Work Text:
It takes only a few weeks for John to realize just how serious Sherlock was about this "not speaking for days" business. He spirals into depression as soon as he's finished a case, barely leaving his room, and when he does grace John with his presence, there are only single syllables ("Tea," usually, as in "Make me some." Or "Stop," as in "Your mere existence is grating" because honestly, John can't understand what is so offensive about buttering toast). There's a lot of stomping about and slamming of doors and collapsing on to the nearest available piece of furniture in a miserable heap.
At first, John makes a bit of a fuss. This isn't the Sherlock he met, the Sherlock who raced with him across London, grinning and wild, and it makes John worry. But Sherlock only ignores him, or when his careful, "Do you want anything?" is too much to be ignored, Sherlock heaves a sigh and locks himself back in his room for a further three days.
John stops making a fuss.
He goes about his life as usual, and sometimes even allows himself to be grateful for the brief bouts of calm in the whirlwind of his new life. Eventually Lestrade will text or Mrs. Hudson will bring some clipping from the paper, and Sherlock springs off the sofa and is himself again.
Sometimes, it takes a bit, though. Sometimes, days stretch into weeks, and John feels just a bit helpless.
He cooks up some stir-fry while Sherlock sulks in the front room.
John emerges from the kitchen, hesitating for a minute, and then makes his way over to the sofa where Sherlock is curled up, his back to the room.
"Budge up," he says, prodding Sherlock's back with his knee as he balances a plate in each hand.
"No," Sherlock mumbles into the worn leather.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock heaves a sigh, and John waits for the inevitable flounce and door slamming. To his surprise, Sherlock curls himself up tighter, drawing up his knees so there's enough room for John to sit.
John plops himself down and balances the plate he made up for Sherlock on his bony hip. "Eat that."
"No."
"Then don't. I don't care." John picks up the remote and turns on the television just to prove how much he doesn't care.
Sherlock's toes press into the side of his thigh as he uncurls slightly in annoyance. The plate wobbles precariously.
"I'm not moving it, so you'd do well to eat it before it ends up all over you."
Sherlock groans and shifts, sitting up against the arm of the sofa. John expects him to hurl the plate across the room, but instead, he starts picking at the beef and broccoli, not even bothering with a fork. He glares at John while he eats, and John ignores him, feigning interest in whatever news program is on.
Sherlock clears his plate and sets it aside. "Happy?"
John shrugs a shoulder and bites back his grin as Sherlock slumps back down against the cushions, his eyes still on John, his toes still pressed to John's thigh.