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Title: Edit Notifications
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Length: 440 words
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP 2016 Prompt #1, 'Tis but a scratch. Unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any errors. Warnings for angst and grief.
Summary: Sherlock had read through a number of websites and blogs on the train this morning, looking for clear, research-based advice on how to help. He suspected none of it would apply to John Watson.

Sherlock pelted up the stairs. He slammed open the door to 221B and stopped at the sight of John sitting in his arm chair, reading the paper. "John," he said, slightly out of breath.

"Morning," John greeted him absently. "Solved the Liverpool case already?"

"Nearly," Sherlock answered. "I can wrap it up by text. Had to catch the early train back."

"Why's that?" John asked. He folded his paper and placed it on the floor, picking up his tea from the table.

Sherlock dropped his suitcase, pulled his phone out of his pocket and flashed the screen towards John. "Got a text alert. Your wedding was one year ago today. "

"Who would send you a text about that?" John wondered. "Mycroft?" He sipped his tea and winced slightly.

"Of course not. I programmed it in myself," Sherlock said with pride. "Immediately after she, uh, in case you needed – support?" he finished uncertainly.

"Oh. Well, no need, I'm fine."

Sherlock closed the door behind him and stepped the rest of the way into the sitting room, cataloguing John's appearance. "Bags under the eyes, cut yourself twice shaving, signs of dehydration from drinking last night -" he muttered.

"And yet here I am, telling you I'm fine," John interrupted with a tight smile.

"You're meant to have left for work twelve minutes ago, and yet here you are, sitting about the flat in your pants."

"Sherlock," John barked, standing up. "Perhaps you've forgotten our agreement from when I moved back in. Let's say, for example, that I were to ask you how your drugs habit's going these days. You'd say -"

"I'm clean," Sherlock protested. "I haven't used in months."

"Mmm-hmm," John replied skeptically. "And at that point I drop the subject. See how beautifully that works out? And along the same lines, when I tell you that I am fine, I am not inviting a round of 'Let's deduce John's mental status based on the creases in his pants.'"

Sherlock hesitated. He licked his lips, and then swallowed. "They're not creased," he said in a quiet voice.

"That's not the point."

"But they're not," Sherlock said. "You've only just put them on!"

John stared at him for a moment. "Fuck this for a game of soldiers," he swore tiredly. "I've got to get ready for work." He turned and marched out of the room with the pace of a man who had already worked a full day's shift.

Sherlock listened, shoulders hunched, as John clumped up the stairs. He sniffed, wiped his nose, and pulled up the calendar on his phone to delete the notification.

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