»»──────　JW　──────««

The clock was showing half an hour past midnight when John, still a bit sleepy, stumbled out of his bedroom.

He resisted the foolish urge to peek into Sherlock's room to make sure that he was alright. Only the fact that he lived on Baker Street again could be considered sufficient proof that he just had an ugly dream.

He threaded quietly down the creaking stairs so as not to make such a fuss and wake his friend, who was sleeping just a few feet away. He clutched at the banister—he couldn't say that he trusted his psychosomatically limping leg. And he really wasn't in a mood to collect himself up after falling down the staircase.

You can imagine his surprise when he heard Sherlock's voice coming from the kitchen.

"... you mocking me? When... you liked to have me by your side, hm? And when... no use..., you've just left me there!"

Who is Sherlock talking to? He heard only snatches of conversation, but judging by the tone and words he overheard, it was a serious topic.

He was about to back off and give him some privacy. Sherlock obviously did not intend this discussion for the ears of anyone else.

Suddenly, Sherlock spoke again, and the sentence he pronounced caused him to reconsider his departure.

"Get out of my head! Just leave me alone!"

Was Sherlock talking to himself? The fact itself didn't surprise him; Sherlock used to lead frequent discussions of various topics with himself (or with John), and not even his absence could stop him...).

It was what and how he spoke that caught him off guard. Maybe he should check up on him, just to be sure.

He descended to the hall and went to the kitchen.

Although he had already had the honour of seeing his friend in his fuller and rounder form, his stoutness amazed him again. The man in front of him was the most striking object in the entire kitchen and stuck out like a sore thumb.

He stood at the kitchen counter, his back to him, his hands pressed to his ears, defending himself against something he didn't want to hear. Powerful waves of tension, discomfort, and rage radiated from him, their intensity causing his whole body to tremble. Even through his pyjama t-shirt, he could see the game of flexing and relaxing muscles on his broad back.

"I can take care of myself, you know!" Sherlock shouted all of a sudden.

John started. Sherlock might be a temperamental and eccentric man, but he would count the moments when he screamed at most on the fingers of both hands.

Something was not right.

"Sherlock?" John asked, being careful not to startle him.

Sherlock stiffened like a statue, and his fingers gripped the kitchen desk. Then he drew in a deep breath. "How long have you been standing there?" he asked, uninterested, but John knew better than this. It was a slight tremble in his usually confident and flawless baritone that had betrayed him.

"I just came here," John said and shrugged as if he just hadn't witnessed Sherlock's rather wild debate with himself or someone in his "Mind Palace" a moment ago.

The detective's grip didn't loosen. John wondered that he might have to look for a new kitchen counter because if Sherlock didn't relax soon, a piece of the kitchen counter could remain in his hands.

"Nightmare?"

A plain statement, more than a question.

How is that bastard doing this? He has his back to me. How could he tell I had a nightmare tonight?

"Your voice and your breath told me," Sherlock explained, responding to John's unstated question, which John did not even intend to ask.

John shifted his weight and contemplated whether to deny it. He let it pass. "Yeah, you're right, of course. What about you? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Sherlock let out a theatrical sigh over John's slow-wittedness. "Sleeping is boring. One would say that you already know I don't need sleep as much as other people...."

John frowned. "Bollocks, it's a wonder that you're standing!"

He would have to be blind to miss the fact that Sherlock leaves a light on every night. The electricity bill will probably go up pretty high...

"You should eat something normal and take a long sleep," he offered with a worry in his voice.

He hadn't seen Sherlock eat a single bite since he crossed the 221B doorsill again.

Except for an empty box of Chinese food that lay in the bin the night he returned, there was not a single plate or bowl left behind—simply no sign that the detective had eaten anything. He did not touch even the meals John prepared for him.

It did not surprise him, then, that Sherlock needed to catch up on energy somewhere. But when he doesn't eat all day and then stuffs himself at night, it really doesn't do his body any good.

"I have to say that your interest in my eating and sleeping habits is touching, but as far as I remember, I didn't ask for it..." the detective snapped, pushed himself off the counter, and prepared to escape. Wearing an odd expression with rosy cheeks, as if John walked on him in an especially compromising situation, he intended to get out of here as quickly as he could.

"Now, if you could excuse me—"

Despite his best efforts, he wasn't fast enough, and John easily overtook him.

"Sherlock, wait a second..."

To his surprise, Sherlock obeyed, if a bit reluctantly. Not that he would have another choice with John blocking his course to the hall...

"Why?"

John ignored the detective's gloomy tone and touched his forearm. "Hey, look at me," he ordered in his 'doctor' tone and spun him around before Sherlock had time to open his mouth to protest.

He saw it immediately. Sherlock's face, besides the fact that it got significantly rounder than before, did not seem healthy at all.

