the other way around. But he was right.

"I am," John said, sinking gratefully onto the couch, and Sherlock went back into the kitchen to fetch some plates and forks and brought John a beer as well.

I must be dreaming, John thought. Not only was the flat moderately clean, because the police had cleared their things away, but he was being given dinner and a drink? Sure, it was on the couch and sure, the drink was from a can, but he was happy to have it. He was far too tired to go out anywhere right now, and the couch was perfectly comfortable. He actually felt himself beginning to relax, a wholly unfamiliar feeling after the past couple of weeks. Part of him didn't want to believe it because he'd been run so ragged lately that his body was almost used to it, kept expecting to have to haul himself up to do some other forgotten chore.

John toed off his shoes, edging them under the coffee table, then kicked his feet up and opened the beer.

"What's all this about then?" he asked as Sherlock put a plate on his legs and then opened the take away containers.

"Supper, John. Obviously."

John rolled his eyes, sipping his cold beer. The bubbles fizzed all the way down his throat and he thought he could feel them in his stomach, then remembered he hadn't eaten since the quick breakfast he'd made himself – Sherlock had still been sleeping – and that alcohol was probably not the best thing to consume on an empty stomach. He put the beer down and dished himself up some food.

"I know, but why?" John asked. "Not that I don't appreciate it."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, then served himself. John noted with a pleased and expert eye that he was actually still eating.

"You forgot the towels."

John blinked at the non sequitur, then cursed, realizing this was true. He made to stand up, moving mechanically with that familiar tired feeling, when Sherlock put hand firmly on John's right shoulder, pushing down hard, keeping John pinned to the couch cushions with a slightly jarring motion in which John's muscles still fought to move before he realized he was being held in place.

"I binned them," Sherlock said. "They'd been in the washer three days and were mouldy. I've already ordered new ones. I also stripped and changed both beds and did your pile of laundry so that you have some clean clothes for tomorrow and picked up my dry cleaning."

John blinked, sitting with his fork halfway to his mouth, then put it back down on his plate.

Sherlock never did laundry if he could avoid it and then only if John asked and hassled him to.

"Oh. I– oh," he said, aware that this wasn't very eloquent. "Um, why?"

"Because you forgot the towels in the washer, John," Sherlock replied in his 'obvious' voice.

"Yeah, sorry," John said automatically. "I didn't–"

"John, would you please shut up ?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes and John shut up out of surprise of being asked to shut up rather than just told. "I'm not bothered by the towels. We can get new towels. We are getting new towels and I ordered substantially better ones than we had anyhow. I did this because you forgot to. You never forget this kind of thing."

John blinked again, trying to keep up, but this whole conversation seemed to make no real sense. He could tell it was not really about towels and laundry, that this was just the surface, some sort of gesture– ah.

Was Sherlock apologizing to him?

"Apologizing? Hardly. For what? It's not my fault that I was attacked and suffered concussions. But nor was it yours. And you dealt with that and the people in the flat and the case and your work. This is quite a bit of additional responsibility for you, over a longer period of time than normal, and I can understand how me being attacked and injured was upsetting for you."

Upsetting, John noted. Well, it meant the same thing as "made you blind with rage and terror and left you completely exhausted", at least when coming from Sherlock.

Who was trying to tell him that he got it.

"Yes," Sherlock said, in response to the expression shifting on John's face. "You know, it's a good thing for you that I'm madly in love with you, because you really can be very dense. Of course I understand that, John. I realize this took longer than my normal speed for such assessments, but I would like to point out that I suffered two concussions, both of them serious. I am grateful that you took care of me, although I'd prefer if you not continue to do so to your own detriment."

John smiled; the words had that odd formality Sherlock employed when he really wanted to say "thanks, it means something to me" but couldn't just say that straight out. Even after all this time, he still wasn't quite sure how to just acknowledge that he'd had a moment of vulnerability that John had seen him through.

"You mean I don't have to worry anymore?" John asked.

"I'd prefer if you didn't, because it's becoming cause for me to worry. You're exhausted, John. You're forgetting things you normally wouldn't, and you've got dark circles under your eyes, which make you look somewhat alarming, I must say. I think I understand your opinion about how I looked Monday night, because you're also very pale. You need to sleep."

"Eat and sleep," John corrected. "But it helps that you're doing better, Sherlock. I'll sleep better because of it."

And sleep better with you, John thought but didn't say it. Sherlock heard it anyway.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Now. Come here."

Smiling at the very Sherlockian order which would not be ignored, John scooted over on the couch, plate in hand, and leaned up against Sherlock, settling into the one armed embrace. Sherlock put his plate on the arm of the couch and picked up the telly remote, turning it on. He flicked through the channels until he found something suitably crap and let it play in the background, eating one-handed with John curled up against him.

When John finished eating, he put his plate on the coffee table and snuggled further down against Sherlock, pillowing his head on his husband's legs and Sherlock dropped his hand to John's hair, running his fingers through it in slow methodical circles. With Sherlock's fingers laced into his hair, the murmur of the telly in the background and a small smile on his face, John dozed off, feeling warm and content for the first time in weeks.