"John, despite appearances, despite… Despite what I've said before… And with everything that's been going on with you and Mary I just… Oh, bloody hell. I can't do this." Sherlock frowned at his own reflection in the mirror, the same reflection he had been staring at for the last half-hour as he attempted to perfect his words. Unsuccessfully attempted, he had to admit. Half an hour and he still had no clue how he was meant to go about this. The consulting detective sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking down to the skull that had been watching him slowly go to pieces from the mantelpiece, observing silently as skulls tend to do. He picked it up and held it mere inches from his face.
"I bet you never had any trouble with this." He mumbled. The skull said nothing, and was promptly put back down with an agitated sigh. "Well you're no use, are you?."

John would be home any minute now, Sherlock noted, checking his watch. The thought made his stomach knot up, but not in the way it usually did when he thought of John. I'm going to have to face him with this, and I'm going to look absolutely ridiculous doing so, aren't I? Oh god, what am I doing…?

Sherlock swallowed thickly and turned back to the mirror, leaning on the mantelpiece. He breathed in deeply.

"John." He began again. "We've been… Friends… For a while… No." He shook his head bitterly and pushed himself backwards. He couldn't start it like that. Burying his hand in his jacket pocket, Sherlock began to absently finger the small box that felt for all the world like it was burning a hole there. He had to admit, he was a fool for thinking that this plan was going to work. He'd been formulating it in his mind for months now, thinking through every single outcome and situation he could find himself in. He thought he was prepared.

Evidently not.

A click in the door lock startled him from his thoughts, and he spun around to face the door. He realised how guilty and suspicious he must have looked to John as he entered the flat, but couldn't do anything about that. John eyed him warily.

"What have you been up to?" The shorter man asked carefully, skimming his gaze over the flat to check for any disruption. Finding none, he fixed back onto Sherlock's face expectantly.

"Nothing. Everything's fine." Sherlock smiled. "Welcome home, John."

John nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders relaxing as he realised that the flat was in the same condition as he had left it earlier.

"Good." He shut the still-open door behind him and turned back to his flatmate. He exhaled. Nervously, thought Sherlock. He's nervous about something. "Sherlock, I have something to tell you."

Sherlock's stomach lurched. "I have something to tell you, too." He replied quickly. John raised an eyebrow, shutting his mouth with a click as Sherlock cut him off. Sherlock shook his head. "Go on, you first."

"Alright, well…" The doctor closed his eyes for a moment, clearly searching for the right words to phrase whatever it was he wanted to say. To Sherlock's annoyance, his heart began to beat faster with the anticipation of John's news, the way it usually only did when he was in the midst of a really exciting case. He cleared his throat impatiently.

"Spit it out, John."

"Sherlock, I… I proposed to Mary."

Sherlock froze, staring at John in disbelief. All thoughts left his mind and he was left unable to think, speak or move, but merely stand there dumbly without feeling. No, he was wrong, there was a feeling; a feeling of sick disappointment that was beginning to worm its way through his stomach and make him dizzy with a sudden overwhelming sadness. He was aware of John still gazing at him; his expression uncertain due to Sherlock's prolonged silence. The detective nodded weakly to break the stillness of the room and cleared his throat, forcing a tight smile onto his face.

"Well that's… That's great, John. Congratulations."

John breathed out audibly, a sigh of obvious relief. "Yeah. Thanks, Sherlock. I was going to tell you beforehand, but…" He trailed off and began to play with the hem of his jumper thoughtfully. "… Anyway, I'm glad I did it. It feels like a load off my chest, it really does."

There was another pause. Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Aren't you… Aren't you happy for me?" John asked, lowering his voice and frowning up at Sherlock, who turned his face away.

"Of course I am, John." He managed, though his throat was still painfully dry.

"Oh, good. I'm really glad." John beamed. "So… You had something to tell me, too?"

Sherlock shook his head stiffly. "No, it's okay. It isn't important." Without another word, he turned on his heels and stormed to his room, ignoring John's shouts for him to come back. Slamming the door behind him, he fumbled around in his pocket again for the ring box, which he had become hyper-aware of as it stuck into his body through the fabric of his jacket. He threw it onto the dresser angrily and flopped onto his bed.

How could he have been so stupid as to even entertain the idea? Stupid Sherlock, not understanding feelings or getting hints…

There was a knock at his door, and John's voice drifted through to him. "… Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Are you alright?" John spoke quietly, worriedly, as he entered the darkened room. Sherlock hadn't bothered turning on the light, and in the fading afternoon light it was difficult for him to make out his flatmate's expression. He crept uncertainly towards the bed and perched on the end.

Feeling the mattress shift under John's weight, Sherlock turned to face the wall. "I'm fine. I'd quite like to be alone at the present time, actually."

"Oh. Right, okay." John rose from the bed again, but didn't walk away. He stood over Sherlock awkwardly, biting his lip. "If there's anything you want to talk about-"

"-I'm fine, John." Sherlock snapped. John shut his mouth, taken aback by his flatmate's harsh tone.

"Well then. I suppose I'll just leave you to it…" He murmured. Although still worried about Sherlock's sudden mood change, with a decisive nod he turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Sherlock continued to face the wall even after John had left, hoping the blankness of it would help to calm his thoughts.

You really are a prize idiot, Sherlock Holmes.