Sherlock has been almost inhumanly pale since the day John met him—the sight of his alabaster body reminded him of a vampire many times—and he considered his habits pretty far from healthy.

At the moment, his skin has acquired an unhealthy, greenish tinge, evidently from the lack of vitamin D and regular stays and exercises outdoors.

It made the large bulge with a red spot on the right side of the jaw stand out all the more.

There was a possibility that his cheek was bulging with food, but that wouldn't explain the redness or the fact that Sherlock wasn't chewing anything at the moment. The snag lay elsewhere...

Sherlock waved it off, hid his swelling jawline, and tried to withdraw from John. "It's nothing. I must have bitten myself or something. I think I'll live, doctor..."

If Sherlock hoped that John would believe him and let him go this easily, then he couldn't be further from the truth. Not to mention that even despite a significant difference in size, John would still have the upper hand over him if Sherlock attempted to take a flight...

John took Sherlock's wrist, drew his hand away from his face, and with his own, he brushed across the bumpy, chipmunk cheek. "Say it twenty more times, and maybe I'll believe it eventually!"

Unnaturally hot skin hinted that Sherlock had a nastily abscessed tooth. Sliding down to his jawbone, he pressed his fingers deeper into the afflicted spot to palpate a small lump that had formed there. It had to be inflammation. A very painful inflammation by the way Sherlock hissed and squirmed.

"Careful!"

John's frown deepened. "Jesus, Sherlock! This is no fun! It's completely inflamed! How long has it been bothering you?"

"I don't know, I ignore it..." Sherlock said without giving it much value.

John blinked in surprise and lowered his hand from Sherlock's face. Of course, he should have known that! "So you ignore it for so long until this happens?"

"I thought it would stop," the detective answered defensively.

Despite the seriousness, the doctor smiled. With his masterfully trained sullen look, Sherlock reminded him of a little boy with a chubby face, stubbornly trying to defend his artwork on the wall against the disapproving reactions of his parents.

'Except for the detail that, at worst, you can bend the child over your knee and give him a proportional spanking,' John thought and couldn't stop a sly grin as he imagined throwing his nearly two-heads taller roommate over his lap and giving him a couple of educational spanks...

He shook his head. "You're such an idiot!"

Then he walked to the fridge, opened the freezer, and pulled out a package of frozen peas from the upper drawer. He threw it at his flatmate.

"Here, put it on your face... I'll call my friend in the morning; he's a good dentist. He owes me a favour; I'll arrange an appointment for you. Let's hope he'll admit you today. Because, as far as I know, I probably won't force you into A&E, will I?"

A long night awaited them both.

»»──────　☆　──────««

"I wouldn't have thought you would be afraid of the dentist."

Sherlock bit his numb cheek in boredom. "Shut up," he droned, not tearing his gaze away from the window of London's cab.

It was no wonder that Sherlock was in a pretty grim mood.

His back felt stiff and sore from the dental chair, and his mouth was still tingling. At the appointment, it became clear that the cavities were far too deep to repair without local anaesthesia, and if the doctor tried to fix them without the injection, Sherlock would suffer like a dog on a chain. After the two-hour procedure, Sherlock had left with four nicely patched teeth. The result, though, had one significant (and amusing, at least for John) side effect.

Due to the numbing effects of anaesthesia, he will not be capable of proper articulation or mimicking gestures for two more hours. (Not that it would stop him in his griping, vice versa, in fact, he had another reason to complain about...)

"Come on. It couldn't be that bad..." John said, and his lips curled into a playful grin.

"Do you think so? Well, when someone rummages through your teeth for two hours, I'll be happy to remind you..." he went on, grumping and frowning all the way home. John had to admit that it did not sound very pleasant.

Unfortunately, they arrived at a very unfortunate surprise.

They saw it as soon as the cab turned onto Baker Street. There stood quite a large group before the front door.

From the corner of his eye, John spotted how Sherlock tensed beside him. His back straightened as if he had swallowed a ruler, and every piece of his expression and body language evinced clear signs of alertness and restlessness. His eyes darted between the door handle of the car and the entrance door, measuring the distance as he prepared to either escape or attack.

John breathed in to ask what was going on, but in the end, he didn't even have to. It took only a look at the equipment the group brought with them to realise why Sherlock reacted the way he did.

Impudently and unyieldingly, they stood in front of their house, waiting for them. For Sherlock, in fact. The expensive lenses blocked their faces. Only their greedy cameras winked at them mockingly and promised them a photo with a long article in the newspaper.

The journalists...

Jesus! How could the news of Sherlock's arrival spread so quickly? They leave the flat for a few steps, and all of London must know right away?

"Here we are, gentlemen," said the taxi driver as he parked the cab by the pavement.

