"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I think we need to talk."

"Why?"

"You know why."

"I believe so, yes."

"Then let's talk."

"I have nothing to say."

"Yes, you do."

"I do."

"Talk to me, Sherlock."

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't."

"Because you're an idiot."

John Watson sighs heavily. Sherlock Holmes has often been somewhat stubborn, but rarely reserved in his speaking. As of late, however, he hasn't been saying much.
"You need to tell me what's wrong, Sherlock."

"You need to be more specific, John."

"Something's wrong with you."

"When isn't something wrong with me?"

This response catches John a tad off-guard, and he furrows his brow at it.

"... In your eyes, I mean. In the eyes of others, who don't think as I do."

"What's wrong." John demands firmly.

"I can't understand."

"Can't understand what?"

"You."

John blinks. "What do you mean by that?"

"I can't understand you. Need I say more?"

"Yes, actually, you do. I don't understand what you mean."

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes.
"Where do I begin... I can't understand the way you think, John. The way you feel things."

"Of course you ca-"

"I'm not finished. Others don't understand me. They all think I'm strange; they call me a freak, others call me a psychopath, rather incorrectly might I add.

"But then, John... There's you. You don't call me either. You hardly ever even question my judgments. You always stand by me. You must enjoy this, but you never look particularly pleased. You look anxious more often than not. You're waiting for something.

"But what are you waiting for? Why are you able to accept me? Just what am I missing about you, John Watson; what is it I'm not able to deduce about you?"

John and Sherlock stare at each other in silence for a long moment.

"You look sad, John."

"I'm not sad."

"Upset?"

"Not really."

"Angry, then."

"Definitely not."

"... Resentful?"

John shakes his head.

"See? I don't understand you. I can tell how others feel by body language and facial expression. But sometimes I just can't read you, John. I think it troubles me to know that."

"If it makes you feel any better, Sherlock, ninety percent of the time I have absolutely no clue what you're feeling."

"That's because you couldn't possibly ever experience what I feel ninety percent of the time."

"And what do you feel ninety percent of the time?"

"The closest English word to describe it would be apathy."

"You're late, John." Sherlock says casually when he hears the door open.

"Yeah, yeah. Do we have any ice?"

"Not sure. Why?"

"It's not important."

Sherlock lays on the sofa with his eyes closed until he hears John step out of the kitchen, at which point he finally opens his eyes to look at his flatmate.

Ice.
Head.
Hurt.

"You're hurt."

"Thanks for stating the obvious." John replies bitterly as he sits down on the chair across the room from where Sherlock currently lay.

"How'd you hurt your head?"

"Nearly got mugged on my way back."

Sherlock blinks for a moment. "Really?"

"You sound surprised."

"I am. Sort of. I think. Did they take anything?"

"They hit me across the head pretty hard, but no."

"Then they didn't mug you."

"That's why I said I nearly got mugged."

"Why didn't they take anything?"

"They didn't want my phone, and that was pretty much all I had on me."

"Good. Don't lose that phone."

John rolls his eyes before rubbing them with his right thumb and index finger as he says, "Do you even care, Sherlock?"

"About what?"

"About me being hurt? About me being attacked on the middle of the street?"

Sherlock furrows his brow and strangely seems to have to think for a long moment.

CARE
English (v.) to feel concern

Sherlock opens his mouth after pondering his answer, but John abruptly stands up.

"You know what, never mind. Goodnight, Sherlock." With this, John heads upstairs to his own bedroom.

'Stupid.' He thinks. 'Sherlock, caring? Sherlock doesn't have enough emotional capacity for that, clearly.'

Beep.
John's phone has received a text. He already knows who it's from, so he decides not to read it, and he simply decides to go to bed.

A few minutes later, however, he receives another text, and then another. He sighs in frustration and finally looks at the texts.

I know how to define caring.
But I don't have an answer
for you.

SH

I don't know how to care.

SH

I'm sorry.

SH

"I'm leaving." John says one morning, breaking a period of silence.

"Pardon?"

"I'm moving out."

Sherlock says nothing.

"I found a place to go, and I've already packed. I'm leaving tonight."

"You're lying."

"What?"

"You're lying to me. You haven't packed. You haven't found someplace else to go. You're definitely not leaving tonight. You simply care about me, and you're upset that I can't care about you."

It was John's turn to say nothing.

"You're trying to scare me into caring. I would play along if I didn't already know that you were lying to me."

"I am going to leave, though."

"Yes, I know. That's why I said that you're not leaving tonight, and not that you weren't outright going to leave."

"Will you care when I leave?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"I can't keep living like this, Sherlock."

"Why's that?"

When John said nothing, Sherlock turned from the window and looked at him.

Pale.
Tired.
No sleep.
Underweight.

"You're fine, John." Sherlock returns to gazing out the window.

"You're really worrying me. Where were you last night?"

