John woke the next morning, head on the armrest of the sofa and Sherlock gone. Sounds of footsteps, pacing most likely, came from Sherlock's room. He sat up slowly, gently rubbing his scarred shoulder to relieve some of the soreness from sleeping in a less-than-ideal position. He thought about the night before. Had it really happened? Had Sherlock, mister "I have no use for sentiment", really initiated cuddling? It was hard to believe. Certainly John had been slowly exploring his feelings, determining what he really felt for Sherlock. Slowly was the operative word, however. Last night's cuddle session, instead of clearing up any doubts he had, had only created more questions that John could not quite answer.
Sherlock was truly his best friend, as strange as it seemed to outsiders. But they didn't see what John could see. What John, in all of his extraordinary ordinary-ness, could see in the most extraordinarily unusual man he had ever met. They didn't see the way Sherlock allowed Mrs. Hudson to embrace him and rub his shoulder when he was upset. Didn't see the way Sherlock's eyes hardened when a man accused (guilty) of beating his wife had tried to hire Sherlock to get the charges dropped. Didn't see the way that Sherlock averted his eyes respectfully when John came downstairs for late-night tea with tears in his eyes and visions of Afghanistan in his heart. Those people who dismissed Sherlock as a sociopath and moved on with their lives, who accused him of being a fraud or called him "freak", didn't see all of these things. And yet they considered themselves fit to judge the man. Ridiculous. Honestly, was it any wonder that he was so confused emotionally? John had never considered himself gay, had told Sherlock that the night they went out for dinner. And he wasn't lying, John didn't feel any attraction towards other men and never had. He had always been strictly interested in women, although his luck with them was limited.
John stood with a sigh. His vertebrae popped and his muscles protested.
"God, I'm getting old." John snorted. He could hear traffic outside the window, and the sound of quiet footsteps on the stairs.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called as she climbed, with sight difficulty. Her hip was obviously acting up today. "Oh, John, hello. I was just bringing up some of the shopping."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I think Sherlock went up to his room." John took the bags from his landlady and began to put the contents away. He had to rearrange some containers of God-knows-what and jars of a suspiciously reddish-brown liquid in the fridge to get the milk inside. Mrs. Hudson looked warily in the direction of Sherlock's door.
"Oh. Do you think he'll come out any time soon?" John had to suppress a laugh at Mrs. Hudson's concern, however touching it was. Sherlock had a habit of retreating into his room, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, shouting at anyone who made the mistake of knocking on his door.
"Maybe. We'll find out, won't we?" John checked his watch. He didn't have a shift at the hospital today until later that night. He hated night shifts because he was much more likely to encounter the "worst". The "worst" were the patients that John hated to see the most because deep down he knew there wasn't much he could do for them. Abused women and children (and the occasional man) with claims of falling down the stairs, drunk drivers and their victims, drug addicts O. on their preferred poison. The ones that John tried to save, but deep down knew he would probably see them again too soon in the emergency room.
"Well I hope he doesn't start shooting my poor walls again or splattering blood on the carpet like he did last week." Mrs. Hudson fussed.
"That was part of an experiment, one that helped release an innocent man." Sherlock's bored voice sounded as he emerged from his room, clad in pajamas and his signature robe. At least he's wearing clothes, John thought. We really need to have a quiet discussion about last night as soon as Mrs. Hudson goes downstairs.
"But did you have to do it here, Sherlock? The mess I had to clean up." Mrs. Hudson scolded, sounding very much like a mother.
"Lestrade refused to let me use the yard and Bart's did not appreciate my last experiment in blood spatter very much." Sherlock answered with his usual tone of 'why-don't-you-know-this' arrogance. John, standing awkwardly in the kitchen, watched the familiar exchange. Sherlock had not so much as glanced at him yet, and john wasn't sure that he wanted him to. What would Sherlock see on John's face? Would he see the confusion John felt on his face, the lingering traces of comfort he had felt in Sherlock's embrace? The fear he felt? The fear that he would damage him and Sherlock's relationship with a single mistake, a single misinterpretation?
And then Sherlock made eye contact with him, and he knew that he saw it all. Sherlock's eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch and understanding flickered in his deep eyes for a moment before he turned his attention to the window. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Mrs. Hudson, did you lock the door?" Sherlock cut off Mrs. Hudson in the middle of whatever she was saying. John hadn't really been paying much attention.
"Sherlock, you really must be more careful." The tapping of an umbrella on the stars. A perfectly manicured figure appeared. "You never know who will just walk in."
"Mycorft, go away." Sherlock rolled his eyes like a petlant child. In many ways, whenever his brother was around, Sherlock DID become a petulant little brat. Great, John thought to himself. This was going to end one of two ways: Sherlock annoyed and refusing whatever case Mycroft had brought him, or Sherlock still annoyed and grudgingly admitting that the case was interesting.
"Sherlock, I need a favor." Mycroft said. Though his face looked as though he had just stepped in something incredibly disgusting. The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned upward slightly. John raised his eyebrows. Well that was new.
So much for his quiet, frank discussion with Sherlock.