After John paid for the ride, they inevitably had to leave their hideout from the crowd of journalists, full of eagerness and unflagging curiosity.

They got out of the car, and the cab drove away to fulfil its duties, leaving them at the mercy of their own fate and the irritating herd, which could not be deterred by anything, and mobbed them like a swarm of bloodthirsty mosquitoes.

John dared to throw a glance at his friend, the centre of attention of the entire street.

Sherlock followed him with hands in his pockets and his chin deeply hidden under his parka, pretending not to hear intrusive questions and the clicking of shutter releases.

It was pointless to hope that they would let them go. These sensational hunters would hardly ever miss such an opportunity. And so he followed Sherlock's example to get inside as quickly as possible.

John elbowed his way towards the door, just a few steps in front of the detective, shielding him with his own body and protecting him from the unwelcomed interest.

Unfortunately, their shouts and improper inquiries were hard to miss.

"Mister Holmes! How did you do that?"

"Did you let somebody know that you have survived?"

"Was Moriarty such a villain?"

"What happened to you, Mister Holmes?"

"Are you experiencing some complications with your health?"

"Wow, you have really plumped up, haven't you?" said one particularly cheeky ginger woman.

John scowled, and his face gained a pink blush that gradually changed into a redder and redder shade. How dare they?

John understood their interest in Sherlock's somewhat escalated relationship with Moriarty. Of course, they wondered what happened—the case of the two consulting geniuses at the court had spread in the news at a rate of knots. He also accepted that they wanted to know how Sherlock could jump from a few tens of metres without breaking his neck. After all, John himself would like to find out as well...

But damn it, why do they interfere with Sherlock's health?

He was aware that Sherlock's figure was far from ideal in the medical aspect. Not that it had been ideal before. Ten to fifteen extra pounds wouldn't have hurt back then.

Nevertheless, it's a well-known thing that anything in excess is bad.

It wasn't difficult to miss Sherlock's rough puffing as they had been climbing the stairs into his friend's dental surgery and a slightly softer panting after a few hundred metres of the walk. Or a constant rumble in the stomach, a sign of permanent hunger and its dissatisfaction, where, among other things, the detective's annoyance stemmed from.

But John was not his doctor. It was not for him to instruct and force him to lose weight, just like for anybody else!

Sherlock must have gone through a lot. People can be incredibly evil. If Sherlock needed anything, then to assure that nothing has changed. That in his eyes, he is the very same Sherlock he met two years ago at Saint Bart's Hospital.

"If you could go your way, that would be lovely. No one invited you here!" John growled at them, irritated. He did not expect them to obey right away, but it never occurred to him that they would have the audacity to turn directly to him.

"And what about you, Doctor Watson? Did you know it? Was it just a sad play-act from you?"

The last question tore the already-paper-thin control out of John's hands. His nerves snapped.

"If you don't leave him alone immediately, I'll show you such a play-act that you won't sit for a week!" he shouted at a journalist who asked him that presumptuous question.

The bearded man with round glasses looked caught off guard (and a bit frightened, as John found with deep satisfaction). Most probably, he hoped they would put up with them, or even better, answer their questions. He was very mistaken then!

"His private life is none of your business!"

»»──────　SH　──────««

Sherlock was no more excited about the journalistic crowd than John, but he certainly didn't show it as much as his hot-blooded friend.

An argument won't sort out their problems. He would only draw more attention and set them against him. Just like the last time the newspaper proclaimed him a "fake genius". John's attempts to protect him touched his heart and raised a nice, cosy feeling of being accepted. It's been a while since somebody stood up for him...

But Sherlock didn't want to give those infuriating snoopers an excuse to involve John in it and endow him with some unflattering title as well... He wrapped his fingers around John's elbow and manoeuvred him towards the door through the annoying horde to evade the fight.

"It's fine, John... They're not worth it. It's not our fault their lives are so boring that they have to poke their noses into other people's business..." Sherlock tamed his seething friend.

It wasn't fine. He hated how everyone stared at him. As if he were some kind of alien.

A blush crept into his cheeks from their inquisitive gazes. He was sweating in shame and found himself tempted to turn around and run away. But that would only prove that he was just a coward.

Finally, they made it through the tireless mass, with its steady buzz similar to a beehive, and reached the door. Sherlock fished out the bunch of keys from his pocket, picked out the one that belonged to the keyhole, and shoved it into the lock.

In a peripheral vision, he noticed the last death glare John shot them with, and then the front door closed behind them, separating them from the busy street.

AN:

Good morning! The next chapter is finally out. Did you like it?
Speaking about teeth, do you mind going to the dentist? Are you scared of them just like me (and Sherlock) or is it a welcomed "skiving off" the work/school?

Thank you for reading🖤!

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02