Sherlock talks when John is away.
It isn't because he does not notice when John has left the flat. The truth is that Sherlock cannot shut him out in that way. When it comes to detective work, John is his conductor of light. But his presence in Sherlock's life is as brilliant as firelight, reaching and illuminating even the long-forgotten corners of his Mind Palace. In Sherlock's eyes, John never ceases to glow.
And so, he speaks, because John is with him.
Before John, Sherlock found solace in his own thoughts.
There was stability in relying on only himself, but there was also a void. He filled it with knowledge, adventure, addictions. His mind was full of interlocking ideas and plans that always came back to his own needs.
When he met John, he found a way to make space again.
It's when they are apart that Sherlock notices their connection the most.
He feels John's eyes on him from across a crowded room and thinks wildly of planets in orbit. Their eyes meet, and the space between them ebbs and flows - expanding, fading, but never gone.
All others are shadows in the periphery of their universe. All others fade to dust.
He studies Newton and Kepler and the laws of gravitational force. He comes to know and appreciate the solar system, for it brings him knowledge of the way two bodies revolve around each other.
But it does not teach him a way to bring them together.
If he doesn't have the strength to change their course, at least he can learn to appreciate being in John's atmosphere.
Being apart becomes quite difficult. John can't possibly ask for time off every single time Sherlock needs to travel for a case, and the strain it puts on them is nearly embarrassing.
Sherlock wonders if too much distance between them is bad for his health, and then admonishes himself for such a ridiculous thought. But the miles stretch out like unbreakable barriers, and Sherlock cannot hear John's footsteps, or his sighs, or even his mundane thoughts.
I miss you, he writes, hitting send before he can remind himself that caring will not do him any good.
I was just about to send the same to you. Guess we're on the same wavelength tonight.
And every other night, he thinks. Every single night, John.
It happens on an ordinary day.
Sherlock sits, hands clasped and eyes shut, as he tracks John's footsteps. Staircase, front door, kettle. Upstairs for a change of clothes, staircase, kettle to pick up his tea. Armchair –
No. Wrong.
Sherlock's armchair. John has altered their course.
Oh, John. You have always been full of surprises.
Sherlock opens his eyes.
They have touched before, of course.
Sherlock can locate each memory in his Mind Palace, for these moments surge with energy and color. Fingers intertwined in greeting, an assuring hand on his lower back, a swell of pressure on his shoulder, and, once, his knee (a moment that glows red, like heat).
But here, now - Sherlock will remember this as shimmering gold.
A pull of gravity.
A burst of light.
John's hand touches his cheek, and against all odds,
They collide.