Sherlock was sitting lithely in his arm chair across from John, just staring at his companion, his mind reeling dizzyingly with thoughts of the past few days. He knew that John was angry at him. He knew it all too well. What he didn't know, however, was that John actually did want to talk about what had happened. Things like why Sherlock had done it, where he had done it, and how on earth did he not think to tell John, his best friend, about it.

"You know," John rasped painfully, shifting in his battered armchair. "You could have told me."

"So we're talking now?" Sherlock's whisper was equally agonizing as he ran a hand through his always tousled hair.

John glared at his friend, even though he knew that it wouldn't affect the detective whatsoever. It's not fair, he thought bitterly. He knew he would feel uncomfortable under Sherlock's cool, unwavering gaze in itself. No need for Sherlock to glare back.

Using one of his friend's favorite comebacks, he replied, "Obviously."

Sherlock sniffed disdainfully as he turned his head to the side, slightly miffed that John had stolen his prized saying. "I don't see why. Days of silence…."

John nodded grimly, refusing to fall into his friend's trap. "You deserved every minute of it. You still do."

"Feels nice to be loved."

The doctor rolled his sky blue eyes then turned to look at the neon yellow, slightly dripping smiley face on the wall, eyeing the holes and punctures from the time Sherlock had shot bullets through the wall. "Don't ignore what I said. I know you well enough by now."

The boffin shrugged carelessly, not meeting John's now pointed look that was staring him down. "I did what I had to."

"You could have told me." John repeated once more, his gaze intensifying.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to glance at the the ceiling. "I don't have to tell you everything, do I?" He had a pained expression on his features. No, not pained John realized. It looks more like Sherlock doesn't want to be bothered with all this.

"You decide to do something stupid and inhumane and you think that it's perfectly fine not to tell me?!" John was extremely vexed now and he had every right to be. Sherlock was being superbly unreasonable. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any human in that vast Mind Palace of yours." he muttered, getting up to leave.

"What did you say?" Sherlock sat forward in his chair, his usually smooth voice rough and conveying an aura of challenge.

"I said," John spoke again, louder this time, as he imitated Sherlock's posture. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any human in that vast Mind Palace of yours. Because right now, there doesn't seem to be any. Unless it would like to make its appearance, because it's bloody overdue!"

John grabbed his coat, put it on, and stomped angrily down the stairs, his throat burning with the effort of talking. As he reached the door and placed his hand on it's cool, bronze handle, he paused, breathing heavily as his heart palpitated fiercely. Should he apologize for what he had said? No, he thought firmly. Sherlock deserved every word of it! Turning the knob forcefully, John hurried out onto the sidewalk slamming the door noisily behind him.

Sherlock sighed, tousling his hair in frustration, at precisely the moment that Mrs. Hudson decided to walk into the living room and deliver some fresh tea and biscuits. The aroma of freshly brewed tea would usually be enough to shake the detective from his stupor but, today, his sour mood couldn't be remedied.

"Would you like some tea, dear?" she asked Sherlock, her voice gentle. "You should really rest yourself." Pausing, the landlady looked around the room, confused as to John's sudden disappearance. "Where is John?"

Sherlock muttered something about the doctor taking a walk, standing up to stretch as he did , and stormed purposely into the bathroom, slamming the door, just as John had, behind him.

Slightly disgruntled, Mrs. hudson descended to her flat, taking the tea and biscuits with her.

Bzz!

John rolled his eyes. His phone had been buzzing continuously for the past four days already, all of the texts being from Sherlock. I'm sorry, John! Please come back! We have to talk! You're right! It was insufferable! Occasionally, Sherlock would actually call John instead of texting him which infuriated him further. If John didn't bother replying to his texts, what made the detective think that he would want to speak to him?

Bzz!Bzz!Bzz! Sherlock was calling again. Bzz!Bzz!Bz-!

John perked up at this sudden interruption. Had the boffin lost hope and hung up? Or had someone else hung up the phone for him? Concerned, the doctor decided to call back, Just to see what's up, he reassured himself. I'm still angry with him… The idiot.

The phone only rang twice before someone picked up.

"Sherlock?" John blurted, worry patent in his tone.

"Not exactly," the recipient on the line replied. John could hear the smirk that was currently taking up the mystery man's face. "My little brother is presently in his bedroom taking a much needed snooze. He seemed quite anxious to hear from you though. Almost as if he wanted to apologize for something…"

"Mycroft," the healer sighed tiredly. "What do you want?"

"Come to Baker Street, Dr. Watson. Someone's waiting for you."

TO BE CONTINUED...

A.N. Hiya! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! I always take suggestions for new stories so if you have any feel free to let me know. Also, I'm always looking for constructive crtitism on my writing so if you happen to find an area I'm lacking or could improve, hit me with some tips and suggestions on how I can be a better writer. Thanks so much!

-Blue