Thank you so much for the reviews and favorites! You guys have no idea how much it means to me. I was surprised that this got as much attention as it did.
Admittedly, the first chapter of this wasn't the greatest. In fact, I absolutely abhor it. However, I am far too lazy to go back and fix everything. What's done is done.
You can thank the massive amounts of snow my area has been getting for this. I was only two paragraphs along before this morning.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Sherlock's nose hurt, but what did he expect? He had just gotten hit in the face. It wasn't like it was the first time, either. For some reason people didn't appreciate Sherlock's input on many things. To him they seemed like perfectly intelligent and rational comments- he thought that people would appreciate them rather than get worked up over small observations. Then there were the times he deliberately said things to make people mad- but hell. It was bloody fun sometimes.
When Sherlock had talked to John just minutes before he had said everything just to try and piss him off. Sherlock didn't particularly enjoy being interrupted in the middle of one of his "performances". It was a bad time for John to come downstairs. He was still as frustrated as ever at the case he was working on- two and two were equating to three, and even with his lack of some elementary knowledge, Sherlock knew it was supposed to be four. He was frustrated, John, was frustrated, and his nose ended up bleeding.
As John walked upstairs Sherlock got up, still bent over his hand awkwardly. He wasn't too keen on getting blood on anything. He went to the bathroom to wash up, dabbing at his nose with a wet washcloth. He looked at himself in the mirror, snorting at his own reflection. Sherlock didn't look at himself often, but when he did he could find many things certainly unattractive about himself. The mop of curly dead skin follicles on his head was unmanageable, his eyes were sunken and reddened from lack of sleep, his face was horsy and his eyes were a stony, rainy gray. Everything about him was repulsive- he didn't understand why anyone would even consider looking at him. Normally people went for the cheery, bright-eyed business men and women with radiant smiles and crumbling facades of happiness. Professional. Sophisticated. Beautiful.
The detective growled in frustration and splashed water over his face. What should he care? It was nearly St. Valentine's Day. He was just thinking about all of this rubbish because it was everywhere- commercials, people chattering on the street, at restaurants, on the calendar. It was truly a horrid holiday. "Single Awareness Day", as some people accurately dubbed it. Loneliness had never bothered him before, so why should it be bothering him now?
Because you're running out of things to fill that space with.
Cocaine. Nicotine. The skull. The cases. The damned violin. It had all worked in the past, but it wasn't satisfying the aching sinkhole in the pit of his very existence. It wanted more than just a temporary solution- it wanted a damned complete repair job and Sherlock was at a loss about how to carry out such a task. He'd never felt feelings such as these towards another human being in his life, exempt of the very man who had punched him in the nose, but he knew that was a lost cause. John was painfully straight. He and John got along well enough when Sherlock wasn't foolish enough to make a snide comment or two, and his mind was running away with the whole idea that he just might have made a friend.
Professional. Sophisticated. Beautiful. Sharron. No, no, her name was Serenity. Shelly? Sarah. What did it matter if he knew her name anyways? It made his blood boil in outright jealousy when he thought about that woman. She had a steady job. She knew how to dress and talk to people. She was- and it was painful for Sherlock to admit it; beautiful in John's mind.
In any case, it was best to not think about things. What concerned the consulting detective at that exact moment was how he was going to fix his little problem with the man upstairs.
You're not good with these sorts of things. Even with as much as you do know, this is out of your league, Sherlock.
Maybe if he just waited. Something might happen. But he wasn't one to normally sit and wait for miracles.
Just go tell him you're sorry and that it won't happen again.
But it would happen again. Sherlock had stayed on his violin constantly for two weeks straight- before his body gave out on him and he fainted, of course. He couldn't think without something to keep his brain completely stimulated.
You're a genius. You can't find something else?
Sherlock fell back to sit on the toilet lid with an exasperated sigh, rubbing at his eyes. He couldn't work when his mind was preoccupied with such things. It was a lost cause.
For the first time in a long time, a perplexed Sherlock emerged from the bathroom when his nose stopped up and went to bed.
When Sherlock got up some time past noon the next morning, John was downstairs flipping through channels with the remote held out a ways in front of him. John's eyes flickered up to look at Sherlock as he walked into his range of vision. It was but a bit amusing because the doctor had obviously thought Sherlock hadn't seen him looking back. The detective turned away coolly, leaning against the counter and picking up the skull, who moved from place to place depending on what kind of mood Sherlock had been in. He ran his thumb over the mandible as he tried to reorient himself.
Typically, apologizing to one's flatmate shouldn't be so hard. But when you were a achingly prideful sociopath with feelings towards said flatmate it was increasingly difficult. You were, essentially, ripped in two. His pride stated rather bluntly that it would not apologize, and that John WAS the one who had hit him for everything, meanwhile, the recently discovered loving and caring center in his brain begged that he go ask for John's forgiveness. In concurrence with each other, either side wasn't so happy with the chance of losing his best and only real friend.
But, as it turned out, Sherlock didn't have to do a damned thing.
He heard John walk into the kitchen and Sherlock didn't turn to look at him. Out of his peripheral vision he could see John had his arms crossed and looked overly tired. Sherlock wanted so badly to rub those worry lines in his forehead away with his thumbs and get John to laugh or just cheer up a little to get that gloomy expression off of his beautiful face. He set the skull down on the counter beside him and shoved his hands down his pockets to keep such an impulsive and stupid thing from taking place. It was a thing better left to the movies.
"Good morning." John started awkwardly, voice strong nonetheless. The ex-soldier didn't know how to go about apologizing either, it seemed.
Sherlock made a noise in his throat. It was such a terrible, cold thing to do, and he instantly regretted it afterwards. John stepped back, becoming less confident about himself by the second. "Oh. Well. I made some eggs this morning- they ought to be a bit cold by now but if you want some they're there."
And that was how Sherlock Holmes ruined one of the best chances he'd get to make things right with John.
As the doctor walked back to his telly to watch some ridiculously happy family play out their fake lives on the set of some television show, Sherlock was fretting over many things that a Sherlock did not do. After the show ended and some depressed, tired actor with far too many buried secrets retired to his home for the night, Sherlock was leaving the flat to go visit the morgue. He tied his scarf about his neck in his usual fashion, walking for the front steps.
"You coming? I'm headed for the morgue." Sherlock asked. It was more a plea than a simple, everyday question. He wished more than anything that they could just forget this and move on, but he knew it was going to take more than that. Before anything could go away Sherlock had to get over his massive ego- easier said than done.
"No." John offered Sherlock one of the most painful smiles he had ever seen in his life. "No, you go right ahead. I've got a headache."
And with that, Sherlock Holmes became an outright coward and turned away from everything, much like that unhappy and troubled actor playing out the false events in a falsely happy little home.