The year was just shy of 2012. London was changing, already swelling from the millions that would traipse and trample, run and jump, swim and row across it's boroughs over the summer. But for now, there was a tiny corner, quiet except for the occasional pluck of a violin string.
Your coffee's getting cold.
No answer. But then again, it had been three days and they'd never been an answer. He often wondered why he kept bothering, what stopped him from giving up. He wasn't sure that you could call it love, or even loyalty, there was something deeper in the heart of them, something that sat like a ghost between them over breakfast or in the back of cabs. It almost had its own brain. It would communicate with the pair of them, whether or not they were aware of it, something subtle would change in their minds, just for a split second, and in that second leaving each other seemed impossible.
This time John resisted the urge to throw the lukewarm, brown liquid across Sherlock's face, resisted the urge to start shouting, resisted the urge to throttle him, resisted the urge to leave...
How about sorting through some of this mail?
Boring
But you're bored
I'm not bored; it's you that's bored
I guess that makes me boring?
I win, you lose, the world's back in balance
Fuck you
Does it ever occur to you that you might actually have to get off the couch and look for work yourself, instead of expecting the police to just slam through the front door with the paper still hot?
Who said anything about looking for work?
You did, didn't you?
No, I didn't
Oh...
Another lapse into total silence
He raked his brain desperately trying to think what he would do if Sherlock was his patient instead of his flatmate and (only) friend. He'd tell him to eat right, to exercise more, as a last resort he'd offer up some SSRI's, and then the patient would go away and do what he said and come back and tell him how well they now felt. He couldn't see it working for Sherlock. He sure as Hell did enough exercise when he was on a case, running through London's dusty streets, hot on the heels of another killer, another dealer, but he hardly ate anything and he definitely wouldn't be inclined towards those types of drugs. So what could he do? Practically? He could scream and shout at him. He could jump up and down on him. He could throw cold water over him. But they were things anyone could do and for some inexplicable reason this felt like something only he could fix.
He thought about it. He rubbed his leg over and over again until his hands became stiff. He paced. He went out for a coffee and a breath of fresh air and then he made up his mind; there was only one thing left to do. If he couldn't grab hold of Sherlock's brain or his heart then maybe he had to grab hold of a different organ entirely.
It felt strange afterwards, as if the ghost had left them, as if whatever connected them had shifted. Would it be like this every time? Would he have to watch him hurt and struggle in silence before he could do anything? Could he not just have his love? He wasn't sure whether Sherlock had a heart, wasn't sure if anything moved beneath that chest, can you have a great heart with a great mind? Do you have to sacrifice one for the other?
He wasn't clever. He wasn't stupid but he knew that he was no match for him. If they were to start playing games then he would lose. He didn't want to lose. Every time the coffee went cold, every time the slight smell of smoke filled the flat, every time he saw a faint trace of powder mixed with the dust, his heart hurt. He had more heart than head, though, and he would never leave, would never believe that it was hopeless, that there was nothing for him here, only silence.
Your coffee's cold.