Sherlock
It was a few moments before he could move.
This was not unusual behaviour, often John would be unhappy with the outcome of a case, and would take his frustrations out on Sherlock. Though Sherlock was often contentedly sated during these rants, it was getting more and more difficult to ignore the violent accusations levelled at him, many of which were probably accurate. Sherlock knew John thought that the cathartic outpouring of his built up emotions would not affect him. It did though. Sherlock internally flinched every time he heard the keys click in the door when they arrived home after a case was concluded. That was where the tirade usually started. Not that he expected a physically violent response from his close -only- friend, but the man didn't understand that he was hurting Sherlock in a way that only he could.
John had never walked out before. Well, that wasn't true, but John hadn't walked out in a long time. Sherlock tried to shrug it off, the ex-soldier could take care of himself, but he couldn't shake the guilt. It had been his company, or lack thereof, that had driven John away from him.
Some time ago, Sherlock had returned from a case, which he had been working alone, and shut himself up in his room for two days. From the worried response that he received, he could tell that this had not been an appropriate method of assuring John that everything was okay, but he had been forced to do it. When he had seen the worry etched across the many face, he had wanted nothing more than to pull John into a hug, to reassure him, and himself, that Sherlock was okay.
There was so much worry there, in the lines of John's frown, most of it aquired after he had met Sherlock, but some Sherlock would never know the specific cause of. It was beyond even his considerable skills to read his friend.
The feeling, the need to console, had been so foreign that Sherlock's first instinct had been to repress it, but he quickly realised that he would not be able to do that, so he shut himself away instead.
Sherlock had since developed a better method of coping with his -annoying- emotions post-case. It involved a mental retreat that allowed John the reassurance of his physical well-being, while hiding his emotion instability and turmoil. Over the past months, Sherlock had mastered it to an almost clinical precision.
The only problem, it would seem, would be that John still thought that Sherlock was a monster.
Sherlock sighed, and stood up.
John would never forgive him if he knew the truth. So the truth must remain hidden.
Walking over to the cupboard, Sherlock pulled a familiar, chipped cup out of it -John's-, setting in on the table and turning on the kettle. As it quickly heated up, Sherlock opened the fridge, noticing and quickly forgetting that they needed more milk. Sherlock did not even think of asking Mrs. Hudson if she had any.
All possibilities of a coffee vanished, Sherlock poured hot water into the mug and carried it with him back to their chairs. Cupping it in his cold hands, not minding the burning sensation, knowing without a doubt that it would not last, Sherlock sat down in the comfortable -John's- chair.
He pulled his knees up to his chest, curling in like a child, John's last words still echoing in the room.
-a little more human-
-just for me-
