John used to love the quiet of mornings. The stillness in the flat around him, broken only by the clinking of his mug against the table or the muffled groan of a car's engine from the street below. Morning light shafting through the window, cool, clear, whiter somehow than it would be after it had aged a few hours. Jam. Breadcrumbs.
Not now. Now they make him tense.
Silences beg to be shattered by Sherlock bursting through the front door in a flurry of excitement, or (especially if it's some ungodly morning hour and something's got Sherlock on edge and John has work early tomorrow) the deliberate shrieking of a violin that means "I can play brilliantly when I want to, thank you, but I think I won't." Silences are tenuous, evanescent things in 221B. Soap bubbles.
This particular morning is especially uncomfortable thanks to the moment that transpired—nearly transpired—three night previous, the moment that John can't exactly and isn't yet quite willing to convince himself wasn't a dream. Did he really…? And then he….
"Shouldn't. Have. Done that," he says to the empty room, and sips his tea. He thinks for a moment that his hand is shaking, but when he focuses on it, it's steady as a statue's.
There's a Sherlock-shaped space on the couch. The consulting detective's door stands half way open to reveal a crooked duvet and a crumpled robe—a room that was left in a hurry. There's even a mug on the table that John has left untouched for reasons he hasn't though too hard about. Two days Sherlock has been absent. Two days of perfect peace, three beautiful quiet mornings, and John's finally beginning to understand Sherlock's moods because he feels like shooting holes in the wall or possibly harpooning a pig.
It's not that Sherlock hasn't disappeared for days at a time without so much as a "laterz" before; of course he has. John used to appreciate the respite. Being around Sherlock will steadily drive him mad until he gets a few days off to collect himself, and then he's ready for the bony curly-haired maniac to stride back into his life and repeat the whole process over again. It's ridiculous, and he shouldn't put up with it (so he tells himself), and he wouldn't put up with it if Sherlock weren't so brilliant and magnetic and, yes, dangerous, and maybe if he's honest with himself he'll admit that the frustration is part of the charm. Maybe.
But this time John wasn't ready.
He dumps the remainder of his tea down the drain and gives his plate a half-hearted rinse before abandoning it to the sink. For once he's glad he's spending a Saturday at the clinic. The silence in the flat is too accusatory.
Shouldn't have done that, he repeats to himself. Why did I do that?
He reaches for a towel to dry his hands. Just like that, the soap bubble bursts.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," a rumbling voice echoes up the steps. John freezes with the towel dangling from one hand as a rapid succession of footsteps grows louder, and he can't uncurl his fingers until a fraction of a second before the door opens. He realizes his hands are still wet and he's wiping them on his pants like the berk he is when Sherlock strides past the entrance to the kitchen.
"Back from holiday, are we?" John says, as flatly as he can manage.
Sherlock shrugs out of his coat, tosses it over the back of the armchair and sits with a flounce. He begins picking burrs from his sleeve industriously. "More or less. Unsolved murders are always a holiday for me."
"Lovely," John mutters to the sink. I can't believe I missed this psychopath, he thinks, and suddenly he misses him all the more.
"Going to the clinic?" Sherlock asks briskly, as if he doesn't already know the answer.
"Yep."
Pick. Pick. Pick.
"Did you, what…go hiking through the underbrush or something?"
Sherlock's thin fingers hesitate above his shirt cuff for a moment. "Crawling, actually," he responds. The picking resumes.
John has been so distracted by the movement of Sherlock's slender hands that it's only now he gets a good look at his face.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," he says. The sarcasm has dropped from his voice. "Have you slept at all since you left?"
The man's face contorts into a dramatic caricature of disgust before a sharp shake of his head wipes the expression away. "Waste of time. I had more interesting things to do."
"Yeah, well. Take the day off, you'll drop dead from exhaustion." John can't even pretend not to care. It's infuriating.
He blunders out of the kitchen to brush his teeth and yank his shoes on as quickly as he can. So we're not talking about it, he thinks, nodding to himself. He's all but decided it's for the best by the time he's standing at the door with his coat in hand, and then some little part of his brain revolts and commandeers his tongue before the rest can beat it into submission.
"Are we… okay?"
He cringes. Here he is, the doctor, the soldier, begging his flatmate's forgiveness like a gawky schoolboy. No one but Sherlock can make him feel like such a child.
Sherlock brushes sharply at his sleeve. He hasn't looked up. "Yes, fine. Splendid."
John scowls. Nods once. "Right. Alright."
He tugs the front door open. Not fine, he thinks. Not fine at all.