Perhaps the jam had been a lapse in good judgment on Sherlock's part.
John had taken one look at the gift in Sherlock's hands and skulked past into the kitchen. Sherlock looked down at the jar of black currant jelly, the right corner of his mouth pulling down into a sort of confused grimace. The present had taken him about ten devoted minutes in the closest shop to decide upon and purchase. It was pretty, tasteful, and it was well sealed, so John couldn't think he'd managed to drug it (not that Sherlock had any intention of ever doing such a thing...unless it was for a case).
So what could possibly be wrong?
Sherlock sat in one fluid motion in his leather armchair, the jar of jelly balanced conspicuously on his uppermost knee. He ran his thumb in a tiny circuit on the armrest and gazed reproachfully at John's empty chair across from him.
John bashed about in the kitchen for a while. Porcelain clattered, a kettle whistled, and John bumbled and muttered about the lack of milk. He soon emerged, red-faced and glowering, with a full teacup in one hand and a plate heaped with scones in the other. He set these down on the arm of his plaid chair and plopped down in the seat.
He glared at the jar on Sherlock's knee.
"I suppose I should've fetched a knife for that," he murmured.
The tiniest of smirks lifted the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Unless you deem it fitting to furiously slurp it down as if it were an offensive cube of gelatin, I do believe a knife is required for the proper consumption of black currant jelly. So yes. Fetch one at once."
John grumbled incoherently and hefted himself out of his chair. He returned promptly with knife in hand – he also was carrying a full butter-dish and the remains of last weeks' jar of lemon curd. Sitting back down with a muttered curse, he angrily began buttering one of the scones.
Sherlock tossed the jar of jelly into his best friend's lap. His eyes took John in in one of his all-seeing, sweeping, x-ray glances – stiffened shoulders, tight lips in a pressed line, a strange, lingering scent of disinfectant, the favorite oatmeal-coloured, cabled jumper, a strand of cat hair here and there –
Cat hair.
Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other, and steepled his fingers under his nose.
John had finished the first scone. He crowned a second with a quivering, jewel-like dab of the jelly Sherlock had given him. It too disappeared.
Two more followed in quick succession, both buttered and smeared with jelly. A fifth scone was devoured also, this one split and spread with butter and lemon curd in the center and the topped with even more of the jelly, eaten like a sandwich.
John placed the knife back on the plate with the remaining scones and knocked back the cup of tea like a shot.
Only then did he look up at Sherlock's probing eyes. "Well," he said brusquely, "figured it out yet?"
"Obviously," Sherlock let the smug grin widen slightly.
John angrily licked his teeth.
"You were cheerful enough this morning, as you usually are," the detective began, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward slightly, hands gripping the arms of his chair, "but with an underlying note of apprehension that I noticed at once. You left, leaving with the rather transparent explanation of having 'errands' to run. I originally thought for the market, but apprehension concerning shopping? Not likely. That and the lack of purchases on your return and the fact that we are still lacking milk – "
"Bloody thanks to you," John grumbled.
" – hints at the intention of meeting someone. Not a friend, as I seem to be the only remaining 'friend' you have – "
"Ignorant arse."
Sherlock's hands spasmed. "Stop interrupting, John! My mind must flow – I cannot function in jerks and stutters as you appear to be so accustomed to doing."
The fingertips met once more against the full bottom lip.
"You returned directly from a hospital. St Bart's, as it is the nearest one, and as the sterile, chemical-and-latex smell of the place has not yet had time to dissipate from your person. The smell of the chemicals are distinctly of the sort used in mortuaries. The very fact that you went while not in my company states the fact that it was a personal visit and not a professional one. The cat hair caught in your jumper hints at an embrace – the position and placement of the hair points towards a person of small stature, most probably a woman – and the only woman familiar enough to either of us who would hug you, be found in a mortuary, and own a cat is Molly Hooper."
John's eyes flicked down. He picked at a crumb on the knee of his trousers.
"Judging from your current emotional state," Sherlock went on gleefully, seemingly unaware of John's discomfort, "she said something to you she didn't mean, and after seeing its adverse effect she hugged you to attempt to make up." A strange look crossed his face then. His head cocked to the side.
"Why did you go to see Molly, of all people?" Sherlock said, almost to himself. "She's small and mousey and uninteresting. Certainly not to – "
"Ask her to dinner?" John interrupted, a note of harsh humor under the words. "Yeah, Sherlock. To ask her out. To date her. I like her. She's sweet and pretty and...safe."
Sherlock's chest felt tight. He quickly assumed his stoic mask.
"You may think she's boring!" John went on, scratching at the hair next to his temple and staring determinedly at his knees, "You may find her...m-mousey and small. But at least she's got a heart. At least she can smile, a real smile. And she's brave. The bravest damned woman I've ever met."
Sherlock stared, his face passive but his mind screaming. "She's got a heart. At least she a can smile, a real smile."
He, Sherlock, had a heart...didn't he? Wasn't that what was hurting so much? And he could smile...but then he remembered the smug smirk he'd worn not moments before. No, that didn't count.
" – and after seeing her at Christmas, in the dress and her hair and her lipstick and her eyes..." John tore at the corner of this thumbnail. "You made her cry that night. Her eyes were so big and...and shiny with tears and you looked into them and said those terrible things as if you wanted those tears to fall, like making her feel torn to bits and examined under a microscope was such great fun."
Sherlock's chest was so tight we was finding it hard to breathe. He did remember her eyes. And he remembered the horrible, sinking feeling he'd felt at seeing what he'd done, seen the name – his name – on the gift tag. It wasn't meant to hurt. He'd been having a little fun, just a little, he'd wanted to show off...
For Molly? Had he wanted to impress her?
"She said no. She told you no." Sherlock was surprised at the emotion roused in himself by his own words. Of course she refused. Obviously she had. John wouldn't be so riled up over it if she'd accepted. Speak, John, say it, please say it, that she said no...
John was nodding. The tightness in Sherlock's chest lessened.
"She was sorry, of course," John muttered, "sweet as always, didn't want to hurt my feelings, but she said seeing you in the morgue all the time was already nearly too much for her to handle. She said she didn't know if she could bear being under your, and I quote, 'blasted critical eye every moment of every day. It would kill me.' She won't date me because I'm too close to you!"
John laughed a bitter laugh and stood, ready to put away the tea mess. "You've hurt her too much. So, because of you, I'll never land a date again. Because you either scare all the girls away or lead them to believe that I'm gay for you."
Sherlock felt numb. For once, he could not muster the words to prove John wrong, or even wittily retort in his own defence. He stared at the fringe on the blanket draped over the back of John's chair, unseeing. Molly wanted to stay away from him. Molly could hardly even bear him in her lab.
He stood in one swift, fluid movement and caught up his coat and scarf on the way to the door. He paused, slipped the coat on and flipped up the collar, and looped his scarf around his thin neck.
"Where are you going?" John asked, too quickly, stumbling to a halt on his way back into the kitchen.
Sherlock tried to smile a real smile. He didn't think it worked – John's face tightened fractionally.
"To St Bart's," he replied, as if it were painfully apparent. He snatched a leftover scone from the plate in John's hand and stuffed it in his mouth. He turned and made it to the door before remembering something he'd forgotten to say. It was the reason for fetching the black currant jelly, after all.
He swallowed, hard. "Ermm...heppy birf-day, John," he said thickly, spraying crumbs.
Then he'd swept away down the stairs.