(I apologize for the mistakes. I love reviews. Be constructive, yes?)
John woke up after having a full nights rest. This worried him.
No explosions, no wall taking a pounding, no being woken up to chase down a suspect, no ungodly violin at 4 in the morning. No anything. It was as if his flat mate was normal, and that's what really scared him.
Because Sherlock Holmes was anything but normal.
John rubbed the sleep from his eyes and slowly got to his feet. He felt around for his slippers and was about to set out for the door, when he sat on his bed.
A sad violin melody filled his room and John, unaware of it, began to tear up. The melody was gloomy and mournful, like an eloquent eulogy one wishes to give but can't cough up the words.
So she's gone, thought John, this time for good.
John isn't stupid. He isn't as brilliant as the consulting detective but some of his skills were beginning to rub off on the army doctor.
From the moment Sherlock asked for the phone back he knew she wasn't gone. He didn't know how but he knew that Sherlock had in some way aided her and she was off somewhere, texting him on a regular basis. Sherlock didn't say anything so John led him to believe he didn't know. As long as Sherlock ate and functioned, John let him think whatever he wanted. (He was also thankful the mobile was on silent.)
It seemed that now, she was very much gone. He didn't know which was worse, the fact that she was gone, or that Sherlock had a heart after all and Irene Adler had taken it with her.
Probably the last one.
He got up, and made his way to the restroom. He saw Sherlock facing the window.
His eyes closed and fingers relaxed, Sherlock was trying to understand. This was new to him. Well, not entirely. He did have experience with emotions and he understood them well enough to realize they are messy and illogical and better left on their own. He criticized those who wore their hearts on their sleeves, and yet here he was, unconsciously composing a sad song for the woman.
John heard the violin stop playing. When he went back to the living room, he saw Sherlock laying on the couch, his hands up as if in prayer.
"Tea?" He asked.
When he received no answer, he went to the kitchen and put the kettle.
He came back with two mugs, like Sherlock knew he would. John offered him his mug.
"I said I didn't want any." He answered brusquely.
"No, you didn't say a thing at all." John pushed the mug into Sherlock's hand and brushed his feet off the couch so he could sit as well. "You haven't eaten in days-"
"I never eat." He pouted.
"No I suppose not, but this time I'm worried."
"I'm fine."
"No you're-"
"I said" Sherlock's voice rose with every syllable, "I'm fine and I don't want your stupid tea."
He threw the tea at the fireplace, knocking the skull to the floor littered with newspapers.
John sighed sadly, and went to pick up the pieces.
Guilt coursed through Sherlock's body like electricity. John always cleans up my mess, always picks up the pieces.
"John I'm-"
"Grieving, Sherlock, that's what you're doing." John muttered patiently, checking that he'd miss no porcelain pieces for Sherlock to step on. Never wears any bloody shoes.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock was sitting up, studying John as if he were a fascinating puzzle.
"She was in contact with you, and now she's not." John said, taking a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. "And now you eat less than usual and you compose sad music. And it's all for her."
Sherlock sat quietly, eyes closed. His lighting fast brain had to slow down and think. For one, he was impressed with John's reasoning and conclusion. Obviously he was smarter than even he had given him credit for. He might not follow Sherlock's method but he followed one that was all his own. Secondly, he was slightly embarrassed, was he really that obvious? Had Irene really meant that much to him? The woman that had put up a fight and made him realize he wasn't so alone, that he had an equal.
He opened his eyes and caught John trying to piece the broken cup shards together. His tongue was barely sticking out, always a sign that the good doctor was doing his best.
"It's broken John, you should get a new one."
John smiled and shook his head "I like this one." He said quietly. "It's not that broken."
Sherlock took the broken pieces from John's hands and placed them on the coffee table. He scooted closer and wrapped himself up in his arms. Snuggling onto his side and burying his head in John's neck, he closed his eyes and felt the soft wool of his sweater on his cheek.
John held him close and kissed the top of Sherlock's head.
Poor John, Sherlock thought, always trying to pick up the pieces.