He thought that he had read him perfectly. All the motions, the words exchanged, all seemed right.
So why did he reject him?
Sherlock stood against the doorframe with his arms crossed watching John pack the last of his things in a plastic tupperware container. He stared at John's defensive frame, noticing the way he moved like Sherlock was the enemy. John tried his best to ignore Sherlock's stare, but even his eyes upon him kept bringing him back to that night.
What didn't I see? What didn't I notice? Sherlock thought, thinking of his best friend leaving him. John scuffled past him in the doorframe, making sure not to touch any part of Sherlock. He avoided him like the plague, and John's face was no longer of a caring friend- but of a hardened war veteran.
"I'll send a post containing the remainder of my rent," John's stern voice broke the silence between them as he returned from loading the truck with the last box. Sherlock couldn't read John at all. It wasn't the John he knew, it was like he was learning how to read people from scratch. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said again.
Again.
"What in the world are you doing? What are we doing?" John said as he moved defensively away from Sherlock. His face aghast at the events unfolding between them. Sherlock ignored John's questions and continued to kiss his neck. The flat was quiet all except their heavy breathing.
"Don't tell me this isn't what you've wanted, John," Sherlock said in the nape of his neck. John shivered at how confused he was. His thoughts jumbled in a mess as Sherlock made quick work of his belt.
"Don't," he began. Sherlock ignored him. "I said don't, Sherlock." John pushed Sherlock away. He didn't know what to say. John's face said it all. "Friends, we're just friends."
Sherlock became slightly enraged at the thought. Him and John just friends? Sherlock didn't have friends, no he had one friend. And the one time he decided to make a move on his own, the moment shattered from beneath him. John rebuckled his belt and moved away from him. "Don't come back," Sherlock said angrily. John looked solemnly at him.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Why did he have to ruin it. Why did he dare let himself think that he could feel those feelings for another human being? Sherlock hated himself for it. He hated himself because the one person he he loved rejected him. How could he not see that it was killing him on the inside? Every moment they spent together, Sherlock watched his motions, studied his words. It made him realize.
He was only seeing what he wanted to see.
Sherlock watched John leave as he got into the cab. His limp was back. The truck and cab left and all that was left was Sherlock alone.
Again.