The thing about John, is that despite all attempts and best efforts, and for someone who at first glance seems so normal and predictable, Sherlock has never quite managed to get a handle on what will come next.
So when he texts John to invite him to Christmas dinner, a ridiculous affair he's allowed himself to succumb to only because it works so well in the favour of his machinations, and receives a curt 'thanks, but no.' In return, he actually frowns.
Mary is here. SH
Of course she is. JW
He waits. Anticipating another message.
I've been told a change of scenery can do wonders. SH
Five minutes pass. Fingers drumming on the armchair as he listens to his parents talking in the living room.
I know what you're doing. JW
Of course he did.
I appreciate it. I do. But it's not going to work. JW
Sherlock purses his lips, brow drawn and is a moment away from replying when his phone chimes again.
I'm leaving her.
And just like that, the plan is off. Sherlock is once again thrown off by John's ability to be both unassuming and utterly chaotic at the same time, sitting in the near silence of the kitchen, ignoring his mother's entrance and mutterings about carrots and sprouts. He very nearly forgets to tell Wiggins not to spike everyone's tea.
John moves back in.
He has in fact been staying at the flat ever since the night he'd ended up back in the hospital, although Sherlock hadn't been entirely aware of that until he'd been released, coming home to find the jarringly familiar sights of John and domesticity wrapped around every surface as though he'd never left.
But it was one thing to have him as a guest, and another all together to stand in the doorway to the living room as he listened to the sounds of John unpacking his cases upstairs, the heavy slide of drawers opening and closing as clothes were firmly put in their place, the hangers jangling in the wardrobe as Sherlock realised that this was it. He was really staying.
He pushed away from the jamb, knuckles idly rubbing at the tight circle of scar tissue on his chest, as though it could be blamed for the odd twist of feeling that clutched tightly at his breath.
When John came down an hour later, he found Sherlock firmly ensconced upon the sofa, eyes a little glazed as he wandered the corridors of his mind, and if he noticed the odd wariness and confusion that drew his face into tightened lines then he never made mention of it.
Mary died on a Thursday.
When John had text him to ask him to come to the hospital, he'd thought that it had finally all caught up with them. He'd imagined rooftop snipers or covert poisonings, a suitable end, or as suitable as it could get for a woman like Mary.
He was almost offended at the dullness of it. Tripped and fallen whilst crossing the street, and the driver had not had a chance to brake.
He hovered, uncertain, as they were taken to the morgue. Watching carefully as the sheet was drawn back so that John could nod stiffly in affirmation as he identified her, his gaze lingering not on the pale grey face, but on the swell of her stomach beneath the hospital sheet.
John asked for a minute. Voice quiet and pleading as though Sherlock wouldn't have given him anything, everything in that moment to stop the trembling of his lips.
So he stood outside, face down and thumb pressed once again to his scar. Hoping that it was the reason it felt as though he couldn't breathe.
The first time John comes on a case with him he ends up in the Thames. . .