Stand By You

Hypothermia

*Warning*Contains spanking*

It was a crash. A loud crash. John jumped out of bed, instantly alert, his heart pounding. Another loud crashing noise filled the air. What the hell? John reached in his drawer for his gun, drawing it out quickly. What could it be? A burglar? Worse? His chest tightened as he thought of Mrs. Hudson down in her apartment all alone. Was she okay? Was Sherlock? At that, he was creeping down the stairs, quietly, trying not to alert the intruder. It sounded like someone was throwing something at the wall, almost rhythmically. Wait...what? John rounded the corner into the main space, and stopped in shock.

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, dressed in his traditional night pants and t-shirt, with his blue robe over that. He had in his hand a ceramic plate that was held at a angle behind his head. A few things hit John at once. One, Sherlock was barefoot, throwing plates at the wall, watching the shards fall to the ground. Two, there was stack of plates behind him on the table, so he was far from finished. And finally three, with his hands shaking at this new development, John realized he was furious.

"What the HELL do you think you are doing?"

Sherlock jumped at his voice, obviously unaware that John had entered the room. "I'm studying the pattern of shattering as the plates hit the way from different directions."

John stared at him, temporally speechless. "What?" He asked, realizing how sharp his voice was, but not caring.

Sherlock turned to face him. "I said I'm studying the pattern of-"

"No." John held up his hand. "I got that part. What I want to know is what the bloody hell you are doing throwing all of the plates at the wall at bloody three o'clock in the morning!" It had started off as a question, but ended as a exclamation.

Sherlock sighed. "Why are you shouting at me?" 

John was flummoxed. Did Sherlock really not see the problem here? "Because apparently you couldn't think of a better time to do this, no, no not even a better time, a better place to throw plates, plates that Mrs. H provided for us, by the way, to THROW AT THE WALL."

"So you are angry then." Sherlock turned back towards the wall, lifting the plate in his hand, aiming towards the wall.

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, and Sherlock paused, eyes widening. "Drop it now."

"But I'm just starting to get results-"

"You want results, I'll give you results. Get the broom and clean this mess up." John rubbed his hand over his face, trying to figure out his next move. It was too early for this, he conceded with sigh. He glanced over to see Sherlock was still standing there,  the plate still in his hand, just watching him now. John let him look him over for a few seconds. "Seriously, Sherlock. Start sweeping, now."

Sherlock, reading how angry John truly was, hastily put the plate down and went to find the broom. John rubbed his neck, trying to think. After Sherlock cleaned up the mess, they could just go to bed and John could wake up at a decent hour to get ready for work.  That sounded so pleasant, but there was just one thing. He looked over at Sherlock, who was now crouched down, sweeping up the shards with the broom and the dustpan. Sherlock had come to him and asked him the day of the traffic jam to keep him in check. Would he be letting him down if he didn't respond to this?

Sherlock finished sweeping, and dumped the dustpan into the trash. John noticed he was casting acutely wary glances in his direction, but John ignored him. He needed to be careful about this. Sherlock was just standing in the kitchen now, studying him. Bloody hell, he probably already knew what John was thinking, and deciding how he was going to handle it. Sherlock was always five steps ahead.