"Sherlock, would you please stop playing that sodding thing?" I ask, lifting my head to glare at him. He only rolls his eyes, grins and places the violin on the floor, settling back into his chair. He kicks his feet up onto the coffee table and I say nothing because I know it's fruitless.
Sherlock has been back for three months now. He just showed up one day as I walked into the flat. He'd been sitting there, plucking at his violin like nothing had happened. I remember wanting to strangle him, then hug him and never let go. But I didn't. Instead all I could say was 'Tea?'. All he'd said was 'Yes. Please and thanks.' Then he'd made a comment about us being any more British and I'd laughed and everything was suddenly back to normal.
But we don't go out anymore. Not for cases. Not for dinner. We don't need to. We have everything we'll ever need here in the flat. Sherlock's always wearing the same thing; his blue housecoat and a T-shirt and a pair of blue plaid pyjama trousers. I don't wonder about it, I doubt he owns anything else for bed.
He naps and eats when I tell him to, which is different, but I just assume it's guilt. I like to watch his face change while he sleeps. His eyelids flutter constantly. It's not meant to be weird or intrusive, I just enjoy watching all tension drain from his face, smoothing out premature wrinkles. I love him, I want to protect him. I love him like a brother, so much that it hurts and I just want to reach out and hold onto him and never let go. But he won't leave again, he's assured me of that.
Sherlock is perched awkwardly in his chair, one leg dangling off the side, the other bunched beneath him. I laugh at him. "That looks uncomfortable," I say. Sherlock just hums in reply, the usual.
"What are you thinking about, John?" Sherlock asks, spinning a book on his finger. I raise a eyebrow at that but say nothing.
"Everything and nothing at all," I say and look up at him with a smile, it's a genuine smile, and I haven't given one in quite some time. He grins back, a low chuckle accompanying it. I haven't seen him this happy before, must be in the air. "Tea?" I ask.
There's a knock on the door and I turn my head to see Mrs. Hudson poke her own into the room. She looks a bit frightened or weary, I'm not sure why and I can't tell which one. I smile at her anyway and gesture to Sherlock.
"We were just about to have tea, care to join us?" I ask. I'm confused by the look she gives me, like her face is crumpling. She nods and shuffles uncharacteristically slowly into the room. As I hand her a cuppa, she gazes at me sadly, almost pityingly and I am confused.
It's the saddest look I've ever seen.