"Sherlock, look, whatever it is, it's fine." John tried to interrupt me, and I exploded.
"God would you stop with that? Everything is fine with you, you don't seem to ever even have an opinion, except when I'm doing something wrong. It's always Sherlock, not good or Sherlock, not in public as if I'm some dog you've got to train instead of the full partner I am!"
Pause.
How did we reach this point, with me shouting abuse and John standing there taking it? More importantly, when did he close his face off from me, keeping me from reading him?
He is ashamed of me, I know it. When we go out in public, he makes apologies for me, as if my mere existence was something to be sorry for. He refuses to allow me contact beyond that of a friend, the occasional brush of a hand on the shoulder, and once in a blue moon a hug, but never the touches I crave and have gone so long without. Never a kiss on the cheek, or a hand to clasp when sprinting down alleyways. Even when in private, he shows next to no interest in me until I initiate it. I am always the instigator, always wanting yet never wanted.
I was certain when we began this that he would end it quickly, that he would see immediately that I was strange, other, and altogether too emmuch/em to ever be involved with. But as time went on, I became more and more settled. I began to think that this time would be different, that I wouldn't be left in the lurch simply because I didn't know how to put into words what my mind was supplying.
Perhaps it is my own fault, then, that this fight began. I was the one who suggested we discuss our strengths as a couple. I wasn't expecting him to so readily leap on, and to jump to point out my flaws though I am already doing my best to rectify them.
I know I am often over-exuberant. Often my mood will oscillate on a near-minute basis, where I can be manic at one point and falling into a depression the next. John is good, is nearly healthy, and certainly is healthier than I am. Next to him, I am too everything. Too tall, too pale, too sharp, too rude. I will never manage to glow as he does.
He does not crave physical contact the way I do. Certainly he desires the more carnal contacts, but when it comes to the smaller, gentler contacts, he shies away and I do not understand why.
Perhaps it is because I have gone without it for so long, and have reserved it for so few, that these small contacts are a large deal for me. I long to reach out and absent-mindedly hold his hand, to know that even when I am not thinking about it, he is there and he cares for me.
John does not see it that way. He claims discomfort at these casual touches, and the only true reason I can see to be discomforted by it is shame. Shame is an emotion I am all too apt to recognize. I have seen it thousands of times, in my father's eyes, in my mother's false smile, and in my brother's condescending smirk. I did fear the day would come when I would turn to John and see the shame in his eyes, and now he has closed his face off from me, leaving me out in the cold once more.
Resume.
"I am not someone to be ashamed of John. I know I am often hard to understand, but I had thought you would at least try harder." He opens his mouth to interrupt again, but I ignore his words and speak over him. "No. I will not stand here while you shut yourself away."
I move to the door, my coat already on.
"Goodbye, John."