John looked like crap.
A highly scientific observation, obviously. Sherlock could have said that the perpetual bags under John's eyes were 58% darker than usual, or that his mucus membranes were a nasty combination of inflamed and drippy, or that his psychosomatic limp was back with a vengeance, or even that that ratty blue pyjama set ought to have been burned centuries ago.
But really, looking like crap was the only appropriate description for John's state.
Of course, Sherlock didn't feel bad for John, because Sherlock was a sociopath. Sherlock didn't have stupid, ordinary things like tuggable heartstrings and his behavior certainly wasn't going to change to accommodate an obviously hungover John. Not even when said John was developing a simultaneous head cold.
But.
There wasn't any milk left for tea.
Perhaps Sherlock should remedy that.
Solely for his own benefit, of course. Just because John liked milk in his tea didn't mean the milk would be for John. Sherlock might decide he quite liked milky tea. Besides, it would be foolish not to have milk on hand. You never knew when it might come in handy, having an extra gallon lying about.
John usually went to the Tesco down the street. Perhaps Sherlock should visit. He ought to be familiar with the buildings in his own neighborhood, oughtn't he?
Yes. He most certainly should.
Sherlock nodded his head decisively and strode out of the flat, ignoring John's quizzical look. London's only consulting detective was a man on a mission.
When Sherlock returned, John was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into an empty mug and looking…
Like crap. Like a kicked puppy was not a permissible description. And wanting to give John a hug was likewise not allowed.
But if Sherlock's heart felt a lot less heavy when John saw the carton of milk and beamed like a little idiot, well then, Sherlock was the only one who had to know about that. So perhaps it was permissible, to care. Just a little.
John straightened up a bit and did that heartbreakingly-grateful look he was so good at. At which he was so good, Sherlock meant. Stupid.
Throat unaccountably tight, Sherlock held out the milk. John took it.
"You actually bought milk? Damn, Sherlock, I love you."
Sherlock swallowed.
"Yes, well. I have been reliably informed that friends buy each other milk. And since we are apparently friends, as in people who love each other, it seemed appropriate."
He was babbling, for Heaven's sake! Not. Permissible.
The room seemed strangely quiet. John was staring into his cup again.
Sherlock coughed. John looked up, took a deep breath.
"Sherlock… When I said I love you, I didn't mean it like that."
Oh. He… they weren't friends. Sherlock should't have fetched milk. Because they weren't friends. Not… friends. Not friends. Oh.
"Sherlock? Is it that bad, to know I love you? I mean, you said you were married to your work, but I thought maybe…"
Oh. That kind of love.
John's face was all wrinkled up in lines. Sherlock wanted to smooth them out.
So he did.