(A/N: I've been working at this oneshot for a really long time trying to get it right…I hope I've succeeded with it. You could call this a slightly unrelated sequence to my Sherlock on the Couch scene I did. I plan on writing one or two more till I get to post-Reichenbach. Also, I wasn't sure where to place this in a category. If there's ideas on a better place for the fic, I'm open to suggestions.)
The doctor and the detective had been sitting in silence at 221B, John in his chair and Sherlock standing at the window playing his violin. He didn't seem to be making up his mind what he wanted to play. He would go into vigorous sharp strokes for what could seem like hours and then level into smooth quiet notes that felt like seconds. It was impatient and driving John a little mad.
"Why did you never agree to dinner with Irene Adler?" He asked, breaking the verbal silence. He'd been resisting to ask due to Sherlock's sensitivity to conversation about 'The Woman' and to be honest John didn't care to talk about her, but he had been mulling over the question for the past hour while he listened to Sherlock play. Never mind the few times it had crossed his mind before now.
"I wasn't hungry." Sherlock answered flatly without missing a beat.
John pulled a face, "But you never eat when we eat out."
Sherlock's eyes dart a glance at him before looking back to the violin, "Interesting deduction John."
Once he utters the words the doctor's mind immediately starts working.
John falters, "But, you don't eat when you're on a case. And when we eat out it's usually during a case."
Sherlock keeps playing, a little more vigor in his strokes. He so hoped John would stop while he's behind.
John picks up after a long pause with a sudden determination. "What—you know. I don't see why people seem to throw us together as if we are together. Just because two men share a flat does not mean—,"
"John."
"No Sherlock, just, let me say this. You never say anything when people assume, you completely ignore it or leave me to stand there like an idiot."
Sherlock still wasn't looking at him. "People spend their lives forming opinions of what they think they see; what they expect. They need answers because it's entertaining, satisfying." Sherlock turned to John now, watching his expressions. "What matters to you John? Is it so vital to you what others say? What they think doesn't matter. It isn't relevant."
"I—it doesn't."
There was a long pause. Sherlock was irritated. Why did John dwell on these simple, stupid things? He knew what people saw in himself and John, but he ignored it, he had to. Why did John have to be so sentimental? Let so much bog down his mind.
"Did you…did you hear, you know, what she said? About…us? At the warehouse."
Sherlock turned to John. A heavy feeling in his chest he didn't quite understand came over him; it wasn't anger but something else and it threw him. Abruptly striding over Sherlock put his hands on either side of the arms of the chair.
"Sherlock—," The doctor cut off, a little shocked and utterly confused.
His voice stayed steady, "What do you want, John?"
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."
Sherlock braced his hands around John's temples, lowering to his eye level, "No, John. I'm being logical." Sherlock's voice lowered, "Is this what you expect? Is this what you want?"
John faltered for words, he could feel Sherlock's breath on him and it was rattling his nerves, "No—I mean, I don't know Sherlock! I don't even know what goes on in that head of yours!" He felt anger and frustration building from months of collected silence, "You're always so calm and indifferent and act like you don't hear any of it! Act like you don't feel! What do you have to say about any of it?"
Sherlock let go of John and straightened.
"It's…fine John. It's all fine."
John stared at him for a moment, running through what he meant. What Sherlock really meant. "I need air." Was all he could muster and turning away grabbed his coat.
Sherlock stood there listening to him descend the stairs until the door shut, then walked to the window. He watched John as he strode down the darkening street.
The fact was Sherlock wasn't sure what he thought of all of it. He'd grown accustomed to ignoring people long ago. But when John was babbling and looked almost angry that anyone thought John could care for him something inside him snapped. And, for once, Sherlock couldn't figure the answer; he didn't know what was behind John's defensiveness and he hated it. And he, Sherlock Holmes, was afraid. Afraid that one day John would storm out that door and not come back. He couldn't cope with that possibility. Caring is not an advantage…but he was slipping.
It's all fine.