Sentiment is boring
Summary: John believes that Sherlock had feelings for Irene Adler. Sherlock denies. But neither of them can quite deduce the truth. Set at the end of A Scandal In Belgravia.
Notes: No, this is not Adlock. Almost but no. Neither Johnlock. This is just a conversation that they could have had. Or at least they had it in my head.
Dedicated to the only woman who matters: me. Fine, Marian. You suck, anyway.
Sherlock held the device in his hand, and for a moment, he wondered what he should do with it but his thought was interrupted by John's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He stopped, frowning slightly, curious as to why the steps sounded so doubtful. He'd wait more than usual to take the next and, as he came closer to the door, the footsteps were slower. A light grin crossed Sherlock's face because he knew that it could only mean one thing: John wanted to ask something but wasn't sure how to do it.
Sherlock opened one of the drawers of the desk to place Irene's cellphone in it and then he turned to face the window, watching the rain hit the window of 221B Baker Street. John had finally reached the final step and, although the detective didn't even bother to salute him, he knew that John stood next to the door, this time without the file containing information about Irene Adler that Mycroft had provided him with.
"Do you hate her?" asked John firmly.
"Why should I?" replied Sherlock, turning to see his flatmate. For a quick moment, John thought he had seen confusion on the grey eyes but, a few seconds later, the detective's face was expressionless.
"Well, I don't know, maybe because she did everything for her own benefit" said John without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. While he, a few months ago, had stopped caring about what Sherlock could or could not think about Irene, he couldn't get off his mind what Mycroft had told him just a few moments ago and he was still wondering if he had done the right thing by lying. America... God save America from Irene Adler.
Silence fell heavy and for a moment the only answer John got was Sherlock's deep, piercing look on his. John opened his mouth to say something else but if the words had been formed in his mind, they were immediately erased the moment he saw something that he had never seen in the detective's eyes, something he wasn't sure how to explain but even so, he concluded plainly with "You did feel something for her", John's voice slightly shrill.
"And that wasn't a question" Sherlock pointed out, scowling before turning to the window again. The street was annoyingly silent, and the few people that walked by it were looking for shelter from the cool breeze. Oh, how boring and mundane must their lives be...
"And you don't think that practically threaten the British government for power is enough excuse to express a negative feeling toward her" refuted John, crossing his arms while leaning to the door frame. "You did feel something for her".
Sherlock sighed dramatically, "Sentiment is boring".
John smiled weakly, understanding that that was going to be the only thing that he was going to get from the black-haired man. And it was probably best that way. What was the point on digging up something about someone who could never come back? He walked into the flat to grab his jacket from the sofa and while he was putting it slowly on, without looking at Sherlock, he decided that the best was to drop the conversation "It's okay. It's... okay. I don't know why I lose my time anyway", he confessed quietly, more to himself than the detective. "I'm going out. There's food in the fridge. Real food" he added.
He stopped for a moment at the door, waiting for an answer to come out of Sherlock, but he was still facing the window. John wondered once again if he should tell him that The Woman was dead. The Woman. "Is that loathing or a salute?" Mycroft had asked, and now John wasn't sure it was loathing, but it wasn't a salute, either. Could... probably, something in between exist?
And even if it did, Sherlock wouldn't ever admit it.
"They all care so much" said Sherlock in a quiet voice, but firm enough for John to hear it. Images popped, bumped into his head, one after the other without rest or logic. Irene wearing his coat, Irene's texts in Christmas, Irene pretending to be dead, Irene taking his hand by the chimney, Irene in Karachi...
"I think you admired her" John dared to say.
This time he didn't wait for an answer, he wasn't going to get it anyway, so he just walked out of the flat and, while contemplating the streets from the cab's window, John kept trying to decipher what he had seen in Sherlock's eyes and what Irene had caused in him.
But John doesn't understand that he sees images. He sees words and probably some brightness. They're not the same images that appear whenever Sherlock tries to deduce something. And the words... the words can not be spoken because for the first time, Sherlock has been left wordless.