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Sometimes John wondered what it would be like to have a normal flatmate, but the mundane had nearly killed him before Sherlock had appeared. A mind so brilliant needed an audience, and he was far more willing than he should have been to be Sherlock's biggest fan. Not that he told the detective such a thing because the idiot had a large enough ego to sink an island and there was only such much that the yarders could handle. At the moment Sherlock was sleeping on the sofa in his pajamas because he could not be arsed to get dressed when there was not a case.
“You are thinking too loud again John,” the detective mumbled as he shifted to a more comfortable position. Apparently he had not been sleeping, merely thinking. “And there is no reason to get dressed unless there is a case on, which there is in fact not.” John had learned months ago that Sherlock could obviously read his mind despite what the younger man said about observing eye movement.
“Shall I just ring Lestrade and see if there are any cases?” John took his seat in his designated chair with the perfect cup of tea. Across the way Sherlock ran his hands through his curls, which were messier than usual, before shaking his head.
“Dull and not worth my time.”
“And sitting in your pajamas all day long is more productive, is it?” John asked. “Your tantrums leave much to be desired.” Sherlock's head snapped up just as John finished speaking, his eyes comically wide.
“You've never said so before,” Sherlock stated before getting to his feet and approaching the older man.
“I'm your friend Sherlock and friends look after one another, even if they have horribly annoying habits.”