His jacket is wet, so he's been in the rain.
Very wet, so he's been outside for a while. Walking?
Ah yes, his shoes and pants are wet, too. Walking then.
His hair is pushed back, so he's been running his fingers through it. Thinking, then, too. Of course, his drawn expression said as much.
No crumbs or stains on his shirt but it's after lunch time. Either he ate very carefully- how out of character- or he hasn't eaten yet.
He keeps licking his lips, so he's thirsty. Dry mouth? Maybe from the stress of whatever he's thinking about.
And the hands. They were his biggest give away since it was so habitual for him to clench and unclench fists when he was upset or stressed.
But so what could be stressing him out?
Normally Sherlock Holmes didn't bother to figure out what perturbed the goldfish of the world, as his brother would put it. Those who were less intelligent and less rational than the Holmes brothers rarely made any significant impact in their lives. Well at least in Mycroft's life.
Certainly, Sherlock was the emotional of the two and he often spent time considering the lives of those closest to him, such as Molly Hooper, something Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, The Woman, Rosie, and, most importantly, John Watson. And probably Mycroft and Eurus, too, sometimes.
He had learned that John Watson did not appreciate having deductions made about him, so he simply stopped saying them out loud. He tried to look as if he was not looking at all, but of course he was.
Mary would know what to do. What would Mary do?
Talk to him.
How very simple and beautifully straightforward.
"Um…" Foolish. Be confident! "John, is something the matter?" Wrong question. John simply fumed, staring at Sherlock for a moment before returning to his pacing.
It's obvious though, isn't it, what happened?
John, you amaze me. You know what happened?
Not a clue. It's just you normally say that at this point.
Oh, John. Sherlock was missing something and was quite sure it was something he shouldn't be missing. He suddenly felt like pacing, too, which didn't seem productive, either. He considered the things that normally upset John.
Rosie was asleep in the other room, so it wasn't her. Mrs. Hudson hadn't been up for a while so that probably wasn't it, either. Lestrade hadn't been by for a couple of days. Hmm. Perhaps that was it?
"I've been, ah, looking at the website. I haven't seen any cases come in recently but I'm sure something will turn up."
John snorted, laughing humorlessly and shaking his head.
Damn, not that either then.
"Would you, ah, like some, tea? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson's around here somewhere, I can-"
"Sherlock, just stop it." The detective closed his mouth and swallowed a range of emotions he couldn't identify. "You don't know what's wrong and it's driving you crazy. Don't pretend, please. Please just stop it."
Sherlock was quiet, waiting for some sort of clue as to where this "conversation" was going. He turned his eyes towards the door.
Why did he turn his eyes towards the door? Ah, but of course. A vehicle had pulled up a few moments ago and someone had gotten out, he was waiting for them to come inside. Why would they come here?
Without saying anything, he stood and began cleaning the small disheveled living room of 221B. He was quite sure John had mentioned a guest but couldn't seem to remember who would be coming to visit. Whatever the case, it seemed that this was the most likely cause of anxiety for his friend and so he would do what he could to make it better. But what if he doesn't like this person? Would it not be better to leave a mess and hope they leave?
People are so complicated.
He settled for picking up the dishes around the flat and returning them to the sink, draining a jar of eyeballs and returning the solid contents to the refrigerator. Ah, maybe the pantry would be better.
There wasn't really too much time to decide anything before a knock on the door gave Sherlock pause. He hadn't heard any footsteps.
John was trying desperately to appear calm but his clenching fists seemed like blaring indicators to the detective and he had to remind himself that not everyone was so observant.
Need to work on your half of the church, Mary. Looking a bit thin.
Ah, orphan's lot. Friends – that's all I have. Lots of friends.
Their guest knocked again and John put a hand out as if he was going to grab the door knob but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. Rosie cried and John glanced up towards where she was sleeping.
Sherlock put a gentle hand on his shoulder and nodded.
The army doctor's eyes softened and Sherlock was glad to see that he had been mad at the situation, not at Sherlock himself. He left to attend Rosie and Sherlock rounded on the door, wrapping his long white fingers around the knob and opening it slowly.
"Hello," he said warmly as the door creaked. His voice froze stiffly in his throat as he met eyes with the blonde woman on the other side who looked so much as if she had belonged there—indeed she had been there many times—but who could not possibly be there at all.
Oh, God, he had missed her.
"You're—"
"Rosamund's mother. And grandmother, it would seem. Where is John Watson?" The familiar voice crackled with warmth and Sherlock closed his eyes to control the tears that had welled there. He cried so much for Mary and here she was. But she wasn't really.
"Hello? Are you listening? Where is John Watson? I'd like to meet my son-in-law, please."
