"It's not fair," Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

John took a deep breath before tackling that problem. "No, Sherlock, life isn't fair. Surely you've figured that out by now though."

Sherlock only sighed dramatically at him, still obviously grumpy. "Still."

"Sherlock, you know why you can't drive. And you've never wanted to before, so why now?"

Sherlock scowled. "Because Mycroft said I couldn't."

John gaped at him. "Seriously? You only want to drive to spite your brother?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You're really finding it that hard to believe?"

"No," John admitted. "But still. You know why you can't drive. Even with Gladstone, the seizures are too much of a risk. Besides, since when do we do any of our own driving?"

John gestured to the cab they were sitting in.

"It's the principle of it," Sherlock grumbled.


John was still shaking his head moments later when Sherlock billowed out of the cab and into 221 Baker Street, Gladstone trailing on his heels, leaving John to pay the bill.

"Thanks mate," the cabbie said as John handed him the cash. He'd driven them before. There were only so many cabbies who were still willing to pick up Sherlock and his dog.

John nodded and followed Sherlock upstairs. By the time John reached the top, Sherlock had thrown himself on the couch (dramatically, no doubt) and was sulking.

"What's this about?" John asked, holding his hands out, gesturing at the scene in front of him.

Gladstone answered for him, whining and pawing at Sherlock's hand that was hanging off the side.

"Right," John declared. "To bed with you."

Sherlock gave John a death glare, but still got up, making a short stop in the bathroom before slamming his door behind him and Gladstone, safely tucked away.

John sighed. Sherlock hadn't had a seizure for eight days, so one was sure to pop up sooner or later, but with every day that passed, John knew that Sherlock had hope that maybe it wouldn't be that day. And that maybe, he could just keep counting until he forgot what number he was at. John dreamed of those days.


John had occupied himself with typing up the details of the most recent case, and had published it. Sherlock still hadn't emerged from his room after half an hour, but he'd likely fallen asleep. Gladstone hadn't been whining at the door to get out, so John wasn't concerned.

He put the kettle on and tried to find a clean mug, something that was often quite a challenge, despite repeatedly telling Sherlock that mugs were not to be used as lab equipment. He'd had to settle for washing one when he heard the door to their flat open.

"D'you want some tea Mrs Hudson?" he called, not bothering to look over his shoulder. On Tuesdays Mrs Hudson went over to Mrs Turner's for their weekly gossip, and would often come back to have tea with John, sharing all the ridiculous things she'd heard.

But she didn't respond, and when John turned around to ask her again, he was rewarded with a quick blow to the head.