A/N: Hey! Just thought I'd contribute to the Sherlock fandom! (I'm totally sherlocked, and I'm not ashamed!) Anyway, it's reeeealy late, so it's probably not very good, and if there are obvious mistakes, please let me know, because I'm too tired to go through it all. ENJOY!

All a Matter of Perspective

Sherlock lay sprawled on the couch in his second-best dressing gown gazing at the practically microscopic particles of dust that floated and swirled through the solitary beam of daylight that penetrated the empty gloom of 221b through the window. John had been gone to his medical conference far longer than necessary; why anyone would choose to sit in a room for a whole week and listen to lectures for hours on end was beyond him. Lectures were boring.

The last case was boring, the flat was boring, eating was boring, life was boring, boring, BORING. Maybe Lestrade had a case by now. He didn't half an hour ago, but alot can change in half an hour. What had gotten into the criminal class? They were probably busy being boring.

The golden particles danced away only to be replaced by others as Sherlock reached for his phone. To his surprise, it wasn't in his pocket where he expected it to be. That was strange. He could've sworn he had slipped it in there when he last got up to go to the bathroom.

The bathroom! He must've left it on the counter. Sherlock stood up swiftly, only to be overcome by dizziness. He shook the feeling away. The last case the Consulting Detective took was five days ago, just before John left, and the only thing he had consumed since then was tea. Cooking was tedious, and Sherlock just didn't feel like moving from his spot on the sofa to order take away. And what was the point of going to Angelo's without John anyway?

Sure enough, the blackberry was sitting next to the hand soap. Sherlock snatched it up as it pinged with a message alert.

RE: John Watson, 5:03 p.m.

Conference has been extended. Staying two more days. –JW

With a huff, Sherlock threw the phone at the wall. He was so bored! How could fate be so cruel? His pale eyes wandered to the loose floor tile under which was stashed his entire supply of cocaine. The boredom was getting to be unbearable…but, no, John would somehow find out and kill him. Although, Sherlock mused, he has never followed through with that threat before.

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock made toast to take the sting off his hunger. A case could pop up at any second, and he couldn't afford to be slow. The toast slid down his throat rather uncomfortably and didn't really sit right in his stomach, so he plopped down in his chair and pulled his knees to his chest. John's empty chair with the Union Jack pillow constantly reminded him of the doctor's missing presence, and it triggered a funny ache right in the middle of his chest. No matter how hard he pushed and prodded at it, the feeling wouldn't leave him alone.

Ah, but that's just it! Said a voice in the back of his head. Feelings! You're lonely! The voice sounded suspiciously like John.

"Shut up!" he scoffed, and his voice echoed around the empty flat like a gunshot. Annoyed at John and the lack of cases, Sherlock entered his mind palace.


Sherlock jerked awake as the door opened and slammed shut. Falling asleep in his chair shouldn't have made him as achy as it did, but the proof was there. He wasn't sure how he managed to slip into unconsciousness; he never went to sleep while he was in his mind palace. The thought bothered him slightly, but he didn't really know what to make of it.

"Sherlock, I'm home." The sound of teacups rattling about in the kitchen jumpstarted his mind.

John? John was back already? How? Theories began to whirr through Sherlock's muddled brain. Family crisis. Harriet must've- no, no the voice is much too cheerful. The conference could've been canceled, but why? Why couldn't he think straight? Why, why, why?

"Would you like some tea?" The light in the living room was too bright, and Sherlock's vision was fuzzy, like he'd been drugged. He couldn't have been drugged, could he? The last time he was out of the flat was…when?

John poked his head out of the kitchen. "Sherlock, I'm talking to you."

"Why?" he called, voicing his confusion aloud. Looking puzzled, John shrugged.

"Um, because I was making some tea for myself and I thought you might want some, so I had the urge to voice my opinion?"

"No, no, no!" Sherlock dismissed the answer with a wave of his bony hand and struggled to his feet, dutifully ignoring the popping lights in front of his eyes. "Why are you home early?" Wow, his head felt awkwardly heavy. Heads don't normally weigh that much, did they?

