I dealt with it. No, not dealt, that would imply that I did something about it. I handled it, I lived with the consequences. I suppose that is what I did. It's what I always did.
When I first met John Watson, I did something stupid. As the narrow-minded narcissist I was (or perhaps "am" would be more suitable, I don't know anymore), I dismissed him as boring, as I have with any other person I have ever met. It took me a while to catch on to what a terrible mistake I made by rejecting John Watson that night.
"No, I'm not asking you out... I'm just saying it's all fine."
His pupils were dilated, his voice a slight pitch higher than normal and he maintained eye contact for more than three seconds four time that evening. He wasn't asking me out, but he obviously wanted to. And I scared him off, letting him think that I was interested in nothing more than a companion, a colleague.
So he grew to be my friend. But friends don't hold each other's hands. Friends don't stroke each other's hair or face, just to know what it feels like. Friends wish the other good luck when they go on dates with their girlfriends, and greet them as best man by the altar.
Of course, I am honoured to be John's best man. No, not honoured. There is no word to describe the ecstacy of knowing that John – John Watson, my John – sees me as his best friend. He loves me. Not like I love him, of course not, but he does love me.
And now I'm dealing with it. Like I dealt with the realization that I was in love with a man I had already rejected and permanently scared off as far as romantic involvement was concerned. I've moved his chair, and I'm lying upside down in my own chair, staring at the space his chair once vacated, hoping he won't ask me why I moved it.
He doesn't. The question he asks is a lot trickier than that.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
There's actual concern in his voice, and as I lift my head a bit to look at him, I see it mirrored in his face. He is eyeing me with a strange look, as if I might drop dead at any moment. I suppose the lack of food and sleep has left me a shade paler than usual, and I don't want him to worry about me, but I can't lie to John. Not right now.
"No. I'm not, John. Unfortunately, there's nothing you can do about it. Please, go away, I need to think!"
And so I'm left alone, thinking about all the times he's been affectionate and I've had to shake it off on the spot by dismissing it as annoying or irrelevant. I've had to put on a stone mask for my best friend, and curse myself for it as soon as I'm left alone. I'm left wondering what Mary had that I couldn't offer, what she said to him that I never did, and probably never would.
The spiral of thoughts follow the same pattern as they always do: Annoyance, anger, hurt, despair, surrender.
So I handled it before. And I can handle it now.