Sherlock stood in the doorway, adjusting his collar as he waited for John to join him. Lestrade mentioned that there would be media and press outside of their door today, and he simply could not bear it without his doctor there. It seemed he couldn't do a lot of things without John, now. Things he'd never needed anyone for.
Mycroft began to notice instantly, even before John had begun to understand the severity of Sherlock's sociopath problem. The man could not trust anyone; would not trust anyone.
It had been drilled into him as a child, specifically from memories that most toddlers wouldn't be able to muster up. A large, calloused hand coming down against his face. Watching the same hands strangle the neighbor's dog. Skin a stray cat alive.
"Come inside, darling," mummy's voice had called. Those large hands dropped the writhing creature onto the grass. There was never a face to the memories. The figure seemed to be blurred out above the shoulders. He was tall, though. Surely the reason for the brothers' heights, although even upon being that young, Sherlock questioned whether or not he and Mycroft had the same father.
"John, for Christ's sake, hurry up, would you?"
An exasperated sigh came from the kitchen, and out came John, walking around the flat in just a pair of pants. The slightest rise on the right side of Sherlock's mouth was the only sign of the appreciated view, but John was too busy to notice. Good, he thought aimlessly. The detective could not, after all, allow himself to show such feelings outright.
"Sherlock, have you you seen my jacket?"
There was a long pause, the taller man thinking back to a few days prior. See, the detective had gotten home quite early after an excruciatingly uneventful day. John wouldn't have been home for hours, and since his cigarettes were still hidden, he needed something for comfort.
The tall, bony-fingered man had slipped into John's room; stealing the jacket from his door's backside hanger. Originally, he thought that might be where John had kept the cigarettes or patches hidden, but when the jacket brushed up against his arm, he noticed how it rested his anxious mind and body. He'd been tempted to pull it on, but didn't want John catching on if he'd left a few strands of hair behind or if it smelled too much like him. Instead, Sherlock went upstairs, into his bedroom, and locked the door behind him. A few minutes later, he had nestled into his bed, with John's jacket buttoned up around a pillow. Sherlock lay on his right side; right arm beneath the pillow, with his left over around it, hugging it against his chest and the bottom of his face, just beneath his nose.
John had come home late that night. Out with a woman, Sherlock had guessed.
"No, John, I haven't. You have plenty of other coats. Just pick one."
"Damn it all," the doctor grumbled.
Sherlock only smirked ever-so-slightly as John slipped back into his room; in search of another jacket to shield him against the bitter London air.
"Are you spying, you sodding maggot?" The voice quivered and rumbled, reminding Sherlock of the way he felt while standing on a high ledge. The sound of his voice shoved that very same feeling back into Sherlock, even though both feet were safely planted on the ground. A bloody hand, sticky with bits of orange fur from the tabby, grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt rather roughly. The hair-curling scent of Johnnie Walker Blue Vodka made the child feel overwhelmed, and he began struggling against his father's grip.
"Ungrateful worm," the large man spat; carelessly tossing Sherlock off to the side. Another set of hands were there now; the image of his father blurring through the tears that began to sting his eyes in his much greater emotional childhood. Long, gentle fingers caressed at his skin, picking him up. Reddish brown hair, just barely long enough to begin curling, sat atop Mycroft's head as his pale hands smoothed away Sherlock's tears.
"Ah!" John shouted. It was almost victorious-sounding. "Found one."
"Right."
John stood mere inches away from Sherlock as he slid on his coat, turning his neck to crack it and rolling his shoulders.
"We're going outside, John. It's not as if it's the war all over again."
This caused the doctor to pause, looking up at Sherlock. He searched bright blue eyes for sign of sarcasm, but with Sherlock, who could ever tell? The man was too secretive, too logical for any feeling.
"The kitten." Sherlock's tiny fist reached up to rub at his eyes, and Mycroft stood back up from where he'd been kneeling in front of the younger sibling.
"I'll take care of it, Sherlock. Go inside and get washed up for dinner. We mustn't upset mummy." With a kind smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder, Mycroft gently took Sherlock's shoulders and spun the boy around; patting his back just forcefully enough to edge him back inside the house.
Just in time to see his father's hand raise and come down hard, striking the slender woman that had birthed him just over three years prior. She shrieked and collapsed against the counter; dropping a platter and shattering it, as well as the food that had been neatly organized on top.
"Ready then?" John's voice brought Sherlock back to the present. The detective searched the doctor's eyes, allowing his sight to slide away from John, as if contemplating.
He inhaled deeply, murmuring a quiet, "Yes." A simultaneous nod. He didn't realize he'd begun leaning toward John - lips slightly parted as he breathed that simple word. John stepped away and grasped the door handle into his thick hand.
Sherlock paused, lips barely parted, while staring at a spot in the wall. What had he almost done? Did John notice? It didn't seem like it. Surely if the doctor had paid attention better, he'd understand that Sherlock had developed feelings. That Sherlock had about to kiss him. As the detective had repeatedly said aloud, "You see but you do not observe." He felt like repeating this line now, and slamming his fist into the wall behind John's head. He wanted the smoothness of John's lips against his, the scent of him in his clothes; in his sheets.
But the door was opening. Time moved slowly, although less than a second had passed. Light began to shine into the hall, becoming brighter with every millimeter John kept pulling the door open. There was nothing he could do, now. It would have to wait. It always had to wait. Instead, Sherlock clenched his jaw a bit, and turned to walk out the door; stepping into the media's eye.
Terrible memories of his childhood, blending in with the oblivious rejection he felt from John, merging further with his anxious tendencies and unappreciation of having so many people around him at once - it made him tense and flinch in the slightest way, his eyes wide and alert before squinting down to quickly determine how he should act in front of this particular crowd.
John's hand was there, suddenly; reassuringly against Sherlock's upper arm. The detective looked down at the doctor, who wore a friendly smile. All of the anxiety and terrible memories were suddenly washed from thought with that touch, allowing, just for a moment, to get lost into John's eyes. Not long enough for the media to notice. More of an unspoken agreement between two colleagues than anything else. Sherlock's chest twisted a bit at the thought.
This man could not trust anyone; would not trust anyone.
That is... not until John.