When I came in, John was on the couch, lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling.
A crisp collar – he had a date. Collar still crisp – the date didn't last long. Jacket taken off and thrown on floor – the date was unsatisfactory.
"What's wrong?" I asked, striding in and turning down the collar of my overcoat.
"Oh, hello," he grumbled and turned over to lie facing the back of the couch.
I swept my overcoat off and tossed it over the back of the armchair. Sitting, I pulled the chair forward to directly face the couch.
"Why didn't it go well?" I asked.
"Fine. It went fine."
"Oh, please, do try to fool me. It works so well, you know," I drawled and leaned into the armchair. It was my favorite spot, a spot that helped me to think and to see more clearly.
"I don't want to talk to you," John grumbled. "You're bloody awful at this kind of talking and you know it. You can't possibly understand it at all."
"No, perhaps you're right. But you can still tell me. We'll call it a test of my skills."
"What skills?"
"My – my listening skills. Or my sentiment skills. I don't care, whatever you want. I'm rather bored. Please, do tell what happened," I said.
"Oh, I'm sorry! I suppose John Watson's problem and troubles only exist to be touted out whenever Sherlock Holmes is bored. Is that it? You're bored. Then I suppose I had better be extremely interesting," John spat and sat up very suddenly, facing me from the couch. I expected his eyes to be chilly with disgust, but there was a heat in them that did not match his words. I was made instantly uncomfortable by the glance. The room felt hot.
"Hungry? I haven't eaten yet," I said and pulled my gaze quickly from his. I heard him breathe heavily and lean back into the couch. I somehow always managed to disappoint him. I wasn't trying to, but it happened anyway. I think I disappoint a lot of people all the time. They expect something from me that I just don't have. Perhaps an understanding of what crime means for people, what murder entails. But it doesn't matter to me, and I don't see why it should. I could try to care and it simply wouldn't work. Of course, I'm still human – I can feel things. I care for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, I suppose. Even Mycroft in the most twisted way possible. And John most of all, of course. He wants something out of me too, just like everyone else. Some acknowledgment that he's the most important person in my life. But I don't always give people what they want, even if I have it.
"I haven't eaten either," John said quietly, drawing his hand through his hair, neatly combed for his date.
"Wasn't it a dinner date?"
"We didn't get to that part."
"What part did you get to?"
"The part where we broke up."
"I see."
I stood and went into the kitchen drawer to find the takeaway menus that we stashed in bulk.
"Indian?" I called in to him.
"Yes, please," John replied.
I called the restaurant and ordered our usual. We got takeaway a lot. I knew what he wanted from whichever restaurant we chose. He knew what I wanted. It worked out.
"221B Baker Street," I told the man on the line. "Thirty minutes? Good. Thank you."
John was hugging a pillow when I returned to my chair. He seemed a little shaken, but I didn't think it was because he liked the woman all that much.
"So why'd you break it off?" I asked.
"I didn't."
"She did?"
"It was mutual."
"No – it wasn't.
"It was a fight. We got mutually angry."
"About what?"
John threw the pillow on to the couch again. He was agitated and I could see in the tapping of his feet and the moving of his fingers that he needed to move around. He needed to do something.
"It was just a fight. She started it."
"What was it about?"
"You know."
I can deduce most things, but there are some things that I can't deduce, and I'm not ashamed to say so.
"No, I don't know."
"Well, it was just the usual kind of fight, you know."
"About?"
"I suppose I had better set some plates out for when the takeaway comes," John said and entered the kitchen. He pulled out some plates – the one he liked with the little sunflowers around the edge and the one I liked with the terrier in the middle. He pulled out some cutlery as well.
"You don't have to tell me. I'm just interested," I said, leaning in the wide doorway of the kitchen.
"I told you. The usual kind of fight. Nothing big and new."
"That doesn't exist."
"What?"
"A usual fight. Fights are about things. Like – people saying stupid things, or making bad decisions, or – something," I said. I was in an unusually talkative mood. I think it was the cold December air that had sparked me so. I had just come in from a walk around the neighborhood when I found him in such a state. It was nearing Christmas and all the trees in the windows had reminded me that we had yet to get a tree ourselves. Of course, I promptly forgot about the tree when I found John in such a way.
"Forget it, Sherlock. It's none of your business," John cried, suddenly flaring and waving a knife and fork in my general direction.
