"Pitiable," Sherlock comments, as they watch the reunion between the young laywer and his pretty wife. She has thrown her arms around him and is weeping, murmuring in his ear as he strokes her hair.
"I was just thinking it was quite nice, actually," John replies mildly.
Sherlock snorts. "Oh yes, lovely. He's lied to her extensively, lost their life savings gambling, put himself in hock to dangerous criminals, endangered her and her children through his folly, and left them on the brink of financial ruin that will take years to recover from. But she welcomes him back with kisses and tender words because she loves him. You're right, pitiable is the wrong word. Damnable is better."
"You know, sometimes…" John shakes his head. "Oh, just forget it." He turns and walks away.
Sherlock follows, unwilling to let go of his bone. "Is that what you want, John?" he challenges. "Some sweet young brunette to come home to, to tell you all your sins are forgiven no matter how foolish or reprehensible you've been?"
John stops and glares at him. "You know, I can actually think of worse things. But apparently you can't." He continues walking to the main road, where the taxi is waiting.
Sherlock waves off his comment. "Oh, never mind, John. It doesn't matter. I only took this case because things were so unbearably dull – Lestrade would have solved it in another day or two on his own. Maybe our subject would have been short a couple of digits, but at least he'd have learned his lesson. Shall we get food?"
John sighs irritably. "You know, I think I'm just going to go down the pub. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can do you something for tea if you ask nicely." He abruptly changes direction and strides away purposefully, leaving Sherlock standing by the taxi, utterly shocked. It is so rare that John won't follow him, and usually it's only when he has committed some egregious error, such as admitting to not caring about human suffering. He didn't think his comments about relationships qualified for that level of reprobation, but perhaps they did.
He broods in the taxi on the way home, not so much as to when or whether John will return – John always returns – but about what could have made him so touchy in this case. John barely dated any more anyway, a fact that Sherlock couldn't deny he'd had a hand in.
But John didn't seem to miss it much and, with the exception of Sarah, he'd never really seemed to care about his girlfriends. He just liked to have one, like it was an accessory that proved he was a normal, red blooded male. Sherlock pretended not to remember who they were, to aggravate them, but John actually did have trouble keeping track of them. It was best all around that he seemed to have weaned himself off the habit.
At home Sherlock is restless and aimless. This case had done little to distract from the overwhelming boredom of the past few weeks, and John's crankiness has put him even further off. Mrs. Hudson has left him a cold tea – the sort of cheap luncheon meats and cheese he despises, with passable bread – and he makes a sandwich resentfully.
He rattles about the flat for awhile, unable to settle on a task even though he has the elements of several experiments waiting for him in the fridge. He checks his usual hiding spots from habit and is unsurprised to find them empty. He could do with some stimulation but is unable to get up the willpower to go out and obtain anything worthwhile. Plus, if John is already upset with him, being high when he gets home probably wouldn't help the situation.
At last he settles in a chair by the fire with a treatise on the synthesis of novel toxins that he's been meaning to read and forces himself to focus on it. John is gone longer than he anticipates, and he wonders if he'll even be back that night. The mean time for him to be out after an episode like this is 3.5 hours, and sometimes he'll spend the night away, but Sherlock doesn't know of any current lady friends who might take pity on him. If he's desperate enough to bunk with Stamford, then it's serious indeed.
Finally, shortly after three am, John stumbles through the door. He's been drinking, more than just his usual few pints while watching the football. There's whiskey on his breath, Sherlock can smell it from across the room.
"You're still up," John says flatly.
"Of course I'm up, I'm usually up." Sherlock doesn't look up from his text. "Is that a problem?"
John doesn't reply, but comes over to the dying fire and sits on the floor, staring at the embers.
After a long silence Sherlock asks, "Are you feeling quite well, John?"
John shakes his head. "I don't know what was wrong with me today, Sherlock. I'm sorry, I overreacted. Just sometimes you can be so… I don't know. I should be used to it. I don't know why it got to me today."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow and closes his book. "Don't mention it. It's…fine." He stands and offers John a hand up. "I think perhaps we should both get some rest."
John accepts the hand, but sways once on his feet and Sherlock has to steady him. Without a word, Sherlock puts an arm around him and begins helping him up the stairs. This is worrying. John likes his beer, but is almost never intoxicated to the point of incapacity.
They reach the door of John's room and John leans against the frame.
"John, if something is wrong…" Sherlock begins, uncomfortably. John is flushed from the alcohol, and looks oddly vulnerable standing there, a little dishevelled and unfocused.
John shakes his head. "Just a bad day. Nothing more." He makes no move to go to bed and neither does Sherlock.
Sherlock is aware of a sudden tension between them, one that has occasionally made an appearance before but never so strongly. He is overtired, he thinks, and John is drunk. That's all it is. And yet the colour in John's cheeks, the dim hall light catching in his sandy hair, the curve of his lips… suddenly it is all very appealing, drawing him in, fascinating him. He tries to repress the urge, as he does with all such urges and has done for years. Urges, he has learned, are dangerous and distracting. But this one won't be silenced, and John won't stop looking at him like he is waiting for something to happen.
Before Sherlock quite knows what he is doing, he is leaning forward, pressing his lips to John's with too much pressure, hard and unpractised, and made awkward by a complete lack of response from John. He breaks it off, still tasting salt and whiskey, and draws back, not sure where to look.
John swallows and takes a deep breath. Sherlock expects anger and disgust, but gets neither. "Did you just…?"
"I wanted to know what it felt like," Sherlock breathes, appalled at himself.
John nods slowly, processing and apparently coming to the conclusion that he is in no condition to cope with this at the moment. "Right," he says at last, matter-of-factly. "Okay then. Goodnight, Sherlock." He goes into his room and shuts the door without another word.
Sherlock is left in the hall, humiliated and furious at himself. He hasn't given in to his desires on such a scale since Uni, and with his flatmate of all people. He almost would have preferred John to push him away, tell him off, hit him even. The non-reaction was worse, somehow. He dreads what might come in the morning. Would John move out? Perhaps he wouldn't even remember it, Sherlock hopes, but knows that's unlikely.
When he can collect himself enough to move, he goes out and finds one of the few remaining dealers he can trust who Lestrade has not put behind bars. He purchases a few grams of the highest quality, returns home, and carefully prepares his seven percent solution using his own personal, meticulously sterilised tools.
The ritual calms him somewhat. He twirls the syringe in one hand, mesmerized, but makes no move to inject it. He sits on his bed like this until dawn, then discards the syringe in the back bins, but hides the remaining powder very well indeed. He is sure to be out of the flat before John rises.
