Making tea, that's what English people do in times of crisis. Sherlock is well aware of this tradition, but he's not used to being the one to make it. Usually Mrs Hudson does it, leaving the tray in front of her boys or staying to chat to John while Sherlock retreats to his mind palace. When John lived here he would usually make a cup before heading out in the morning, shouting to Sherlock to see if he wanted one too.
Where will John live now? Sherlock wonders absently. Surely he won't want to go back to the flat where he lived with Mary, at least not straight away. Sherlock feels an instinctive surge of happiness at the thought of John coming home to Baker Street. Then he remembers the reason and suddenly feels cold.
All the usual mugs are dirty, so Sherlock is using Mrs Hudson's best tea set, a pink one with flowers that would feel ridiculous under normal circumstances. But it doesn't matter today.
He hadn't wanted John back like this. Not like this.
His hand shakes as he adds a pot of sugar to the tray and carries it through to where John is sat in his old chair. John's face is drained of colour and he isn't moving.
"Here," Sherlock puts the tray on the table in front of John and pours out the tea. He adds milk and two sugars to both cups before remembering that John doesn't take sugar. He sits down awkwardly in his own chair, facing John.
It takes a while for John to register Sherlock's presence. "Thanks," he says finally, his voice coming out as a croak, like he's just woken up.
For once, Sherlock is lost for works. He can tell someone's occupation from their clothing, but he has no idea what to say in the face of grief.
Was this what John was like when Sherlock had gone away? No, that's just arrogance, comparing his own faked death to losing a wife and child, before the child had even had a chance to live.
He'd promised to protect them.
He'd failed.
"John-" Sherlock begins, then stops. He wants to tell him that he's sorry, that he loved Mary too, that everything will be alright eventually. The words won't seem to come. For once, he wishes Mycroft was here. He wouldn't know what to say either, but at least they could be unfeeling sociopaths together.
"Don't, Sherlock." John's voice breaks into a sob. Sherlock tries desperately to think. What would a normal person do in this situation? He gets up and moves to sit on the edge of John's chair, reaching out to put an arm around him. John leans into Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock stiffly pats him. Once John has started he can't seem to stop and the sobs turn into bellows of agony as he clutches at Sherlock.
Sherlock has no words of comfort. There is nothing to say.
He tightens his arms around John, holding back his own tears as he waits for John's to subside.
Finally the noise grows quieter. John releases his grip on Sherlock but stays firmly pressed against his shoulder. He puts his hand on Sherlock's and a moment of silent gratitude passes between them. Then he sits up, still gasping for breath, wiping at his eyes.
The tea in front of them has gone cold. Sherlock can see that the steam from the cups has evaporated. He stumbles to his feet and gathers up the pink cups and tray.
"I'll make some more."