Sherlock comes bounding up the stairs, somehow managing to combine the grace of a gazelle with the thumping of a herd of elephants. He gets to the the first landing and stops abruptly, the view from the door catching him off-guard.
John is standing in the living room, staring vacantly out the right-side window, apparently oblivious to his flatmate's dramatic entrance. No, not vacant. That's not quite right. Sherlock can see a glimpse of his reflection in the window and he looks distracted, despondent.
Sherlock finds himself wondering. What could I have done? Surely not the human kidneys in the fridge, they were clearly labelled and away from the meat. Have I forgotten something? He runs through a litany of possible anniversaries and occasions he may have forgotten - he's not a great romantic but he's familiar enough with popular culture to know that forgetting these sorts of things may be disastrous. But no, nothing springs to mind. He fidgets nervously, lacking the usual grace that even his erratic movements tend to have.
"Sherlock, come here." John says quietly. "I can hear you thinking from all the way across the room."
"Have I done something wrong?" Sherlock mumbles. He doesn't like admitting he may have made a mistake. Even less, he doesn't like admitting he doesn't knowwhat he may have done, or what may be wrong.
"Oh, no, love. It's not you, I'm sorry. The hospital called earlier - " John sucks in an anxious breath and chews on his lower lip, his tongue darting out to trace the impression left by his teeth. In any other circumstance, the sight would shoot directly to Sherlock's groin, but this time it hits him right in the heart. "It's Harry... She's relapsed again."
The look on the poor doctor's face is a mixture of frustration, concern, and defiance. They've fought about Harry before. John seems to think Sherlock, of all people, should be more understanding about the whole thing. Sherlock adamantly claims his vices are different - he's always in control, and his indulgences help him to be sharper, to be clearer, to be better. Harry's simply drowning herself in darkness and oblivion, making herself stupid. To Sherlock, there is no greater insult than to compare the two situations. John's not sure he can handle another row about this.
"I need to go visit her, Sherlock." John moves over to the sofa, feeling the weight of the couch shift as Sherlock settles down beside him. "I know you don't approve, but she's my sister. She's all I've got." He feels the movement again as the tall, dark-haired man pulls away, looking hurt and confused. "Besides, you, of course. You're everything to me now. But she's the last link I have to my family."
"Would..." Sherlock pauses, looking as though he's about to face a firing squad. "you like me to come with you? I'll behave, I promise."
John looks down, but his hand reaches out towards his partner, lacing their fingers tightly together. "Thank you, Sherlock, for offering. You don't need to. I'll be fine, I won't be gone long."
Sherlock reaches out, long pale fingers tentatively cupping John's jawbone, running his thumb along the day's beard growth. He guides his lover's chin, turning him so they're facing each other. His unearthly pale eyes lock onto John's warmer, deeper ones. "If this upsets you, it upsets me. We're in it together now. I will learn to cope with your sister and her - " he cuts himself off, whatever he was going to say lost on his tongue, "for your sake. That's what people in relationships do, is it not?"
With this, he leans forward and places one gentle, chaste kiss on John's lips. Their kisses usually have hunger behind them, promises of fire and heat and passion, and promises of things better left in the bedroom. This one is different. It's filled with promise too, but promises of support, of endurance, of compromise. John pulls back and breaks it, but only to wrap his arms around Sherlock and to bury his face in the neck of the man he knows will always be there for him, even if he can't always verbalise it properly.