I said I would try to post another chapter, and I did! Granted, it's a filler chapter, but it's an update nonetheless.
The next chapter will have more of the case; it isn't done yet!
John's eyes met Sherlock's, bashfulness forgotten at the barely-hidden emotion in the aquamarine eyes. John couldn't move away if he wanted to. His distracted mind finally caught up with the implications of such a thought, and his cheeks reddened. He would've fled the room that instant if it hadn't been for some mysterious glint in the detective's eyes. John allowed himself to imagine that the strange yet entrancing stare had something to do with himself. John's eyes widened when Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly toward the stunned doctor.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as Sherlock's mouth lifted ever-so-slightly in a smile...
The door suddenly opened; the intruder froze at the sight of the two men standing very close to each other by the window.
"Oh dear me, I'm so sorry! You weren't answering your door, so I'd thought I would just... Um... I'll come back later." Mrs. Hudson's embarrassed yet satisfied interruption broke the spell over John.
He just about jumped away from Sherlock though the action was in vain, Mrs. Hudson had left, chuckling softly. He couldn't look at Sherlock; he couldn't even acknowledge him. What just happened?
John practically fled up to his room, slamming the door shut as he sat on his bed.
Why had Sherlock gotten so close to him? Why had Sherlock looked as though he was going to...
No. No, it was impossible. The only person John knew of that had ever made Sherlock interested in them in such a way was Irene Adler. If anyone was the detective's match, it was her. She prized her brilliant mind, like Sherlock, though she used her body for a different sort of transport.
John, although a doctor, was not brilliant. He was a broken military veteran with a psychosomatic limp and wounded shoulder. Sure Sherlock cured him of his limp, but that didn't erase the fact that John had still been in possession of one.
He had been healed by a self-proclaimed sociopathic consulting detective out of pity and a craving for praise. John's unresolved and most definitely heterosexual feelings towards Sherlock stemmed from gratitude. He was most definitely not crushing on his flat mate.
The doctor sharply nodded his head once as he associated his feelings with gratitude.
Lying down on his bed, he fell asleep, completely exhausted.
When John awoke, it wasn't to violin screeching, gunshots, or rhythmic pacing. The flat was completely silent.
It was a nice change from the detective's rude awakenings that he had grown accustomed to.
Reaching for his bathrobe, he walked down to the flat. The detective was nowhere to be found, not even in his bedroom. Slightly worried, John pulled out his laptop. Sherlock was probably just at the morgue.
After checking his email and blog, John turned on the telly, mindlessly watching an episode of Doctor Who. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock, an hour after John woke up, entering the flat. He bounded up the stairs and burst into the room with his usual flair.
He ignored John completely as he bustled about, flitting through the kitchen before sitting in his leather chair.
They continued the rest of the day in an odd silence. It wasn't tense or awkward, but it wasn't entirely comfortable either. Sherlock didn't stare at John like he had been doing for the past few days, and John tried his best not to corner Sherlock and demand answers. John only allowed himself a few innocent glances, though every time he looked, Sherlock didn't appear any more abnormal than he usually did.
Both of the men had been acting slightly different than the normally did during the past few days. Sherlock had seemed... Happy. Not the childlike glee at an interesting murder; not the extreme euphoria they shared when a case was successfully closed.
It was the satisfaction John had witnessed when an experiment was going well.
His heart stopped, then plummeted.
All of this, all of the increased touches and indirect declarations of friendship, was one of Sherlock's experiments.
It made sense to John; it really did. Why would such a fantastic genius be genuinely caring towards a perfectly ordinary dull man?
John got up and entered the kitchen, desperately making tea. He needed something solid, something routine, something real, to bring him back to earth.
He made two cups, as was the routine, and finished the day in silence.
A week passed by, thankfully different than the emotional rollercoaster the first few days were.
They reverted back to their normal banter, though it lacked the same warmth John had witnessed.
They didn't touch at all, not even brush each other's shoulder when they walked. Although there wasn't a literal brick wall separating them, John felt as though there were. He tried his best to mask his disappointment and hurt, striving to appear that everything was alright. No one seemed to notice his struggle, not even Sherlock.
He was thankful it appeared effortless; he was thankful for his acting skills.
It wasn't easy for John to go back; it wasn't effortless or painless. The first day of normalcy, John was absolutely frightened that Sherlock would discover the façade, but no discovery was made or proclaimed.
John then remembered that Sherlock didn't understand emotion; he realized that Sherlock might never figure out how much he had hurt the doctor. Sherlock didn't understand how heartless it was to mess with your friend's emotions as a mere experiment. Then again, the detective often proclaimed himself to lack a heart, metaphorically of course, and it would make sense that the detective was ignorant of how not to treat a friend.
John wasn't sure if it hurt more that Sherlock had experimented on him, or that Sherlock wouldn't be able to figure out for himself that John ached, much less the depth of his pain.
Thank you for reading!
Until next weekend! :)