I'm experimenting with Sherlock's emotions again. (Sorry, Sherlock.) This is the result.
Sorry for any mistakes.
"I - I'm sorry, John, really I -" Sherlock swallowed roughly, instinctively taking a step backwards as the doctor took a threatening step towards him, his arms stiff by his sides and his hands balled into fists, his face blank of emotion but his eyes filled with anger. "I didn't mean - I mean, I didn't, you, -" Sherlock was speechless and John would have laughed at the sight of the stumbling and stammering man had it not been for the fact that he was absolutely livid with him.
Sherlock had overstepped the mark. Experimenting on his jumpers and putting hallucinogenic drugs in his tea were one thing, but this was ranked on an entirely different level. Sherlock had damaged John's dog tags. Of course, had John been in the right frame of mind he would have realised that he was partly to blame as well, after all he had left his dog tags on the table beside Sherlock's experiment.
But he wasn't in the right frame of mind. Currently, he only saw his damaged dog tags and the culprit standing guiltily beside them. Sherlock knew how dear to him those dog tags were, he'd just told him, and still he'd managed to damage them.
John knew that he was screaming. Most likely yelling obscenities at him and he was fairly certain his fist had collided with the detective's face, but he couldn't be sure. His vision was hazy with anger and his actions were a blur. One moment he was angrily berating his friend and the next he had appeared on Inspector Lestrade's doorstep shaking with anger and positively spitting feathers.
He didn't know, however, that in his wake he had left a very shaken and distraught detective. What had happened was an accident. Sherlock had moved his arm to reach for his Pipette and had unintentionally knocked over the beaker containing the substance he was currently working on. The contents of the beaker had then proceeded to spill over the dog tags before Sherlock could stop it. The experiment had damaged the metal before the pair could say "Angelo's". Sherlock hadn't meant to do it and, after seeing the initial despair in John's eyes, he wished he could have gone back in time and prevented it from happening.
Sherlock, of course, was aware that it had simply been an accident but he still felt extremely guilty about what had happened. John's words were bouncing around in his head. John had, in his anger, opened up to Sherlock pointing out every single one of his flaws. He had noted how he was inconsiderate, selfish and a "bloody awful friend". He had pointed out to the detective that his experiments took up too much space, that he was fed up of finding severed limbs in the refrigerator and heads in the freezer. Sherlock replayed how John had told him that he found his messes tedious and that he just wished Sherlock would think of others and clean up after himself.
Sherlock did. He didn't know why. He assumed it was the guilt acting but with tears pouring down his cheeks and his nose stuffed to the point of having to breathe through his mouth he cleaned up the apartment. He got rid of all of the body parts and he threw away his half-finished experiments. He shifted all of his belongings into his room out of John's way. He even went to the extreme of cleaning the flat.
Sherlock didn't even give a second thought to the bruise swelling on his cheekbone where John had struck him. He didn't think to ice his injury. By the time he was finished his cheek was bruised and swollen and the flat, not including his room, held no trace that Sherlock even inhabited it. Sherlock had quite a chore when it came to shifting all of his belongings into his not exactly large room, but he managed. By the time he was done their was a small path leading from the door to his bed and one half of the double bed was now home to his notebooks in one of which he was now scribbling.
He was attempting to write an apology note to his friend. He wanted to apologise. He didn't know what for, not entirely, but he knew that he needed to. The more he tried, however, the more upset he became and the harder it was to concentrate.
Sherlock figured that he must have fallen asleep because, when he awoke it was the following day. He was lying on his stomach on the bed, his left arm reaching up towards the pillow and his head resting on his notebook, his pen somehow still clasped in his right hand. He pushed himself up with a slight groan and stopped, listening for signs of life in the apartment but came to the conclusion that he was still alone. He rose from his bed, changing his clothes and leaving his note on the polished kitchen table where he knew John would be able to see it should he chose to return.
Sherlock skipped his morning cuppa. He had an errand to run.
