They were sitting in that conveniently placed restaurant across from the clearly suspicious Lucky Cat Emporium when John opened his mouth for the second time in an attempt to speak.
"Sher-"
"Oh, what? You've been dying to say something for the past day and half, for God's sake, what is it?" He paused for a minute while John gave him a look. "Oh no, you're doing that thing with your face right before you ask me something touching and sensitive about my personal life."
He made little jerky movements with his hands as he said this, and John gave him a completely different kind of look.
"Sherlock, no offense, but aside from Mycroft and Lestrade, I am your personal life."
"Yes, and that's quite enough to be going on with, so why don't we just forget this and go back to the task at hand? Do you remember what Sebastian told us about Van Coon? How he lost five million, made it back in a week? Maybe that was how he made such easy money."
"He was a smuggler," John said in realization. Sherlock nodded smugly and stood up, only to immediately sat back down again, rolling his eyes.
"Tell me, now I'm curious."
"What?"
"What you wanted to say! For God's sake, John, keep up."
"Oh, well, I just wanted to ask you, well, it's not really important," he trailed off, and Sherlock mimed shooting himself in the head.
"Fine then, I wanted to know why you called that man from the bank 'Seb'," John said resolutely. It was a silly, ridiculous question, especially for a time like this, but he couldn't get it out of his head and the more he thought about it the more it made him wonder.
"What are you talking about? His name is Sebastian!" Sherlock spat with a look of sheer derision.
"Yes, but you didn't call him Sebastian, did you?" John retorted quietly. Sherlock gave a gasp of exasperation.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Come on now, Sherlock, you're really going to try playing dumb?"
The detective leaned forward on the table and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"It's not important, John. I knew him at uni, that's all. Can we please focus on the task at hand?"
"But you were friends?"
"Yes, I suppose you could say we were friends. Now - "
"Well, see, that's the part where I'm lost, Sherlock, because according to everyone who's ever known you, you don't have friends, other than me, and then suddenly this bloke shows up, with this, kind of, insulting but affectionate familiarity - "
"We were close, we had a falling out. There, are you happy?" They looked at each other for a moment before John's curiosity got the better of him again.
"Well, what happened?"
"That's entirely irrelevant, and not really something you need to be worrying about." With that he stood up and stormed out, leaving John flabbergasted in his wake.
When they got back to the apartment, John shook himself out of his coat noisily enough that Sherlock would notice, and stomped over to make himself a very loud cup of tea.
"What?" Sherlock drew the word out between his teeth the way people pull chewing gum from the bottom of their shoes. John took the opportunity.
"Not something I need to be worrying about? Really, Sherlock? You do realize that's rather offensive?"
Sherlock's voice dropped in pitch the next time he spoke; he never yelled back at John when the man was seriously angry. He put it down to habit.
"I don't go poking around your personal business - "
"Yes, because you already know everything!"
"That's not at all true."
"All I did was ask you a question, Sherlock!"
"And I clearly didn't want to answer."
John took a deep breath and tried to keep from yelling again. He absolutely hated the way Sherlock's voice would get all small whenever they had a row.
"I'm only concerned about you," he said.
"No, you're not," Sherlock turned to look at him for the first time. "You're curious. You've discovered that there's something I haven't told you about because it's unpleasant for me and you want to force me to do so."
John gave an almighty sigh and collapsed in his favorite chair.
"You're right, you're right. I apologize," John conceded.
"In addition," Sherlock continued as if no one had spoken, "you're not going to find some horrific, tear-jerking story that serves to explain why I'm not all human and emotional like the rest of you. So stop looking."
"Of course not, you already are human, Sherlock. I am concerned though, really," he said more softly. "If someone's been an asshole to you I want to know so I can beat the shit out of them."
Sherlock stared at him a moment, dumbfounded. There was no possible way he could know . . .
"I assure you that will be entirely unnecessary."
"Well, good then."
Later that night, when Sherlock was lying awake in bed, he cried for the first time since senior year. And if John walked by at one in the morning to get his phone and heard sniffling, he didn't say a word.
A few days and one very near death experience later, they had solved the case and were making one last trip to the bank to pick up the rest of their payment. Or, in Sherlock's case, explain the importance of the hairpin to Van Coon's PA as dramatically as possible. Which was why John found himself standing in front of a rather disgruntled Sebastian on a perfectly regular Tuesday morning, feeling slightly annoyed at the way the man's eyes clung to Sherlock as he stalked off down the hall.
"He really climbed up onto the balcony?"
"Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over."
Shouts of nine million pounds erupted to John's left, causing them both to look over. Sebastian smirked.
"Good luck with him, John. He can be quite a handful, pretending he doesn't have emotions and then throwing a temper tantrum when you ignore them. Give him the right incentive and he'll behave, of course."