John frowned. "I'm not."

The doctor continued to elaborate on his answer but Sherlock didn't hear him, as absorbed in his thoughts as he was. Sherlock had been in his mind palace a grand total of four days. Well, three, more likely, he had been asleep for an unknown amount of time, near the end of that period. That would mean he hadn't eaten properly since…breakfast with John… nine days ago. Oops.

Suddenly Sherlock realized that he was about to get to know the floor in a very intimate manner. The horrendously designed rug rushed up to meet him, and everything was gone.


John Watson's day had been going very well, thank you very much for asking. He even managed to buy milk without having a row with the chip and pin machine for once. Yes, he was having a very fine day…until he saw Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I'm home." John called out as he put the milk away. It wasn't altogether surprising for there to be no response as sherlock was prone to sulking and whatnot, but something was off. Maybe it was only the silence, or the facts that there were signs that nothing had been disturbed in the kitchen save for a single plate with breadcrumbs and the complete lack of new body parts in the fridge, or something else entirely, but it made John uneasy.

"Would you like some tea?" he called, trying to establish conversation. Nothing. Not a peep from Sherlock. John glanced out at his friend and was taken aback at the sight of him. Sherlock was disheveled, pale, and if possible, his cheekbones were much more pronounced. Also, his ebony hair seemed as if it had been many days since it had been washed, and his gaze was unfocused, fixed on an image John couldn't see. "Sherlock, I was talking to you."

Then, "Why?"

It was so unexpected, and frankly weird, that it caught John by surprise. Surely Sherlock knew enough about social rules to know why John would offer tea.

"Um, because I was making some tea for myself and I thought you might want some, so I had the urge to voice my opinion?"

"No, no, no!" Sherlock seemed to snap back into reality, and he fixed John with a condescending stare as he stood. The younger man was as thin as a rail, and appeared as though you could knock him over with a feather. "Why are you home early?"

Sherlock was sick. That had to be the only explanation for his appearance. "I'm not. Sherlock, are you feeling okay? You seem off. I am a doctor, and I could-Christ!"

Sherlock sank slowly, almost gracefully, and with terrifying finality, to the worn carpet, and John was just a fraction of a second off from catching him. Wincing as Sherlock's head smacked the floor, John hastened to maneuver him into a recovery position and determine the cause of Sherlock's collapse. If only he had his medical bag! unfortunatly, he left it at the surgery.

"Sherlock! Sherlock wake up! That's it. Talk to me, Sherlock." Please, please, please, don't be drugs, he found himself hoping. John would much rather deal with the flu. Beneath his calloused fingers, Sherlock's heartbeat was frantic and quick, like a hummingbird's. His breathing was agonizingly slow in comparison.

"Sorry, John."

"Whatever for!" Sherlock was spewing nonsense now; that couldn't be good.

"You told me to take care of myself."

Oh.

OH.

It dawned on John just what the problem was.

"You git! I specifically told you to eat!" John hurried to the kitchen and heated up some broth Ms. Hudson had made for them in the microwave. While it was cooking, he practically carried Sherlock to the sofa and lay him down. One thing that kept going through John's head: He's much too light, underweight. I'm a doctor, for Christ's sake!

Out of curiosity and somewhat out of dread, John felt for Sherlock's ribs through his shirt and was dismayed when he could count every single one. He retrieved the soup from the microwave and Sherlock held out his trembling hand for the spoon. Only Sherlock Holmes would be so stubborn, the doctor thought idly. John sighed and surrendered the spoon.

Ice blue eyes met honey-brown ones, and a silent understanding passed between the two men. They'd talk about this later, but for now, Sherlock drink his broth and John would fuss like a mother hen.

"And you're supposed to be a genius." John said, sarcastically.

Sherlock whispered his defense when he assumed the doctor was out of earshot.

"I was lonely."

John heard every word.

It's a bit short, but like I said, it's insanely late. Reviews are appreciated!