One Inch of Glass
Disclaimer: The BBC owns it.
*A/N* Just saw the picture the BBC released and, even though I had somehow convinced myself I could control my Sherlock feels as long as I fangirled shamelessly over Doctor Who, I figure it shattered my mood for the rest of the night, so I might as well make something of it.
His eyes were staring aimlessly into empty space, as if there was something to see on the table in front of him. Not like it was interesting him, though. It had been a long while since that look had appeared on John Watson's face. Interest. He was simply lacking the energy to ponder about trivia, lacking the ambition to try and feign interest into other people's tedious affairs.
A bit like himself, Sherlock thought. Had it been him who'd made this of John?
Had he been the one who had robbed his flatmate of all those frustratingly human traits, the caring, the worrying about what was right and what was wrong, the politeness and his straightforward way of speaking his mind?
Was it him John was thinking of for so long now his coffee had got cold over it?
He knew he should walk on before someone noticed him, before John noticed him. But he couldn't.
Everyone else thought that John had got all better, that he was over the whole affair.
Didn't it bother people to be that thick? How could they not notice they were practically running through the world with their eyes squeezed shut?
Of course he wasn't over it. Yes, the yelling had stopped. His fits of rage had disappeared, he didn't wake up screaming at night any more, or not very often, anyway. He didn't cry and he didn't evade the questions about his best friend.
No, John Watson had fallen silent, and he couldn't understand why nobody could see how much worse that was.
It wasn't depression, strictly speaking. In his own words, he was "a bit down sometimes". He was lethargic and constantly tired, but wasn't everyone always complaining about stress anyway?
He shaved, he dressed properly, he smiled at people when he greeted them, he had a job and he went to the pub with his friends. Not even his fiancée saw what Sherlock saw.
Nobody could see it. That John's hand was still clenched to a fist most of the time, that he was still limping even though it should have stopped long ago. That he was still visiting that empty grave. That he still hadn't set a foot on the street leading to Bart's after all this time. That he was still ignoring any attempt of contact by Mycroft. That he didn't look up to the roofs of London, not ever. That he never spoke to strangers unless he had to. That he had a look of disappointment in his eyes when people bumped into him on the street.
John Watson had become invisible and the world didn't care.
And now the only one who could see him, really see him, was standing barely a foot away. Feeling like he would just dissolve unless someone finally looked him at him again the way his friend always had.
But John didn't look up. He continued to stare at the filthy table top, his eyes as glassy as the window pane that separated them.
Just one inch of glass and the reflection of their busy, grey world between them.
Please take a moment to review.