John had opened his mouth to disabuse Sebastian of notion that he and Sherlock were dating. What came out was a whispered, "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, didn't he tell you? I figured he would have, seeing as how you're so close, but I suppose this is Sherlock we're talking about, isn't it? He and I used to have a thing, back in uni. It wasn't serious, but it lasted a long time, about three years actually. Don't get jealous though," he said with a wink, "he's all yours."
"We're not together. I mean, I'm not dating him," John said almost automatically.
"Really? Well, in that case," he cut off when Sherlock appeared at the door.
"Good day, Sebastian. John. Coming?"
"Yes, yes, of course."
"See you around, Sherlock."
John watched with concern as Sebastian's reply made Sherlock's pace slow, however minutely.
Incentive . . .
"Is something wrong, John? You seem distracted." Sherlock's comment made him look up, and he realized he's been sitting with a cold cup of tea in his hand, staring at the carpet. He winced guiltily.
"Nothing, I'm fine," he said quickly. Sherlock stared at him a moment, then moved to fully face him on the couch.
"What did he say to you?" he nearly whispered. John looked up and met his eyes in a look full of meaning. Sherlock gripped the cushion a little harder, a horribly familiar sick feeling twisting his stomach. Please God . . .
"Were you planning on telling me?" John asked. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in horror.
"I didn't want you to think I was some kind of - " he broke off, unable to get the words out.
"Some kind of what?"
"Please don't make me say it. If you prefer to move out and don't wish to see me again, I understand."
"Sherlock, why in the world would I want that?"
At this the detective looked at him piercingly. "What did he say to you?"
"What do you think he said to me?" John spluttered, slightly annoyed despite himself.
"Please just tell me."
"He told me you used to date, for three years, back in uni. He thought you and I were dating, that's why he brought it up," John said. Sherlock pondered for a moment.
"That's it? Did he actually say date? He didn't say anything about me specifically?"
John stuttered for a moment, deciding which question to address first.
"No, he didn't say date, he said you used to have a 'thing'. He said it wasn't serious. I'm just surprised you were in any relationship at all. And what do you mean, that's it?"
At this point Sherlock stood up suddenly. He couldn't deal with this right now, he didn't want to think about it. Delete, delete . . . He was halfway across the room when John grabbed his arm and spun him around.
"Don't walk away from me, Sherlock Holmes! I want to know what's going on here."
Sherlock stared wide-eyed at John, who was now holding him against the table and looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth in an attempt to speak, but the horribly familiar feeling came up and choked him in a way that was also horribly familiar. And so, when John threw his hands up in that horribly familiar gesture of exasperation, Sherlock fully expected that what would come next would also be horribly familiar, and he flinched. John's world came to a crashing halt. He stepped back slowly from his flatmate.
"Sherlock, are you afraid of me?" John whispered in horror. Sherlock gave a defiant and completely unbelievable 'no', which John ignored.
"You thought I was going to . . . Jesus, did he . . . I'm going to kill him," he ended the disjointed thought matter-of-factly. There really was only one course of action.
"Can we just forget this?" Sherlock's voice had once again assumed his usual tone of disinterested boredom. "Whatever happened then, it doesn't matter now, I've deleted it."
"Yes, it . . Hang on, what?"
"I've deleted it, the information is irrelevant. Now, it's about time I added more ammonia to the toes." He stepped past John and into the kitchen briskly, while John stood in shock, trying to digest the information he'd just been given. A thought occurred to him.
"Does Mycroft know?"
"Does Mycroft know what?" Sherlock said without looking up from carefully dropping ammonia underneath each individual toenail.
"Sherlock, does Mycroft know your boyfriend used to beat you?"
"No, he doesn't know about Sebastian at all," he answered, choking slightly at John's bluntness. "Besides, I'm not some sad, pitiable victim of domestic abuse, don't make it sound so dramatic."
"Does anyone know?"
"I'm sure his friends know." Sherlock felt himself tense as he remembered exactly how well Sebastian's friends knew. He gave himself an internal look of disgust. Emotions.
"You need to tell somebody. Me, Mycroft, a shrink, Lestrade, I don't care, but somebody."
"For Christ's sake, John, I don't need a shrink! I am completely fine!"
"You just flinched at me, Sherlock, flinched! You are clearly not fine!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. "I am not going to talk to anybody, and that's final. Just drop it."
And with that, he grabbed his netbook and slammed his bedroom door.
Later that night, Sherlock cried for the second time since senior year. Picking up his phone, he read through the message for the tenth time:
I miss you.
Address is 103 Parkway, Camden.
You've probably already deduced it, but I live alone.
Come anytime.
SW
He wiped his tears away and reached for his favorite shirt.