Intellect. (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Intellect - EIGHT

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EIGHT.

It had been hours before Amy decided to clean the mess that Sherlock had unintentionally made, and by the time she was finished, Sherlock was busy moaning about boredom. He had not yet returned to his usual state of mind, and he was still unable to look after himself effectively. Fortunately, John had arrived back from his shifts at the surgery soon after Amy had exited the flat of 221B, so he was there to care for Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at John as he entered the flat. 

Sherlock muttered partly to himself, and partly to John in the small hope that there might be something which could relieve him from this utter hellish state of boredom he was currently in. Sherlock sat up suddenly. John was startled, and watched him warily. 

"John-" Sherlock started to say, before he was interrupted by John with just one simple word. 

"Rest."

"But-" Sherlock tried again.

"Come now, Sherlock, only a fool argues with his doctor." John told him smugly.

"I'm utterly bored. There is nothing for me to do, at all. I am stuck here in this flat like a jaguar in a cage! I don't even have the skull to talk to! I must insist, I need to get out." Sherlock ran his slender hands frantically through his black curly mop of hair.

John sighed at his flat mate. "Stop being so melodramatic, Sherlock. You know perfectly well that you can't leave this flat. Your body is still getting used to the idea of illness. Quite frankly, I'm completely astounded that you have never been ill before. I find it impossible to believe."

Sherlock groaned. "I can feel all logical thoughts in my brain rotting away. My mind rebels at stagnation. I abhor the dull routine of existence."

"Doctor's orders. Rest." John said sternly.

"Oh, why did I refuse that case last week? I'd take even the simplest of them now. Nothing could be worse than this."

"Try traffic on a Monday morning." John laughed.

Sherlock looked John in the eye. "I need to get fresh air from the streets of London, John. I must leave this flat."

"I highly doubt that the London air would do you any good." John mused, returning Sherlock's gaze. "What if we sent you to be with your brother in the countryside? It is around Christmas time."

Sherlock stared at John, a flicker of doubt seeped into his mind as he realised that John wasn't joking. "I believe it is within my rights to decline that offer I assume Mycroft made, and accept it as a mere joke instead."

John chuckled. "He'll be disappointed. He sends you his regards and wishes to send you a slice of Victoria sponge cake. He seems to think that I am not feeding you enough."

"I don't want nor need the cake." Sherlock retorted sharply. 

"Be a good patient, Sherlock, for my sake at least." John studied Sherlock. "I have to say that it does appear as if you're getting better."

Sherlock smiled good naturedly at John. 

"Even so, you should stay put for two more weeks, just to be in the safe side." 

"TWO WEEKS?" Sherlock burst out in horror, his expression such that it caused peals of laughter to erupt from his flat mate. "But that's ludicrous! I simply can't stay here for that long a period of time."

John gasped for breath. "I'm only joking, Sherlock!"

Sherlock settled back onto the nest of pillows with a shiver. "Oh, good."

John wrapped a blanket around Sherlock and made him a cup of tea, which he poured into a plain black and white striped mug. And so ended another day at 221B Baker Street.

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A/N: This impressive and amazingly written chapter was created by my marvelous best friend, Rhiannon Welsh! We've decided to make this a book were she'll write a chapter, then I will, etc... Follow her on Twitter! Rhiannon: @RhiaWelsh Thank you all! Merry Christmas!