Since my heart is golden/I've got sense to hold in/Tempted just to make an ugly scene/No I'm not as proper/My money's in copper/Ripped down from the brownstones to the street
-Carried Away by Passion Pit
"John?"
Silence. Silence so thick with tension that Sherlock was unsure of how to proceed, a rare occurrence. For once, he wisely decided to approach with caution.
"John?" he tried again.
The doctor in question still had not moved from his chair. One could mistake him for a statue, carved confidently from only the finest of marble, carved with an angry passion. John clutched at the armrests. His white knuckles, set jaw, and deep, flaring breaths were the only indicators of his current emotions.
Sherlock felt his gut twist for the umpteenth time. His anxiety had him so exhausted from the lurching in his stomach that he abandoned attempting to count and catalogue the lately-atypical reactions of his transport. John was supposed to be safe, John was warm, John was a conductor of light, golden...
"FUCKING SHIT SHERLOCK!"
Sherlock registered John's acidic words seconds after he jumped with a start and took an involuntary step back. Why had Sherlock opened his mouth at the Yard? This was his John, something, no someone, who should trust Sherlock as much as Sherlock trusted him.
John's voice was so low, so calm this time that it caught Sherlock off guard and he still jerked at the sound of it. "Why did you say that in front of the Yard, Sherlock. I thought we... nevermind. I don't expect you to understand social etiquette, but I was under the impression that you at least respected me."
"I'm sorry–"
"Save it." John's volume rose, "You deduced me" he spat out. "I was going to tell you as soon as we returned to the flat from the spontaneous crime scene you dragged me off to as soon as I reached the front door!"
John swiped his palm over his face. "You want to know what happened? Fine, yes, I got fired. Yes, it was because I yelled at a patient. And YES, this means it will be very hard to find work at another surgery or clinic any time soon."
John finally shifted his gaze to bore holes into the eyes of the tall detective, who was steadily breaking down in composure. "You got one thing wrong though, Sherlock. It's NOT okay to say all of that when you have the full attention of Scotland Yard and it's VERY Not Good say 'John, don't worry about financial issues with the flat, it's obvious by your tension that you are concerned, but you are also accustomed to less than adequate income situations, and I'm certain you'll bounce back from this just fine.' then PAT MY SHOULDER!"
Sherlock knows John is holding back. He didn't add the part where John had wordlessly stomped away and Sherlock called after him 'John! you'll get through this, you're resilient. There's nothing wrong with temporary unemployment with inability to pay rent. Mycroft will take care of it.'
Sherlock had never done that before. He had thought he was being extraordinarily kind. A gesture of attempting to comfort John, a 'pep-talk' of sorts. Clearly he miscalculated.
John stared at him with narrowed eyes. He looked expectantly at Sherlock, apparently waiting for a response. Sherlock focused his attention and took in John's composure and analyzed the past 2 hours in his mind palace. 'John lost his job and source of income, John struggled with money in the past due to a lower-middle class upbringing and the gambling from Harry that preceded the alcoholism.' Gears turned in his mind with a strained creak.
Sherlock's eyes flutter open.
"Oh."
"You're embarrassed by the situation, ashamed actually, and now the Yard is aware and you're afraid they'll treat you with pity and be careful not to upset you, and that they'll, is the appropriate term 'walk on eggshells', or 'wear kid-gloves'?" Sherlock sputtered it all in one breath and took a gulp of air before continuing. "You are slightly less concerned, but worried nonetheless that Lestrade will offer to loan you money in support and were painfully reminded of another reason that your relationship with Harry is not 'ideal'."
John relaxed a sliver of a fraction, and nodded once. "So you can understand why I am angrier than I have EVER been with you, but Sherlock..." John sounded pained. "I thought you were my friend."
Sherlock felt the words slip past his lips before he could bite his tongue. "I don't have friends."
"Of course you don't."
John rose from his chair and he marched up the stairs to his room. It was worse than anger, it was defeat. John didn't leave the flat, didn't 'need some air', he didn't even slam his door.
Sherlock reconsidered his words. If any person could hold a title close to the definition of being a 'friend' —Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the sentiment of the word— it would be John.
The sitting room was at it's usual temperature, but Sherlock felt the hollow shiver run through his body.
Listen, I'm your friend, don't quote me/But not a friend worth noting/Yes, please don't ever note me as your friend/Who says we have cold hearts?/Acting out our old parts/Dance before my favorite little scene, oh oh oh oh