Anger. Day Six.
"John?" Sarah padded quietly towards the sofa, unsure if he was asleep. His sleep patterns had become erratic in the last six days, he'd be up half the night, staring out the window, hardly blinking, and then he'd sleep for fourteen hours. She didn't want to wake him if he'd finally fallen asleep; she'd heard him thumping around the living room at 4 AM with his cane (the psychosomatic limp was back, but she thought it best not to mention it for a while).
"What?" he replied flatly, almost rudely. He was curled up, back to her, and he didn't move to acknowledge her. She steeled herself.
"Would you like some breakfast, or some coffee? I could make eggs," she offered, praying this wouldn't set him off.
"Eggs. Really," he sneered. "My best friend is dead, he's bloody gone, Sarah, and you want to make me eggs."
"John," she warned, trying not to let her voice break. He sighed, an aggravated, annoyed sigh. She knew this was just him dealing with Sherlock's death, and he was just lashing out, but it was difficult not letting him get to her like this. He'd never said an unkind word to her before...all this, but now he was sneering and snarking and sometimes just plain ignored her. She knew, it was just the grief. It didn't make it any easier to deal with, though.
"Sorry," he said, and he meant it. He didn't mean to snap at Sarah like that, it's just that every word shattered his concentration to not think about anything. Not-thinking was the best he could do at the moment, the best he could hope for. "I'm sorry," he whined. "I didn't mean to snap. Coffee, coffee would be good, thanks." She retreated to the kitchen. He rolled over, swung his legs so he was sitting up, reached over the armrest for his cane, and hoisted himself up. Stiffly, he made his way to the window. Another gray day. He hoped it would rain. He wanted the world to feel as badly as he did because of that bastard. "Bastard!" he spat. "You utter, useless, bastard!" He hated Sherlock for abandoning him, especially right in the middle of the Richard Brook case (he couldn't bring himself to even think the name Moriarty). He hated Sherlock for disappearing at a time when he was most popular; John was going to have to answer for him when he emerged from his mourning period (whenever the hell that would be). He hated Sherlock-hated him-most of all for making him watch as he threw himself off the roof of St. Bart's. What a selfish, moronic act! "Idiot bastard!" he shouted.
"John," Sarah said, and he jumped because he hadn't noticed she had come back into the room. "You're shouting again. Toast?" She offered him a plate.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I'll try to keep it down, I really will. Sorry." He took the plate from her and turned back to the window, balancing the plate in his right hand while leaning on the cane. He nibbled absently at the crust. The smell of coffee slowly filled the room.