Title: Untitled Small Fill
Genre: H/C, fluff, schmoop, whatev you want to call it
Warnings: None
Summary: Written in a mad hurry for the sherlockbbc_fic kinkmeme prompt of Can't seem to stop crying all day :'( Not even sure what's wrong. Can I just have a hurty/comforty something? Don't mind which characters 3.

In his defense, it had been a perfectly rubbish day.

He'd overslept, thanks to a certain consulting detective "borrowing" the battery from his alarm clock and not resetting the alarm when he returned the thing in the middle of the night (John wasn't sure whether to be more frustrated about Sherlock's lack of courtesy, or scared of the fact that the man was so quiet he'd not woken up either time). Sarah had not been pleased, understandably, and had been cool all morning toward him, declining to join him for luncheon even though they'd intended to get together and catch up of late. Four of his first five patients had been small children who had screamed/shrieked/wailed incessantly and at an eardrum-shattering decibel level, and the fifth had been a young man with a 'flu who had sneezed directly into his face before vomiting all over his desk.

And that was before noon.

Upon running down the street to grab some lunch, he discovered he'd brought his wallet with him, but no cash (Sherlock never paid for the bloody cabs), and none of his cards would work; he'd had to leave his unpaid-for meal and slink out of the cafe, face flushed with embarrassment. Hungry and mortified, he'd returned to work to be met with a standing-room-only waiting room and a very irritated staff (though this last bit was hardly his fault). Weary, he went back to work, and tried to smile, despite his growing suspicion that the worst patients were being foisted off upon him in retaliation for his tardiness. The damp and chill of an approaching rainstorm throbbed a barometric warning in his shoulder, and though he fought it his leg began to play up after his fifth difficult patient getting into his personal space and telling him what a rubbish doctor he was (it wasn't his fault they were hypochondriacal or refused to exercise and eat vegetables regularly).

Nine hours later (he'd stayed an extra two because they were so swamped), he discovered that he'd missed seventeen calls from Sherlock, instructing him to pick up a variety of supplies and meet him at a crime scene. As he'd no cash, he'd been forced to arrive empty-handed, and received a snide little lecture (in front of a half-dozen Scotland Yarders) about his spending habits (which were non-existent, except for groceries and things that Sherlock destroyed).

And he'd still not eaten.

Donovan and Anderson had ganged up on Sherlock, and the resulting snipe-fest had been so bitter and caustic that he'd lost his temper with all three of them and had told them off in true military fashion. Sherlock had only looked amused, but the other two had then turned their (until that moment, neutral towards him) attentions upon his unprepared person, and for the next thirty minutes he felt what little bit of him that was left in control dwindling down and down, until he wanted to just shrink into his secondhand jacket and just never come out.

Then, to top it all off, Sherlock whisked off and left him again at a crime scene.

In the pouring rain. When he'd gone all day without eating a thing, and his leg was playing up anyway.

He rather thought he could be forgiven for not even making it halfway down the block before having to collapse on a low-slung garden wall, the weight of a hundred tiny little things threatening to destroy his composure when none of them individually were even worth worrying about.

Some days, everything just. went. Wrong.

He scrubbed a shaking hand across his face to clear it of the drizzling rain, and was startled to see a cab screech to a halt directly in front of him. The window was rolled down before he could decide whether or not to be alarmed (cabbies never looked the same once you found out one was a serial killer), and a balding fellow in a horrendous tweed hat poked his head out.

"Your name Watson, mate?"

He blinked. "Yes," he began warily. "...and why are you asking?"

"Gent up on Dovercourt Street give me five quid extra t'come back 'ere and find you, he did," the cabbie declared, obviously enthralled with his remarkable luck. "Said you'd most likely be sittin' down somewhere along 'ere, resting your leg. Friend of yours?"

While the offer sounded exceedingly wonderful, especially given the amount of rain trickling down the inside of his coat, John was not an idiot. They weren't deeply entrenched in a case at the moment, not yet, so there was little risk that the man was lying.

"Wouldn't 'ave so much trouble wit' the rain if you'd a posh coat like 'is," the cabbie added helpfully. "Right nice, 'e was, even if 'e was a bit odd. I near ran 'im over when 'ere he leaps out in front of me without a word of warning. No care at all for proper street crossings, that one. Sure could leg it, though, I've never seen the like except one bloke once what was late for the Eurostar..."

Right, he was wet and cold and hungry and about ten seconds away from an embarrassingly emotional display of combined frustration and other issues he wasn't in the mood to psychoanalyze. If the 'posh bloke' wasn't Sherlock, he at that point didn't even care...

His phone beeped.

Get in the cab, idiot.

Choking on a wet laugh, he scrambled into the back seat, silently whimpering with relief at the warmth, and hoped Mrs. Hudson would have enough cash to hand to pay the cabbie off when he got back.

"Oh, an' I'm to stop and wait while you get y'self some dinner," the cabbie nattered on, weaving skilfully through traffic.

"Kind of you, but unnecessary," he said through chattering teeth. "I've -"

His phone beeped again.

Any cafe within two blocks. Drop
my name and they'll feed you
for free.

It was a nice thought - sweet, actually, for Sherlock - but he wasn't going to live off another man's charity.

Stop being an idiot.
Also get me orange chicken
if Chinese.

He stared down at the phone in consternation.

Also extra chopsticks.
Need for eyeball experiment.

He really, really did not want to know...but it gave him an excuse for Lo Mein, and at this point he was past a sense of pride.

"Can you stop for a tick at the Red Dragon, up on the corner?"

Thirty minutes later, he was scrambling out of the cab, trying to balance the containers of Chinese from an exuberantly grateful former client and at the same time glance back at Mrs. Hudson's rooms to see if there were lights on.

Rain had soaked his collar before he'd accomplished either, and he shivered.

"Evenin, then," the cabbie said amicably, starting to pull away.

"But I haven't -"

"Taken care of," a voice loomed behind him, and he jumped, sending a handful of fortune cookies flying.

"Warn a fellow next time!"

Sherlock's eyes rolled expressively. "Did you get my text about the chopsticks?"


"Did you get them?"


"Three pairs?"

"Six. Your clients are very grateful."

"Excellent. Then inside with you, and while I begin skewering eyeballs you can tell me what happened today to put you in such a deplorably pathetic state. It surely was not solely due to my impromptu alarm-clock dissection?"

John smiled as he was ushered inside, and wondered absently when the phrase skewering eyeballs had ceased to cause him surprise.

Probably around the same time that Sherlock's bizarre methods of showing affection had manifested themselves in free meals and borrowed debit cards and (even later that evening) a martini glass left on his bedside table containing unidentified liquid and an eyeball in lieu of an olive.