Sherlock eyed John.

He was sleeping. Again. Normally John slept a lot, at least by Sherlock's standards, which meant every night for at least a couple of hours, which Sherlock deemed excessive, but this? It was mid afternoon and John had managed to fall asleep on the couch while watching a new episode of Doctor Who. Very much out of character and very much not right.

And it wasn't that he hadn't gotten enough sleep last night, because he had, going to bed at a ridiculously early hour instead of helping Sherlock with his new experiment, and hadn't gotten up till after eight, when Sherlock played chromatic scales, loudly without stopping. John had already slept through the nicer pieces, and frankly Sherlock was getting fed up with waiting for John to come down and make tea for him.

"John," he called. "Wake up." He barely stirred. It would probably be cruel to fire the gun now, Sherlock figured. Same for an explosion.

"John," he called louder. John stirred slightly, but still not enough. Sherlock sighed loudly, hoping it would help. It really didn't.

"JOHN!" he bellowed. He thought it would get more of a reaction out of him, but he only startled slightly and cracked open his eyes.

"Mmm... what?"

"Get up," he demanded. "You fell asleep in the chair."

"Did it never occur to you to just let me sleep?"John protested.

Sherlock cocked his head. Oh. "Dull," he declared.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I don't exist purely for your entertainment? Because I'm exhausted and thirsty, and I really just want to sleep. And you go waking me up..." John trailed off and groaned. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. It was like one of those times he realized he wasn't going to get any sleep that night because he'd be busy digging glass out of Sherlock's wound, or keeping him awake because of a concussion. Except this time, Sherlock hadn't done anything. (That he knew of.) Or one of those times when he realized he was chasing after a bloody murderer with nothing but a handgun and Sherlock's wits. Or that he'd just texted a murderer. Or that he'd woken up after falling off a building with a murderer.

John seemed to groan a lot when there were murderers involved. Sherlock made a note of that to study for later.

But there were no murderers now, because Sherlock wasn't even on a case. So Sherlock had to admit it, and hated it, he had no clue what was going on.

"What?" he asked, trying his best to sound uninterested.

"I'm going to the clinic," he replied, dragging himself out of his chair to, presumably, go get dressed. It was not like John to wear his pyjamas out.

Sherlock frowned. John wasn't working. Which meant he was sick. Except he didn't seem sick. Tired, yes, but not sick.

"Why?" he asked. If he kept this up he was going to go through all the questions.

"Blood test," he called as he headed up the stairs.

Sherlock frowned. He could test John's blood. What did he want it tested for?

Sherlock bounded up the stairs to find John shrugging on a jumper, jeans already on.

"What for?" At least that was a repeat of an earlier one.

"Sherlock," John said wearily, "I'm going to the clinic. Either you can come, or you can stay home and stop asking questions."

Sherlock pondered that. "Does that mean if I come, I can ask questions?"

John shook his head.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Well, I've got nothing else on today, so I suppose I could come along."

"Oh thank you," John muttered.

Sherlock frowned at him. "No need to be rude."

John rubbed his face with his hand. "Sorry. Tired. Go put pants on or you're not coming."

Sherlock glanced down. Sure enough, still in his pyjamas.

"Right."