"You smile, when you look at me. Why?"
Sherlock paused to consider the question. He was fully aware that the version of John that was standing in front of him was merely an extension of his Mind-Palace, not really there but a manifestation of his memories and familiarity with his flat mate.
He knew he was effectively having a conversation with himself; the format helped him think through things, and get a somewhat fresher perspective—even though John's responses had to be guessed at and predicted.
John was usually predictable anyway.
"You're smiling right now." Mind-Palace John broke in again, giving him a pointed look. "You going to answer me or not?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed in concentration, so quiet that he could hear his own breath. Finally he looked up. "I'm happy."
"You smile when you look at me because you're happy?"
"Yes..."
"And you're happy because—?"
Sherlock paused again, his fingers curling around the armrests of his chair. "Because I've got... you. No..." He shut his eyes. "That didn't sound right..."
"You know I'm not gay." Mind-Palace John was looking at him, he could feel it.
"Neither am I..." Sherlock murmured quietly. "It's not about that... You're my friend..."
"You've never really had one of those before, have you?" Mind-Palace John was suddenly a little younger, more as he'd been during one of their earliest cases as he'd stood in the office at the bank and informed Sebastian Wilkes that he was just a 'colleague.'
Sherlock exhaled as he opened his eyes and released his grip on the arms of his chair. "And you're suggesting I may have subsequent attachment issues?"
"No," Mind-Palace John shook his head. "You are."
Sherlock studied his face, trying to force down the little pang of dread that rose in his throat at the thought.
Surely... there was nothing bad about the happiness he felt knowing he had John around to stay—for now, at least?
Who knew how long it would last.
But there couldn't be anything wrong with it... it was the most content he'd ever felt...
But...
"You don't deserve good things." Mind-Palace John's tone was automatic, like he was reading off a script that had been rehashed over and over again. "That's what you're thinking right now, isn't it? You're almost as predictable as I am. Got to work on that."
"Shut up..." He closed his eyes again. He heaved himself up out of his chair and took a few steps forward, pacing the living room. "If I've developed attachment issues, then I have to deal with that. It leaves me entirely too vulnerable. So... the best thing to do would be to distance myself. I have to stop caring so much."
Mind-Palace John let out a low chuckle, almost a scoff. "You can't."
Sherlock's jaw tightened.
"You can't stop caring. You're hopeless, and defective, and you know what the best part is? It's your fault. You can't make yourself step back, because you want this too much." The vitriol in the words stung, but not as much as the truth in them. "You know better, you know this makes you defenceless, but you're so weak, you let your heart rule your head. Hypocrite."
Sherlock stood still, letting it sink in silently. Tiny particles of dust floated in the stagnant air, filtering into view under the glow of the lamp and disappearing again into the dark.
He did want this…
He couldn't stop…
His lips parted, but no sound came at first, and when it did it was almost a whine. "…I need this…"
"Yes, you do." The contempt was gone from Mind-Palace John's voice and it sounded more like the real thing again, simply a statement. "That human part of you—however weak—needs this. But you know the risks."
Sherlock nodded slowly, shutting his eyes and pressing his lips together. "It's worth it… feeling like this…"
"Be careful," Mind-Palace John was smirking. "People might talk."
"Let them…"
It absolutely was worth it: that irresistible twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips, that warmth in his chest, not to mention how entertaining it could be to match wits with someone—even if it wasn't really a fair fight.
"Since when do you put so much value on sentiment, anyway?"
"Just this…" Sherlock didn't move from where he stood, but had wrapped his arms around himself. He stayed quiet, feeling his fingertips press into his upper arm, using the pressure to help ground himself. "It's so much better than being alone…"
The tap was dripping in the kitchen.
A subtle dip… dip… dip…
"Did you check it yet?"
Sherlock's attention snapped back to him. "What?"
"Did you already check it?"
"Check what?"
"Your phone? Sherlock, are you listening to me?"
"Yes, of course..."
"Sherlock."
His eyes snapped open and he breathed in full consciousness, taking it in for a split second before he realised John—real John—was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking at him.
John raised his eyebrows pointedly. "You back now? You've been lying there for two hours."
"Check what? What are you talking about?" Sherlock groaned and sat up, swinging his legs off the sofa.
John nodded expectantly toward Sherlock's phone on the arm of the sofa. "Got a text."
He glanced at it, and then back toward the kitchen where John had already returned—presumably to stir something on the stove, judging by the smell that was drifting into the living room.
He picked it up and unlocked it, and after a few moments of silence he was up on his feet and fetching his coat, which brought John back to the kitchen doorway.
"What are you doing?" John was frowning and still holding a spatula, which he held up a bit as if to add emphasis to his words.
"That text was from Lestrade. I've got a case."
"Again? You've only just finished the last one—and we haven't even had dinner yet. We can wait thirty minutes—can't we?"
There was a familiar spark in Sherlock's again, and a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he shook his head. "I need this."