"You could just have said that in the first place! Instead of leaving me to question so incessantly."
"Any normal person would know what to say," John said. "Why the hell do I have no real friends to talk to? Not a single one."
"Oh, piss off, John," I said and kicked the floor with the toe of my shiny shoe. I turned from the kitchen and went back to my armchair. I knew that I was a bloody awful friend for any emotional person. And I knew that he didn't mean what he said either. He was the only friend I'd really kept for very long. It bothered me when he pointed out what he saw as a clear deficiency. I didn't have the heart he had. I didn't care. I wasn't going to pretend to feel and to hurt the way other people did. But I didn't want John to tell me that there was something I couldn't give him.
I needed a case. I stared gloomily at the holes in the wall that went through the eyes of the smiling face that was painted upon it. I felt all of the thinking bottled up inside of me. I needed an outlet. I need a way to get rid of this tension. I needed a smoke. I needed to talk to John. I needed a crime. I needed Lestrade to walk in with a fantastic murder.
After a long silence, the buzzer sounded, but of course it was only the Indian food. I stood to go downstairs, but John was already out the door. He needed to move.
He came back upstairs with the steaming paper bag full of dinner. We didn't talk. We didn't look at each other. We filled our plates with food standing by the counter in the kitchen. I was going to say something, to break the silence, but John took his food upstairs and into his bedroom.
I placed my plate on the couch and lay down on the floor. He was such an ass sometimes. I was so much worse, of course.
I ate by myself, sitting on the floor. I knew that it was a man who had made the chicken dish and a woman who had prepared the beef dish. I didn't know why John was in his room.
Was it worth it to go in there? Maybe it was worth it. I would have to act. I was good at acting. I would act as emotional as I could. I would try my best to understand whatever he said and not to deduce or to make him feel awful. I would try my best to be the friend he wished he had. I wish I were always the friend he wished he had. Why didn't he just go find a better flat mate?
I knocked on the bedroom door.
No answer.
I knocked again.
I heard something hit the inside of the door.
I opened the door.
"What was that?"
John was sitting against he wall opposite the door and eating his dinner from the plate in his lap. His right shoe was lying behind the door where it had fallen.
"John."
"Yes?" His eyes met mine. There was tiredness in them.
"I – I know that I can't understand. I really mean to be a good friend, though," I said. I closed the door behind me and sat beside him on the floor.
"Good for you." He finished his dinner and gently tossed the plate onto the desk at the foot of his bed.
"Don't act wounded. I'm trying to be nice. It's not easy for me, you know," I said and gave him a sideways glance that I hoped would be sufficiently light-hearted to break the icy atmosphere.
He sighed.
"We broke up because we had a stupid fight. And I don't care that much because I didn't like her really. Not very much. And every girlfriend I ever have always has the same fight with me and we always break up and I'm fucking tired of it, Sherlock."
"What fight?"
"About you!" he said and curled up, his knees by his ears and his hands wrapped tightly around his shins.
"Me?"
"Of course."
"What do you mean – me?"
"You don't get it, do you?"
"No. Am I supposed to?"
"You," John said. "My girlfriends don't like you. I always ignore them. I enjoy them. I go on dates with them sometimes, but apparently I neglect them. I don't even think I do. But they all say it. They all say, 'You always talk about Sherlock Holmes and then you ditch me to go with him on investigations and shit like that'. Every one of them, Sherlock. Are they right?"
The words resonated within me. It had never occurred to me. I spent too much time with him. No one wanted me around. But his words made me feel proud inside. I had won someone's respect – his. He wanted to be around me.
"I'm sorry," I said. But I wasn't sorry.
"It's not your fault. It's my fault."
"Well, apparently I'm the one who keeps you from your girlfriends. I don't mean to. Honestly."
"You're more interesting than any of them. I guess – in a way – I'll always – I'll always like you better than any of them. That's why I ignore them."
He liked me better than any of his girlfriends. It felt suggestive. I didn't know what he meant by it. I began to feel uncomfortable and mildly confused. What did I say? I like you better than anyone too? I'm glad you ignore them for me? I'm sorry, I'll stay out of the way?
"Well, I like having such a good friend. I'm not used to it," I said. I was expectant. I wanted him to say more.
He just grunted in assent. Nothing more was said.