A/N: This ficlet was written pre-S3 and is set for after Sherlock comes back but as such doesn't fit with canon events anymore, but oh well, consider it AU.
He knows Sherlock isn't interested in him like that. He'd made it quite clear – not his area, married to his work, doesn't do girlfriends, doesn't do boyfriends. For that matter neither does John on the latter. That took him a long time to figure out, considering the nagging feeling in his head and the raw grief he'd felt. The answer is an unsatisfying but blatantly true statement of it's just Sherlock.
But Sherlock doesn't do any of that, so it's moot. It's all fine. Yeah, it's all fine. Keep telling himself that and maybe it will become true. Just peachy. Time to put the kettle on and pour a cup, stir the brew too long and burn his mouth with overly hot tea. It's all fine as the liquid scorches him and he welcomes feeling anything.
He knows that when Sherlock cocks his head and stares at him it's curiosity, but it's not the fascination he sometimes wishes it could be. He's nothing more than a willing sample of human behaviour in those moments, too large to fit under a microscope but no different than a butterfly pinned down on the board.
Except he's alive, he bleeds, and when Sherlock's gaze flickers over his injuries from a distance he knows it isn't likely caring or concern past whether he can carry on in the investigation. There would never be a gentle hand on his shoulder or a warm friendly embrace as he shakes alone on the sofa after an event that cuts too close to his own painful history. Sherlock doesn't do things like that. He gets a cup of tea deposited instead, the smallest comfort available, a weary constant. John's brain is chasing a phantom even now Sherlock is alive again.