"I was taking a stroll."

"I texted you."

"Yes, about 27 times if I remember correctly."

"I had no idea where you were. It scared the hell out of me."

"Did it?"

"I even tried to go look for you."

"That would explain why-"

"And when I got back, you were asleep on the sofa."

"Yes, I was rather fatigued when I returned."

"Weren't you concerned that I was out?"

"I figured you were asleep."

"How could I sleep?!" John stands up quickly. "I had no idea where you were! I thought because you didn't text me back you might have been hurt! I was worried sick!"

"Then you must have been relieved to see that I was okay."

John stammers, exasperated.
"I-"

"If it's any comfort to you, I thought about you during the stroll."

"Because I texted you?"

"Before that."

John was silent for a moment.
"... You're not serious."

"I'm as serious as cancer, John."

"Jesus, don't say that."

Sherlock smiles at the windowpane.

"You should get some sleep, John."

"Since when do you care?"

"I told you, John, I'm incapable of caring."

"Then you're either an idiot or just inhuman. Humans care about each other."

"Not all of them..." Sherlock remarks under his breath.

"Most of them do. The ones that don't often end up murderers. Are you a murderer, Sherlock?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you like making me feel this way? Are you a sadist?"

"If I'm a sadist, then you must be a masochist, because you keep coming back when you know I'm not going to do anything but hurt you."

John silently agrees.
"... Has anyone ever hurt you before, Sherlock?"

"Please rephrase that question."

"Have you ever felt heartache before?"

"You mean a psychosomatic pain in my heart caused by intense grief?"

"Yeah, sure."

"No."

"Well, that's what I feel when I'm around you."

Sherlock furrows his brow. "Why's that?"

"Because I care about you, and you don't care about me. I want you to be happy, but it doesn't matter to you how I feel."

"But it does matter to me how you feel."

"Does it, really?"

"I wouldn't have asked you to sleep otherwise, would I?"

"Oh my God, Sherlock..." Mrs. Hudson cries to Sherlock as he enters 221B Baker St. She wraps her arms around him and cries into his chest.
"I'm so sorry..."

"Sorry about what? Why are you crying?"

"John, he..."

Sherlock firmly places his hands on the sides of Mrs. Hudson's head and stares her in the eyes. "What about John?"

"He..." She closes her eyes and lowers her head. "You were out, and he..."

"He what, Mrs. Hudson?"

"The police are upstairs right now, and-"

"Why are the police upstairs?" Sherlock pushes past Mrs. Hudson and starts up the stairs.

"They told me not to let you up there, Sherlock!"

"To hell with what they told you! John? John?!" When he reaches the top of the stairs to his and John's flat, he finds Anderson in the doorway.

"I can't let you-"

"Move, Anderson!" He shoves Anderson aside roughly and rushes into the flat. His vision immediately moves to the center of the room, and there it stops.
"... John..."

No one says anything to Sherlock, though a few of them give him pitiful glances once or twice.

"What happened to John...?"

Blood.
Splatter.
Gun.
Smell of gunpowder.
Entrance wound.
Exit wound.
Suicide.

Sherlock stares unblinkingly at John's body, his mind racing.

Murderer.
Grief.
Regret.
Psychosomatic pain.
Heartache.
Caring.

Madness.

Sherlock smiles, earning himself a few raised brows. He adjusts his blue scarf a tad, and then he walks out, completely ignoring Mrs. Hudson as he steps out onto the street, grinning like a madman.

Sherlock Holmes sits in a chair in his flat in 221B Baker St.

Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen with a cup of tea, which she places on the table beside him.
"Sherlock..." She says gently. "You've been sitting in the chair for a long time now, and you haven't said a word..."

Sherlock continues to stare hard at the chair opposite to him; the chair John used to sit in.

Mrs. Hudson looks at the chair; on the seat of it sits the skull that used to be on the mantel shelf.
Slowly, she leaves the flat, but not before saying, "I'll be downstairs if you need anything... But I'm not going to be your housekeeper forever."

Now that Mrs. Hudson has left, Sherlock leans forward in the chair, clasping his hands underneath his chin.
"Hey." He says to the skull.

The skull, of course, says nothing back.

"John, I've learned to care. Is this what you wanted?"

Silence.

"I've learned how you think; how you feel... and I think it's starting to unravel me.

"Help me out, John. I need you to tell me something."

The cup of tea sits untouched on the desk.

"If I told you I really cared about you all this time, more than anyone else, would you believe me?"

Steam rises from the teacup.

"You've always made me feel emotions, John. I was just being stubborn. I always cared; I just never realized it."

Milk swirls inside the cup.

"I'm sorry, I made a mistake. Can you ever forgive me for failing to read myself?"

The skull, unbalanced due to being placed near the edge of the cushion, falls to the floor.

Sherlock watches, believing this is a sign.

He smiles.
"So silly, John."