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Jilly was asleep on the corner of the rug, and John had covered her over with the blanket from the back of his chair. He didn’t want Sherlock’s body to get cold, even though his consciousness was currently occupying the body of a Great Dane, thanks to an experiment that had gone awry.
John had been sitting on the sofa (it had given him great satisfaction to be able to tell Sherlock he wasn’t allowed up), and reading one of his dreadful crime novels. He turned the last page, and was as disappointed with it as he had imagined he would be about a week before, when Sherlock had deduced who the killer was and told John in a loud and penetrating voice, because he wanted him to pass a book from the bookshelf and John had refused, informing Sherlock he was reading. “Now you don’t need to finish it John, you know who the killer was. Now pass me the book, it’s the Principles of Forensic Toxicology, but I need the Third Edition, not the Fourth…” John had gone upstairs, determined to struggle all the way to the end of the book now on principle, even though he was pretty sure he wasn’t enjoying it after the first two chapters.
Now he had finished, and could move on to the new Lancet journal that had arrived that morning, so he disappeared off upstairs to grab it. There were a pile of journals on the bedside table, and John had to have a look through to be sure he’d grabbed the most recent one. He got slightly sidetracked by an article he’d been reading a fortnight before, that he had not managed to finish thanks to Sherlock crashing into his bedroom and whisking him off on a another thrilling chase.
After five minutes, John realised he had been standing in his bedroom reading, while downstairs, his tea (and sofa) was going cold. He kicked off his shoes, tucked his feet into some cozy slippers – he didn’t care what Sherlock had said, having slippers made you warm, not old – and went back downstairs, moving very slowly thanks to the fascination the article held for him. He was about to step back into the living room, when he heard an odd noise; the sound of clawed paws scrabbling on the floor. He peeped his head around the doorframe, to be confronted with the sight of Sherlock, scrabbling round and round in circles, chasing his – Jilly’s – tail. There was a look of absolute joy on his doggy features, especially when he managed to catch it – and then let it go again so he could begin the chase once more.
John stepped back to give himself time to get the wide grin on his face under control, before loudly dropping the journal on the floor and saying “Damn!” to give Sherlock time to regain some of his dignity.
“Alright, Sherlock?” John asked, as he re-entered the room. “Tea?” Sherlock nodded his head, so John poured the remains of his tea into a clean bowl and placed it down on the floor near Sherlock, and then settled back down on the sofa. He tried to pretend he didn’t notice how enthusiastically Sherlock lapped at the tea, but couldn’t help a small smile.