The flat is heavy with silence by morning.
The sun screams through the blinds around 7:30, and Sherlock extracts himself from the sheets with great difficulty. Folds of white cling to his calves, his heels, the hollow spaces between his knees and elbows. Fingers stretch out into the gaping emptiness of the right side of the bed, half-expecting a warm hand to meet his own.
Nothing comes.
John's side is cold and empty and neatly made, so well-tidied that it hardly looks as though another person was here at all. Tenderly, Sherlock lets his gaze trail down the length of the room, his room, and focuses all his mental energy on wishing John to come back.
He can imagine the scenario with ease. A tray of biscuits, steaming mugs. Sleep-wrecked hair and a fuzzy smile.
"I made tea," John would say, "Sleep alright?"
They would sit in peaceful silence, and John would touch his cheek. They would eat, talk, kiss to the brink of drunkenness, and then fuck the rest of the afternoon. Afterwards they would lie together in the sheets. sweaty and sticky with the sinful proof of their day, and just this once, John would let him smoke.
"Just one." He'd say, scowling sweetly before stealing a few puffs himself.
The room revels in the rich tang of tobacco.
"Haven't smoked since I was a kid."
Sherlock hums in agreement, blows smoke rings just to make John grin.
"Showoff."
"As if."
The declaration is sudden, a strike to the face when it finally comes.
"Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
Squeeze of hands, the perfect kiss.
"I know." Sherlock whispers, lips buried in John's clavicle. A silent prayer to his very own angel.
The flat is heavy with silence by morning.
The sheets are empty and cold, and no John brings him coffee or toast or tea. Sherlock gathers his clothes, stumbles into the kitchen. He half-expects John to be waiting for him, curled on the sofa, blanket pulled back and inviting him into a crevice of the cushions. Instead he finds John at the table, drinking orange juice and reading the paper.
John is fully dressed, makes no move to stand when Sherlock enters the room.
"I have to head in to work." He says, without looking up. "There are some leftovers in the fridge, if you're hungry." Finally, John looks up, and as soon as he does Sherlock wishes he hadn't. Blue eyes meet his own, and brilliant though they are, they are as vacant as the sheets.
"Sorry about last night." He busies himself with his juice, makes little slurping sounds that make Sherlock's stomach liquify and spin. "Won't happen again."
"Of course not." Sherlock finally says, words too loud in the small space of the kitchen. "Why would I want it to?"
John spends the next two nights at Mary's, and they never speak of it again.