The two friends stared across the small amount of airspace separating them; John willing his larynx to move and help form some intelligible sound. Like it? Did he? Blinking hurriedly in an effort to avoid the hawk like eyes glinting at him, he questioned himself. Never before had he felt anything other than amiability for this man that stood before him. A certain affability perhaps, a fondness grown from the closeness of two grown men breathing the same air for days on end, but never before this sickening clench of the gut that signalled something more.
Conscious of the silence, both men turned away, as if not looking at each other anymore would save them from having to search for words. Sherlock's profile darkened as he leant a pale head against the cool window pain and unconsciously rubbed the back of his neck with the bow he was still holding. John hobbled out back to the living room, skirting round the ruffled stacks of papers they both left around the place, and the odd lenses littering the floor from a forgotten microscope. His cane kicked out at the Union Jack pillow he had silently taken for his own. Now, he picked it up, wishing it had some pearls of wisdom neatly embroidered on the back.
Things like this didn't happen.
Urges don't pounce on an unsuspecting man, thrown from the heart of a violin, they don't appear from nowhere. But retrospective lent John a hand, and he flumped back, clutching the cushion tightly as he remembered every time he had stared at Sherlock in wonderment; every time he had ran after him, came to his call, fetched him a pen, believed in blind faith anything that tumbled from the tall man's mouth. With these thoughts roiling through his head, John rested his elbows on his knees and held his head. He needed to think. Be rational. Find an explanation. Perhaps it was nothing?
Sherlock was forever thinking. Laying down his instrument, in a dark corner of his room, he adopted his favourite horizontal position on his bed. He place his hands behind his head; fingers interlaced. He knew that endorphins were surging through his visibly blue veins, and the pounding of his head was due to the excess rush of blood in response to the serene expression in John's closed eyes. He also knew that John was confused; any rational emotional being would be he reasoned, but perhaps there was something he could do to ease the confusion, after all, John had already brought up the subject of... Oh. As he realised what he must do, Sherlock vaulted to his feet; pulling his shirt down and squaring his shoulders, and prepared his most dashing smile.
A little half quirk of the lips and an incline of the head was enough, before he walked calmly into the kitchen, ignored the huddle of jumper on the sofa he took to be John, and flicked on the kettle. John liked tea. Tea was soothing, hot and comforting. Tea was good. As Sherlock poured the boiling water ineptly into two grimy cups, he poked at the tea bags with a none too judicious finger, trying to get them to sink below the surface. He was no good at tea.
Turning slowly, careful not to spill, Sherlock faced the living room filled with miss-matched cushions, pipettes and old socks.
And an empty sofa.