Sherlock paced around the living room plucking at the poorly tuned violin as John read the paper aloud to him. "It says here that the police have declared the death of Richard Mitchwell as a suicide." Sherlock pulled the bow heavily against the strings of the violin releasing a demonic noise, "Wrong," he proclaimed before continuing his path around the room. Recently the papers had lacked the same spice that Sherlock craved in life, leaving him only with small logic puzzles that could no longer entertain him. "He would have landed further away from the building if he had jumped." He turned and continued the other way, "His father pushed him; at the press conference his hands had little defensive wounds indicating that Richard struggled before being pushed." This time the instrument emanated a more recognizable tone.
John folded the paper and placed it in his lap. "Are you sure there isn't something you want to talk about?" The stripped pajamas that hung off of Sherlock's thin frame were wrinkled and gave the appearance that he had not left bed for some time; with a dismissive hand wave he fell down upon the couch. "The criminals have become dull, I'm looking for something with real excitement." He clutched at the air as if hoping to grasp something substantial. "Maybe we should go out today, go have a look around the park." Suggested the weary doctor.
Over the past month the cases that fed Sherlock's never ending addiction were becoming harder and harder to come by as Scotland Yard cracked down on having none insiders work on cases. "Why go to the park?" He asked. "Why go anywhere?" John glanced around the flat's living room; half read books were strewn across the coffee table and a fortnight's worth of newspapers sat pristinely folded next to the telly. "Let's go out and get dinner," John said as he rose from the chair and set the paper down on top of the others, "how about Chinese? That's always your favorite."
Sherlock ran his hands through the curly mop of hair that sat on top of his head. The eyes that had once puzzled John now betrayed to him the inner thoughts of his troubled flat-mate. The hard green- gray eyes were filled with thought and contemplation as he sat up and placed the violin on the table in front of him. Without a word he strode out of the room and left John standing by himself, unsure of what his next move should be.
The sun fell quickly outside of their humble abode, leaving the stillness inside in sharp contrast with the frantic London that lay just outside of their doorway. As John waited for Sherlock he could hear bathroom cabinets open and shut, doors slam as he walked around, and the occasional shout in anger. An hour after first leaving the room Sherlock returned dressed in a fine grey suit and black dress shoes. "Shall we be off?" He questioned as though no time had passed since he was last so finely dressed.
As John followed down the stairs, like he always did, he could feel his mind slipping back into its own thoughts. The year had passed so quickly, John mused to himself as they passed out of the door and onto the sidewalk, now after spending so much time coming out of his shell he was afraid of the feelings that had begun to creep upon him. Nearly every day John felt pangs of love and affection for the strange man that had stumbled into his humble life. As they made their way down the streets towards the restaurant John wondered silently what had happened to the man that had once bravely stood on the battlefield repairing the men who had come to him bloodied and ready for death, how would he feel about the current John? Perhaps the phase would pass, wished John.
He stayed silent until they had been seated; leaving the two of them alone in the dark dining room as all around them couples enjoyed dates. "What did you sister have to say?" Sherlock questioned as they looked at the menu. Even as John sat questioning his sexuality he allowed himself the distraction of speaking about the other frustrating areas of his life. "She's decided to go back to Clara for now, they're trying to 'patch things up'. She'll be gone within a week." He set the menu down and looked up at Sherlock's painfully beautiful visage.
"Something else has been on your mind." Sherlock commented. His look was inquisitive, portraying the feelings that he so often kept to himself. John could see the struggle in Sherlock's mind; he rarely saw the helplessness that accompanied Sherlock's lack of knowledge. "It's nothing." Returned John, once again picking up the menu and turning it over. He could feel the man that sat across the table study his features as he feigned interest in the menu. "People only say that when they have something to hide." Sherlock observed to him.
In a fit of frustration John set the menu down and ran his hands through his hair. "Must you always try to analyze me while we're together?"
