Something's wrong. Sherlock thinks, plucking the smooth cords of his violin. He's been reading that same page for the past 13minutes and 24seconds, he usually takes 9minutes, give or take a few seconds. Instinctually, Sherlock narrows his eyes. It's these moments he hates most. He knows something is bothering the golden haired man, who so carelessly drapes himself in his arm chair, but cannot pin point its source. Sherlock is absorbed in thought that he doesn't realize he's staring.
"Yes?" John asks with a twinge of annoyance in his tone. Sherlock cocks his head to the side, in a bird like manner. John's eyebrows arch, prompting Sherlock to answer. Sherlock moves his violin on to his lap and leans forward in his chair. His piercing eyes hold John's. "You're thinking." John gives a slow nod, slightly more irritated by the half-finished answers he gets per usual. "And?" His golden eyebrows knit together by confusion. "What about?" Sherlock's strong demeanor alters by a fraction. A fraction, that John notices. "Concerned, Sherlock?" "Oh, so very deeply." Sherlock speaks in a monotone, suppressing a smirk.
"Nothing at all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere I have to be." John springs up from his chair and quickly makes his way to the door. Sherlock frowns inwardly. He must be seriously bothered, if it's enough to make him forget his jacket. He stares at the old worn jacket that dangles from one of the hangers. Sherlock was unaware of the amount of pressure he was grinding his teeth with until his jaw slacked. A new determination to find out what the hell is going on in John's mind sets in. But for now, Sherlock swiftly picks up his instrument and begins to play Vivaldi's "winter" concerto.
John is striding down the street, his cheeks burning. Damn him, damn him, damn him. He turns a corner vaguely aware of where he is plans to go or when he plans to stop. It's not enough for him to consume my thoughts, now he needs to know that he does? A grunt escapes his pinched lips. It's been like this since the day Sherlock came back from the dead. John thinks back to the day that Sherlock "died" and how agonizing the last three years have been. He had taken up gambling and drinking again. He couldn't cope with the very idea that this extraordinary man, who turned his life upside, was gone. Now that Sherlock is back, John shakes his head, letting the notion fade fast and unfinished.
His legs begin to ache; he looks around and finds the sun vanishing behind the city skyline. He has been out longer than expected. What does it matter? It's not as if Sherlock will notice that I left at all. John turns on his heels and begins his journey back to 221B. John takes a deep breath, his chest feeling heavier than he remembers. As he wanders through the thinning crowd, he begins to regroup. He will not slip up like that again.
Hello, there! This is my my FIRST Fanfiction *cue confetti*. So I hope you like it and want to read more.
I know it's kind of long and dull for now but I pomise it picks up quickly after this. ;) Thanks!