John was significantly calmer when he awoke and was sitting at the table in his friend's dining room trying to chomp his way through a fry-up Greg had prepared for him. The detective inspector had welcomed him in, listened to him rant and rave about Sherlock, offered him a bed and cooked him breakfast.
Now that he was looking back with a clear head he realised how out of line he had been. Clearly the incident with his dog tags had been an accident. And Sherlock had tried to apologise. With a heavy heart and his fry-up sitting uncomfortably on his stomach, John made his way back to 221B.
He was prepared to deal with an arrogant Sherlock. Or even an indifferent Sherlock. When he entered the flat, though, he almost collapsed it shock. It was clean. In fact, it was spotless and, much to John's discontent, it appeared to be free of Sherlock's belongings. In a sudden moment of panic John rushed around the flat, pausing when he entered the kitchen and his eyes came to land on the slightly crumpled paper waiting for him. His heart began to thud in his chest as he filled with a sense of dread.
Sherlock's handwriting was sloppy and it took John a little while to figure out what it was that he was saying. But when he did he felt his thudding heart leap in to his throat creating a lump he tried, futilely, to swallow away.
Sherlock was apologising to him. He was apologising profusely for the accident along with a number of other things that John knew he didn't need to be apologising for. He was saying sorry for his violin playing, the violin that helped John sleep and helped him relax during his nightmares. He was apologising for his interrupted sleeping and eating schedule. He was apologising for getting so caught up in his work that he failed to play attention to other things. Essentially, he was apologising for being Sherlock. John was in tears by the time he had finished reading Sherlock's note. Knowing that he'd cause his friend such hurt pained him. John sauntered into the sitting room and dropped heavily into his chair. That's where he remained until Sherlock returned, a small paper bag in his pocket.
John was staring unblinking at him when he entered the room and Sherlock felt himself gulp. Sherlock's cheek was badly bruised, the discolouration spreading up to his eye and John could see a small open wound just under it. Sherlock paused in the doorway and opened his mouth momentarily before closing it again, apparently choosing silence to be his best course of action. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, hesitantly entering, shrugging off his coat which he made a show of hanging up and sliding his shoes onto the wrack before crossing the room swiftly and silently placing the bag beside John. Sherlock made his way towards his overcrowded bedroom before John had the time to ask him any questions about the contents of the small paper bag.
John waited until he'd gone and he had heard the door to his bedroom click closed quietly before peering into the bag and gasping at what he found. Sherlock had paid for his army dog tags to be replaced. That must have cost him a fortune. John pulled them from the bag, inspecting them before he stood, taking the dog tags with him and making his way to Sherlock's room. He knocked lightly and pushed open the door, taking in the sight before him. Poor sod, he thought to himself as he took in the sight before him. He's piled all of his belongings into one room.
Sherlock looked slightly intimidated as John entered his safe haven. He looked up from his bed to see John walking towards him with his hand raised a little. The ex-army medic watched as Sherlock rose from his bed, his body tensing as he folded his arms around himself in a defensive manner and felt a twinge of guilt in his chest before he reached out, throwing his arms around his neck.
"I'm sorry." He stated simply, squeezing him a little tighter by way of an apology. "I'm so sorry." John soothed as Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John's frame in return. John's breath hitched in his throat as he felt Sherlock's tears begin to soak his neck. "I am so sorry." John pulled back, taking in the tears and the wounded expression on his face before gesturing vaguely around the room. "Lets put your things back where they belong, eh? And then I'll see what I can do about your face."
"Y-you forgive me?" Sherlock stuttered, apparently shocked at the notion.
"I have nothing to forgive you for." John stated, reaching out and allowing his right hand to gently caress Sherlock's shoulder. "It was me who was in the wrong."
John assisted Sherlock in moving his belongings back to where they live and Sherlock made a point of only taking the necessary things from his bedroom. Since that day, John noticed a slight change in Sherlock. He cleaned up after himself, asked for John's permission to store his experiments in the fridge-freezer and he even moved his things back to the bedroom when he was finished with them.
It appeared that Sherlock was becoming aware of boundaries. Sherlock was becoming more human.
Thank you for reading.
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