In his room, after a thorough and blissfully hot shower to scrub of the grim and rubbish he'd fallen into, John paced nervously, the throb in his abdomen driving him to distraction.
He'd taken his temperature, which was precisely normal. His heart rate was maybe a bit high, but he wrote that off as anxiety. The pulsing contractions were shorter in length now but no where near in strength as the first couple. It was just irritating at this point.
He came downstairs an hour later, the throb having died down just enough he didn't wince or breathe heavily through them. Sherlock would notice any minute change in his breathing pattern or body language and he wasn't in the mood for mother hen antics.
He found the Alpha at the sitting table, his—nope wait, that was John's—laptop open, fingers briskly running along the keyboard with practiced ease.
He glanced up once, just a blink. "Alright?"
John nodded, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He poured himself a cuppa, water in the kettle still hot. "What're you reading?"
"I'm typing, clearly."
Christ, I'm too tired for this. "What are you typing, then?" He bit out, dripping the last bit of milk in the container into his mug.
"Email to Lestrade. Too long to text."
"You know, you could call. I hear sometimes people use mobiles to do such a thing."
A smile quirked just at the edge of Sherlock's mouth, but he continued his actions, facing the screen, but he silently watched his Beta move about the kitchen from the corner of his vision.
Sherlock could confess, only to himself, that what he felt could only be labeled as worry. He hadn't felt that protective over John since the pool, the concern even overriding his desire to chase after their prey. The thought of John in any sort of pain caused the Alpha great distress. He was supposed to take care of what was his. He considered it a great failing if John was injured because of his own doing.
Something clinked heavily along with the sound of liquid spilling on the countertop, snapping Sherlock's attention to it. John was hovered over the kitchen counter, arms out stretched and shoulders taunt, head bowed. Instantly, Sherlock was on alert. He scented the air frantically. His Beta, anxiety, spilled tea (black, skim milk) pain (abdomen, he's favoring it again), fear (of? The pain?)-
"John—?" He shifted with the laptop, placing it on the tabletop.
John made a quick move to the hallway, hand pressed hard to his stomach. "I'm fine, just… I'm tired, please Sherlock, I'm alright." He lurched his way to the staircase, heading back to his room.
The Alpha approached despite the Betas insistence. He made a swift move to be at John's side—
The Beta spun sharply. Wheeling himself around to face Sherlock the Alpha felt a hard hand on his chest (angry, strong) that shoved him back. John leaned forward and wordlessly snarled at him.
Sherlock recoiled instantaneously, taking an uncharacteristically clumsy step backward, nearly tripping over his dressing gown.
"John!" He was so stunned; he couldn't withhold the sharp, high intonation.
"Don't touch me!" John hissed, hackles raised like an angry cat. Being two steps on the staircase, John held height over Sherlock. His hands were clenched and his posture hunched in a fighting position. The Alpha took another (slighty intimidated) step back.
"Alright." He nodded, attempting to keep his tone soft and mild. He tried to swallow but his throat was bone dry.
He watched John turn his back to him, and bolt up the stairs, bedroom door slamming shut. Disoriented over what just transpired, he made his way back to the sitting table. He glanced at the cuppa John had spilled along the counter in his haste to retreat back to his room.
He'd done something wrong. Something terribly, appallingly wrong. John was angry, furious even and it was directed at Sherlock. He despised the sensation of John upset with him. It was unsettling, a hollow pit in his chest that pulsed like an open sore.
He could see John snapping at him because he was in pain, that he could understand. But something was creeping and spiraling in his mind, a sensation at failure. That he'd let John down.
In the passing months, they'd begun to be comfortable again around each other. The air wasn't as torpid or oppressive. He wasn't as adept at social cues as John, but even he could see the guarded way John held himself around Sherlock, all the while not rebuffing or (for the most part) complaining about his directions for cases.
John had daringly opened his heart, and the Alpha had clawed it closed. He knew he… cared, for John. He knew how difficult it must have been to admit to caring for something so unaffectionate, broken and (sometimes) amoral as Sherlock. But he had to reject him. It was for both their sakes, and he valiantly had to believe that John had understood that.
He'd learned to give John space when he was in a strop. That while his use of John's laptop, books and medical equipment were frowned upon by the Beta, he was still allowed the usage. He didn't tend to adhere to John's cries of needing privacy. John's closed door, on the other hand, was a clear message that he was not allowed entry. Even the Alpha acknowledged and could respect that.
He fiddled with a pen, feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, not knowing how to fix this. "Time heals all wounds", he was told at a young age. For Sherlock it was an absurd concept. He had never met another who could match his impatience. He wanted it fixed, and he wanted it fixed now.
He hedged his way into the kitchen, carefully plucking John's toppled mug and placing it in the sink. Sweeping up the tea and milk with a rag, he grabbed the empty carton of milk and chucked it in the bin with a sharp movement.
His eyes widened. He stared at the bin. He went to the fridge, flinging it open. He searched. Cheese. Butter. Left over takeaway. No milk. John had just used the last of the milk.
He needed. He needed to get milk. Milk. Yes. John needed milk. John always used milk.
The urge was so abrupt, so sharp and so clear, the Alpha was appalled with himself that he hadn't thought of it sooner.
He had to show John he was safe. That he was secure.
He had to show John he could provide.
He caught a look outside, it was dark and frigid, the December air jagged and crisp. Glancing at his watch he knew Tesco would still be open. Throwing on his coat and scarf, he pulled on his gloves and cautiously looked up the stairs, debating if he should alert John to his leaving, if only for a bit.
He decided against it. John was still angry with him. Better leave him alone. He quietly shut the door on his way out, but he found himself already half a block away before he remembered he forgot to lock the door. Turning, he jogged the ways back, pulling out keys. He slipped it into the lock and turned, ensuring John was secure.
He nodded at the door, pleased with himself, before heading back to the street.
