So, this is the first fic I have uploaded. It's fairly short, and I'm not completely confident about it...but hey, have it anyway! Reviews would be amazing...
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or anything else in here, which is probably a good thing because if I did you'd be waiting a lot more than 2 years for a new series.
It was a Saturday. Sherlock was going on about his latest case; a woman had asked him to find out what her boyfriend had been doing when he was found dead in a strangers flat. It was, apparently, 'all in the soap'. God knew why …well, God and Sherlock.
John was pretending to ignore Sherlock. There was a strong temptation to really ignore Sherlock, but if he did that he might miss the one word he wanted so desperately to hear. Also, John had to admit he was intrigued by the case. Unfortunately, the problem with using the 'ignore' tactic on Sherlock was that Sherlock tended not to notice. He generally didn't require input from anyone else. Sure, he liked John to put in the occasional 'yeah' or 'really?' or 'Sherlock, that's brilliant', but he didn't really notice when he didn't.
Ignoring Sherlock was only the latest in a stream of ideas and ways to get Sherlock to notice what John wanted. For the first week after Sherlock came back, John had tried 'angry'. That definitely hadn't worked; Sherlock just gave him looks that said 'really, John?' and made him feel like even more of an idiot than he normally did around Sherlock.
The next tactic had been 'stroppy'. That had come slightly closer to working; Sherlock had at least commented on it, even if it was only to tell him not to 'just sit there, we have a case to solve…coming?' John had been unable to resist the temptation to follow Sherlock, which had put an end to that attempt.
There had also been one more tactic, but it wasn't really a tactic, more a genuine emotion. That had been the day Sherlock came back. John didn't really like thinking about that day much; the day Sherlock just strode back into his life, with the same old coat and scarf; well, actually it was a different scarf, but it was almost indistinguishable from the old one.
That's what had hurt, really. Not the fact that Sherlock had stayed away all this time, not the fact that that he hadn't told John, not even the way he had left so suddenly and painfully, with a goodbye that had only made things worse. No, the thing that hurt most was that Sherlock didn't realise what it was he'd done. He didn't consider that John might still be hurting. John had thought more of him that than that. He had thought Sherlock cared just a little bit. Enough to maybe say sorry to his only friend for leaving him hurting for over a year. But no, Sherlock didn't care. And it hurt.
-x-
John was pretending to read a newspaper and not listen to a word Sherlock was saying. He had been on the same page for at least 30 minutes, which was considerably slower than his normal reading pace.
Sherlock was trying not to let that put him off, as he worked on the more intricate details of his latest case; a 5, with the potential to become a 6 or a 7 if the soap lead worked out the way he thought it would.
Sherlock was worried about John. He seemed to be going through some peculiar emotional phases. When Sherlock first arrived, he had been understandably upset, but since then he had gone through anger, stress and now, apparently, silence…Sherlock wasn't quite sure what that meant. It didn't quite fit the pattern for denial, or trauma, or anything else Sherlock was familiar with.
He was finding it harder and harder to concentrate on his case; it was only a 5 and right now John was concerning him more. To progress on the case, he really needed to go out and do some studies, but the case (and soap) was comparatively unimportant.
Sherlock tried to keep talking; coming up with (now almost meaningless) drivel about the case, but he soon gave it up to devote all his attention to the John-problem. To stop John wondering about the abrupt end to his usual flow of deductions, he picked up his violin and began playing a simple melodic piece; thinking music.
So, the facts; John was behaving weirdly, in kind of emotional cycles, and he hadn't mentioned anything to Sherlock about this or the reasons behind it. It wasn't much to go on.
More information was necessary. To get more information, he would have to have to ask John. Sherlock looked across at John; still on the same page of the newspaper, but he was actually reading now. Did John want to be asked? Sherlock didn't know; he understood emotions, he could recognise them, but he couldn't work out what was causing them without information to work with. John wasn't giving him any information, so if he wanted some he would have to ask for it.
With his eyes fixed on John, Sherlock took a silent breath and said 'so, John.'
-x-
Despite himself, John looked up as Sherlock said his name. So much for the 'ignore' strategy, then.
Sherlock immediately launched into his normal monologue;
'You've been reading that page of the newspaper for 35 minutes, could be because you're having trouble understanding it but almost certainly because you haven't really been reading it. If you weren't reading it, you must have been doing something else; you can't be looking outside because the curtains are shut. There isn't anything different about the flat that you could be looking at, and you have nothing else to read, so you must have been listening to something. I have been talking for 30 of the last 35 minutes, which suggests that, despite appearances, you have been listening to me. While I was talking, I paused many times to allow you to respond, but you didn't. I know you were listening, so you must have decided not to respond on purpose. This, coupled with the fact that you have kept your eyes focused on the newspaper to give the appearance of reading it, suggests that you have been pretending to ignore me.'
Sherlock paused, hoping John would say something, but he remained stubbornly mute, so Sherlock continued his usual verbal outpour.
'This is just one example of unusual behaviour from you in the time since my…return, and I don't have enough information to make a deduction where I can be confident in my conclusion, so I guess what I really want to know John is…why?'
The stream of words slowed to a trickle and then ran dry as Sherlock waited for his (only) friend to make some kind of response.
In his mind, while Sherlock was talking, John was repeating one phrase. One sentence; 'Just say sorry, Sherlock'. It was becoming a kind of mantra; 'just say sorry, just say sorry, just say sorry, just say sorry Sherlock'.
Sherlock, standing by John's chair hoping for an answer, heard it as a whisper; the words that were so deeply imprinted on John's brain finally leaking out to allow Sherlock to hear them.
-x-
If there had been a window open in 221B Baker Street, which there wasn't, and if there had been someone walking past on the street below, which there wasn't, then they would have heard the words 'I'm sorry John' said in possibly the most sincere tone that Sherlock Holmes had ever used. If this hypothetical person had paused to listen, or just carried on walking slowly, then they would have seen, less than 60 seconds later, two men bursting out of the door below the flat. And they would have looked on in amazement as those two men sprinted down the road like 10 year old school boys, leaving behind them only a slight breeze and the words 'John, we have soap to find!'