The conversation fell silent and they continued the ritual of dining. As the dinner progressed Watson did not look up from his plate, choosing instead to allow his emotions to brew within him. Intently he stared at the meal before him. Every time they ventured out he and Sherlock would eat the same meals, he would order something with chicken and Sherlock something with fish. John pondered the culinary rut they had fallen into, as his food grew cold before him. Now every choice to him was another thing to think about as he wondered what he was giving away to Sherlock's trained eye.
What if you just told him? John questioned himself. He allowed himself a glance up across the table. Sherlock's hand rested on the table as he sipped from his glass of water, John imagined what it would feel like to reached his own hand out and touch it against the invitingly pale skin. Involuntarily he opened his mouth, his brain raced to find the words to tell Sherlock what he was feeling.
No. This wasn't the time, or the place, how could he proclaim his love when they were surround by unfamiliar faces in an overpriced restaurant? This wasn't the time or the place to finally express what he had been hiding. His thoughts continued to spin, What if I never told him? Now that was an option, just hiding everything that was inside of him for the next however many years- that could work out.
Together they stood up from the table and made their way back to the flat. Sherlock stood ahead of John, leading the away through the evening crowds that bustled about eagerly taking photos of the city as it was lit against the dark night.
John finally spoke, unable to keep himself quiet any longer. "Busy night, isn't it? I wonder why everyone is out on the town tonight."
"There's a gathering tonight in Regents Park, in memorial of gang violence victims." He explained as they stepped up to the door of 221b Baker Street. "I was sure you had read about it in the paper." The warmth of the home contrasted with the chilly streets they had just emerged from. "There has to be something you aren't telling me," observed Sherlock. "Your eating habits have changed, you're no longer seeing Sarah outside of work, and you've started biting your thumb again."
"What?" John questioned as he glanced to his hands, self conscious of any sign that could be seen by Sherlock. "I haven't started biting my thumb." The defensive tone in his voice began to rise with the tension of the situation. "Yes, you have." Sherlock said casually as he slid his coat off of his shoulders. "You did it twice at dinner and once earlier when you were reading the paper aloud." He placed the coat upon a peg, and began up the stairs. John rushed to pull his own coat off and set it upon a peg. "Well what has that got to do with anything?" asked John as he began up the steps. "Something's happened," commented Sherlock, "You must have felt it yourself, sexual trouble isn't it?"
It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, as though he was once again in a schoolboy fight. Every feeling hit him at once, had he really allowed his secret to be discovered so easily? "What would make you say that? What has my thumb got anything to do with that?" The voice that emanated from his body wasn't the same man that he was familiar with, this voice sounded different, as though he had aged so much in just a matter of moments.
"You've stopped seeing Sarah, but that isn't deep enough, is it? Your eating habits, you no longer eat as you used to, yet you still sit at the table as though you're going to, classic sign of someone with anxiety issues." The words flowed freely, without a thought or a hesitation, once again the stifled genius had been returned to his forte. "Biting your thumb," he continued on, "it's a habit that only comes out when you're talking about Harry, the most stressful person in your life." John preferred not to dwell on the irony of Sherlock speaking of the most stressful person in his life. "Harry hasn't become any worse, you would have told me that, and no one else has entered your life, they and I would have met." The deduction had slowly become an examination of their friendship. "Now," he lowered his eye brows together, "what is there that we don't talk about?" the corners of his lips twitched, giving him a grin for just a moment, "Your sexual life is all that's left." Now he allowed the grin to stay for just a moment longer, "Now, tell me, what is her name?"
A tiny bit of relief crept into John's heart, what a perfect pronoun Sherlock had chosen to use. "I haven't got a girl." John corrected. He slumped into the chair he had previously been seated in, now with the confidence that Sherlock did not know his deepest secret. How close they had flirted with what truly lay within John, as though Sherlock had brushed the edge of the rock inside of John.
"Whatever you say," dismissed Sherlock. "I'm off to bed." John watched as Sherlock collected a book off the bookshelf and departed downstairs. His tall thin body taunted John; the shirt he wore was fit perfectly to his sleek chest, and his trousers were crisply ironed into perfect pleats. John cursed himself for being distracted by Sherlock's body. He would never be able to control himself if he just allowed his thoughts to trail off to Sherlock. With one more fit of anger John left and room and went off to bed.