I don't Have Friends
John tapped his fingers on the armchair to an invisible rhythm as he watched Sherlock, calm and composed Sherlock, the robotic Sherlock, break down, rambling a mile-per-second.
"I use my senses, John, unlike some people. I have never been better! Therefore I am fine, John, " he spat out, hands clenching and unclenching around his knees. Sweat glimmered on that alabaster pale skin, and his dark ebony curls were array from where he'd scrubbed his long, musician fingers through it desperately. "So just. Leave. Me. Alone!"
Every word was enunciated sharply and in the quivering deep baritone that belonged to none other than Sherlock Holmes, but John couldn't help but feel it was unnerving seeing the most composed man he'd ever know teeter on the edge of an emotional-and-or mental breakdown.
John narrowed his eyes and sighed, leaning forward. "Alright. Okay." He cleared his throat, those navy eyes assessing his best friend and John could feel a coil of fear anger for his stubborn-minded flatmate in his stomach. He was just trying to help the stubborn git.
"Don't listen to me," he sighed with a resigned shrug. "I'm just your friend." He leaned back, hands clasped together, fingers interlaced.
Sherlock laughed, a deep, mirthless sound that sent shivers down the doctor's spine. It was hollow and empty, contrary to the normal deep, amused barks of laughter.
"Friend?" He spat the word. As though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. "I don't have friends." He emphasized the word and his countenance twisted into a grimace as spittle flew from those pale Cupid-bowed lips.
John felt his stomach drop and tears begin to ache behind his eyes as he stared at Sherlock, rigid and unmoving in his seat, hands twitching and legs bouncing.
Don't cry, he scolded himself as his hand tightened around his cup. Sherlock was just being his normal blunt and show-off self but he was still being a total arse and it hurt John more than he'd admit that even after all this time, Sherlock didn't even consider him a friend.
He gave Sherlock a quiet, mocking chuckle to try to mask the hurt. John licked his lips, loving the way his brandy burned his throat as he knocked back his drink, slamming it a little harder on the table when he was done.
"I wonder why," he muttered darkly and stood, his left hand shaking and his ghost of a limp aching.
He wiggled his fingers and clenched his fist of his left hand. He'd made a habit of doing that more and more frequently.
The cold Dartmoor winds felt good on his warm face and the icy winds slipped its hands down into his jacket, but he welcomed it. He didn't care if he got sick, running around at bloody ten at night with his jacket open. In the darkness, he let the tears fall numbly down his face, thankful no one was out.
He ambled about idly, until his feet hurt, his eyes ached from his tears, and he couldn't feel a muscle on his face.
Bing!
His phone dinged and he automatically slid his hand into his jacket to retrieve it.
Come if convenient. If not, come anyway-preferably immediately. - SH
The good doctor resignedly went back to their hotel, tucking his cellular device away deftly or as deftly as one can with half numb hands, noticing hardly anyone was up except for a few children snuck away from sleeping parents and snogging teenagers.
John sighed, slipped off his jacket, and rubbing his eyes tiredly, ambled up the stairs to the shared suite. A bedroom in which Sherlock resided in.
He winced, sighed, as his feet took the familiar path to their door, and opened it silently. The room was saturated in a blanket of silence and dark. He could hardly make out anything.
"John?" A slight rustling as John threw his clothes onto the couch. He stayed silent. "John?"
The baritone was gruff, tentative, as though from sleep, and John realized it wasn't sleep, but tears.
Sherlock Holmes had been crying.
The moonlight flittered though the window and the good doctor saw Sherlock's form, sitting at the window.
A small spark lit up the room, a tiny fleeting flame from a lighter in the thick cover of darkness and the steady, pulsating glow from the end of a cigarette.
"John, I don't understand you."
A deep intake of breath from Sherlock's drag of his fag broke the tense silence as John heard something crunch under his boots.
The tinkling crunch of broken glass. "Sherlock?" John asked quietly, eyes adjusting to see his flatmate's form.
The cigarette's glow illuminated Sherlock's fey like features, his cheekbones sharp and angular.
Irene Adler's word rang his head: I could cut myself slapping those cheekbones.
"I expect you want to an apology." Sherlock's baritone cut through Irene's dialogue. "Good luck getting one."
"Why is there glass on the damn floor?" John inquired, rubbing his forehead and pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I broke the vase," was the brisk reply. "I don't understand this, John. You know I don't deal well with-" The army doctor pictured the world's one and only consulting detective scrunching up his nose his disgust. "Feelings." There was a pause. "Tonight, I felt it. Fear- unadulterated fear; raw, disgusting fear. I couldn't see, couldn't observe, couldn't think, John— and it terrified me. It shook me to the very core that I wasn't in control, but my heart was. And for that I am sorry. I beg your indulgence, John. About not having friends, I meant it."
John blinked furiously as Sherlock breathed out, smoke curling from his pursed lips like mist. How dare Sherlock tell him to come back then say he didn't think of John as practically anything other than a person to help bring in income for the flat-share! "Sherlock-"
Sherlock stood regally and walked over to John, bending his head low as he stubbed out the cigarette he dropped on the carpet. John made a mental note to clean it up in the morning.
"I don't have friends. I've just got one. And he's more than I've ever asked for. I hurt you. You're angry and hurt and embarrassed and I'm sorry, John. Not being able to deduce, my brain clouded with muddled, mundane things like fear. I cannot have that, I simply can't because Moriarity's planning something big and I can't lose you."
Sherlock squeezed John's cold fingers as the army medic struggled to take this new information in.
"I'd be lost without my blogger." Silence stretched and filled the air until John broke the quiet stillness.
"Apology accepted." The genius sighed, visibly relaxed, and brought out a fresh cigarette and brought it to his lips, lighting it with a flick of his wrist and took a deep drag. John watched as smoke streamed through the nighttime air.
After a moment's silence, he asked, "What happened to quitting cold turkey?" Sherlock smiled in the dark.