The Beholder
"Don't you see, Sherlock? Beauty's never been in the beholder. It's always been there—in everyone, whether you can see it or not!"
Jon practically screamed the last words of his tirade. His pupils were wide and black, contrasting sharply on his normally pale face now flushed with maddening anger. Sherlock saw clearly the disappointment in the furrow of his brow, the pained exasperation in the dull look of his eyes.
And then the shorter man was calming, his arms shaking as they were brought back to his side. The muscle in his neck still clicked with agitation and he near flinched as John's resigned eyes flicked up to meet his. Sherlock didn't say anything, barely even breathed and John huffed, turning on his heel and marching out of the kitchen.
The door slammed and Mrs. Hudson gave a cry of concern. This time Sherlock did flinch.
He took a shake intake of breath, his blood thickening beneath his skin. His fingers twitched and he turned, making as if to scratch the back of his head as he checked his pulse.
136.
Shit. He closed his eyes and tried to instill the stillness of calm in himself. Let it sink into his bones like death and just like that his posture shifted. His spine rod straight, eyes cold and lips in a tight, blank line, rather than trembling minutely as they had been before. He staggered back against an armchair and his fingers met a thick woolen cloth. John left his coat.
It was raining.
He stood still for exactly five seconds before he strode to the window and drew back the lace draperies to watch John stand alone in the pouring rain.
He wasn't looking in the direction of the flat so John didn't see Sherlock watching him. Didn't see the crease of sorrow in the tall man's brow, that flick of agitated fingertips.
He hadn't meant any offense, naturally. And if he'd caused any he didn't see any real reason to apologize. The chit in question hadn't been there to witness nor hear the two mens conversation, or rather, Sherlock's detailed analysis of John's new girlfriend.
Urgh, the very thought of her doughy face and stringy red curls—dyed rather than natural, pathological liar as well—and he immediately went to delete the girl's name and face from his memory. He didn't need useless information like that clogging up much needed storage.
He very much doubted she'd be relevant after his precise analysis of her character. John could do better.
Much better.
— — — — —
a/n: found this in a random johnlock folder on my desktop and decided to post it, if only to encourage myself to keep writing. I'm certainly curious where this will go. :) Short chapter but next will be longer.