The Secret

"John's not here," Sarah said into her phone in answer to Sherlock's query. His phone call had been completely out of the blue, and she had no idea why he had thought John would be with her. She and John had broken up over a week ago. Had John said something, she wondered, that would make Sherlock think they were together again? She hoped not. She could do without being involved in their co-dependent relationship. "He hasn't been here." The line went dead. She shrugged. Typical.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa wrapped in his blue dressing gown. He tapped his phone with one long finger and contemplated the facts he knew before pushing speed dial 1 for the ninth time.

"Hello," John finally answered.

Sherlock ignored the forced cheerfulness he heard in his friend's voice and snapped, "John, where are you? I need your help."

"At Sarah's, and no, you don't," was the long-suffering reply.

"Well, I just spoke with her, and she seems to have misplaced you." Sherlock's clipped words skittered across the line.

There was silence on the other end before, "Sherlock, I-" There was another lengthy pause then a sigh. "Look, we'll talk about this tomorrow." The line disconnected.

Sherlock didn't move from his chair when John walked in the door the next morning. His violin played on. Bach, John thought. If it weren't for Sherlock's intense gaze following his every movement John might have thought he'd somehow miraculously escaped the notice of his flat mate. He almost snorted at the absurdity of that thought. Neither spoke as John hung up his coat and headed to the kitchen to make himself tea.

The music stopped abruptly. Sherlock laid the violin across his lap and tapped the bow distractedly on his knee. "You were very good," Sherlock said quietly as John sat down across from him in his favorite chair with his tea and the morning paper.

"I'm sorry?" John asked giving him an innocent, puzzled look before returning his attention to the headlines. If Sherlock wanted information, he'd have to work for it.

"You were very good," Sherlock repeated slowly. "How were you able to keep it from me for so long?" He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin and glared intently at John. "You let me believe I had you all figured out."

The narrowed eyes and the clipped words almost had John fidgeting, but he was made of sterner stuff. He wasn't one of Sherlock's suspects. He hadn't committed any crime.

"That your sister was a drunk," Sherlock continued in the same accusatory tone, "and that's why you didn't speak to her. But that wasn't all of it, was it? There was more."

John heaved a sigh and carefully folded the paper. He was afraid the guilt was obvious on his face.

Sherlock could feel the emotions roiling inside him. He thought he might be getting angry. This was John. His John. The one person he trusted above all others. And his John had lied to him.

Unable to contain the energy these emotions generated, he hastily set the violin aside and jumped to his feet, pacing in an attempt to control himself. It wasn't so much that John had secrets from him. He knew there were things John kept to himself. Unimportant things like who his friends were or how he'd gotten shot. He waved a dismissive hand not caring that the motion would make no sense to John. But this- this was important. John had let him believe his deduction had been correct. Had let him believe he had been right. What if it had been about a case? He ran frustrated hands through his hair. What if it had meant the difference between catching the guilty person or an innocent one? He didn't like making mistakes.

"It wasn't just your sister's drinking that led to your estrangement from her," he shot at the man he had trusted as he paced waving a negating hand. "But she thought it was. That's why she gave you her old phone. But you felt guilty about the gift which is why you never called her and had no problem lending it out to me thirty seconds after setting eyes on me. No, it wasn't just the drinking." He stopped pacing so he could stare coldly at his silent flat mate. "You liked her wife. How is dear Clara?" he sneered.

A/N: Just a little something spurred on by a throw-away line in the first episode. Let me know what you think. Reviews such as: 'great', 'wonderful', 'fun', are always nice, but feel free to use your imagination. :)