A/N: Oh, god, you have no idea how hard this was to write. My constant thought was "this is so irrational; it's such a disproportionate response". I had to keep reminding myself that, hey, that's the point. Anyways. I'm behind. Sorry.
12 Days of Christmas
Chapter 3
14 December, 2014
"All I'm saying is that maybe it should be time to try and let go," Sherlock says tentatively, clutching the bags in his arms. John is climbing the stairs in front of him, trying to ignore everything that Sherlock is saying, but John needs to hear it. "John, Mary-"
John stops for half a step, turning his head back to shoot the other man a venomous glare. "Don't."
Sherlock feels his mouth click shut, but he forces it open. "It's been months, John, she obviously isn't coming back. And I think we both know that all of this isn't even about her, not really."
"Sherlock, I said don't."
It's the look on John's face, the obvious pain in his eyes that makes Sherlock stop. Obediently, he follows John up the rest of the stairs, into the kitchen, and, after clearing a clear space on the table, sets down his bags. The two put groceries away in silence. Milk, bread, various canned foods, a few miscellaneous things Sherlock needed for a variety of experiments he plans to conduct in the next week, jam. There is some tinsel and lights in there too for Mrs Hudson, even though John and Sherlock both know that she intends to use it in their flat. When they're done, and everything is put away, John nearly flees from the kitchen. Sherlock begins arranging his various Bunsen burners and test tubes, hoping to calm his thoughts with an experiment involving fluoroantimonic acid.
He's just started to look for his goggles – he put them somewhere, dammit – when he hears a series of bangs, curses, and finally rushed, angry footsteps coming towards him.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock, currently searching under the table for the aforementioned goggles, jumps, banging his head on the underside of the table. Huffing out an expletive or two, he stands, confused. "Yes?"
"Where is it?" John's face is full of fury, and his whole body is bristling and rigid.
Sherlock blinks. "Where is what? You'll certainly need to be more specific."
"You know what. I know you know that I kept it – you always know. Now what have you done with it?"
"John, I honestly don't know what you're talking about." Though, that is a lie. Sherlock knows very well what John is talking about at this point. However, he can only speculate as to how it went missing.
"The ring." John is very still now, making cold, direct eye contact with Sherlock, who maintains it.
"John, I assure you that I have never touched your ring–"
"Don't you dare lie about this! You're the only one who knows I still have it! I know you're ecstatic that my marriage went down in flames- you always did hate it when my attention was turned away from you. And just thirty minutes ago you were telling me that I should 'let it go', now where the hell is it?"
A weary sigh leaves Sherlock's lips as he leverages himself against the kitchen table. "John, when would I have the time? I've been with you all morning – don't say I could have snuck in during the night, you wake up if a pin falls on the floor in Mrs Hudson's flat." John's mouth immediately closes. Sherlock can see tiny gears turning in John's mind, he can see John formulating a scathing response, that John is full capable of hurting him, hurting him badly, and braces himself.
But he doesn't. John simply shoots him a withering, warning look, and storms out of the flat. Sherlock winces when the door slams closed downstairs. A few minutes pass before he lowers himself into a chair, head in his hands. He's suddenly very tired.