It was seeing the milk on the shelf at Tesco's that did it.
It was strange John Watson thought, how some little things could suddenly take one back to a different time and place. Like they were a doorway into a different universe, a different life. A carton of milk, the smell of someone's aftershave, a blue scarf…
They all reminded him of how things had changed.
He remembered the gleaming letters on the door - 221B. He remembered the warm smell of the scones that Mrs. Hudson used to bake. He remembered smoky evenings when he sat tapping away at his blog, sitting in his favourite armchair with the skull for company.
And he remembered how his heartbeat would quicken as he heard Sherlock tearing up the stairs and flinging the door open.
"Serial killer, John! Get your coat!"
"I take it you forgot to get the milk then?", John replied wryly even as he shut his laptop and followed Sherlock.
"Excuse me!" someone said loudly and John jumped out of his reverie. He apologized and began pushing his trolley forward.
He still needed to get some tomatoes, and bread and some beans too… he remembered asking Sherlock to get the beans once upon a time in a faraway land.
That had been the last time he ever did. Moriarty had kidnapped him and then Sherlock had shown up at the poolside. He had really thought they were going to die that night. Blown to bits at the pool. Moriarty had been mad. Criminally insane.
John had been so furious about being used as bait, about the thought that Sherlock might get killed because of him! He had wanted to choke the life out of Moriarty when he got his hands on him. He had thought he could save Sherlock. But of course, Sherlock wouldn't run. He wouldn't leave him and then it was too late.
Sometimes he thought maybe that's when things changed. Sherlock looking so…scared as he pulled the Semtex jacket off him. Sherlock fumbling to thank him for trying to save his life.
Or maybe it was after that - that time in the palace with Sherlock in his sheet, the two of them giggling like schoolboys. Or maybe it was when Irene Adler made him face something he had never wanted to name. Looking at her gaze at Sherlock hungrily, watching her kiss those high cheekbones – his blue eyes revealing nothing as he looked at her. John had not known it was possible to feel so hurt.
At Baskerville, he had thought maybe Sherlock felt something too. The way he kept apologizing. It wasn't much for the way he had behaved with John but it was a lot coming from Sherlock. And John knew it. And John had dared to hope.
They had settled so comfortably into their routines with each other by then that John did not even hope for more. He was almost content with his life the way it was – running after Sherlock, watching those amazing eyes light up as he deduced something, listening to him play the violin for John so lovingly. Only for him.
And then Moriarty had struck again. Entangling their lives in his spider's web. Gunning for Sherlock with a thoroughness that was frightening. That mad moment when Sherlock had commanded, "Take my hand!" And he had complied. He always did. And he had never wanted to let go. But it was not the right time.
And then Sherlock had jumped and… John was still not comfortable thinking about that even though he knew it hadn't been true.
He didn't like to think about how he had felt then – how he had felt so fragile he thought he might shatter, how he had spent days locked up in his room and covered in darkness, how his eyes ached with unshed tears and his lips muttered words for which it was too late.
John shook his head briskly and moved towards the checkout counter. He stood patiently in line, looking at the people milling around him. He wondered what Sherlock would have deduced about them. He checked his phone, but there was no text.
Sherlock's return had finally sealed their fate. It had been the beginning of the end. The end of their friendship as he knew it.
John remembered vividly that day when he entered 221B with a sigh and hung up his coat. It had not been a particularly tiring day but his shoulders stooped nonetheless and he limped slightly as he walked up the stairs. He had been met with the sight of Sherlock standing by the fireplace, his hand on the skull.
"John", was all he said. He attempted a tentative smile but it didn't quite move his lips or reach his eyes. He looked…unsure.
For John, that had been enough to lose all control.
To this day he remembered the rest of it in a haze. He knew he had cried out, he had lunged at Sherlock with every intention of punching that emerging smile off his face.
Instead he had found himself with his fingers in Sherlock's hair and his mouth glued to Sherlock's, his body pressed up against him as if to draw him inside himself. He had wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and buried his face against his chest, shedding warm tears and saying what he could not remember.
When he had finally drawn away, he had looked up to see Sherlock's face frozen in shock.
Yup, that's the one, John thought. That was the exact moment when he lost Sherlock Holmes' friendship.
He had gained his love instead, he thought with a broad smile as his phone pinged.
'Hurry back home, if convenient! Hamish misses you already! SH'
John pulled out his wallet to pay for his purchases and his phone pinged again.
'If inconvenient, hurry back anyway. I miss you too. SH'