ALL BLUES

In which John reacts badly and things go to hell.

When John came back to the flat fortythree minutes later he was shuddering in his cold thin shirt, and he wore a dark expression that Sherlock assumed was his war face. That appearance had probably put fear in Afghani insurgents and British soldiers alike. It did not bode well. John faced him where he still sat on the stool in the kitchen, and Sherlock found he had to look up at his friend for once.

"You just had to do that, didn't you? Couldn't help yourself, right?" John was trying to be calm and contained, but failed miserably. He was positively fuming.

"Oh, don't even…"

"I'm just not allowed to have a girlfriend, am I?" John said angrily, cutting him off midsentence, and was as usual spot on.

"Of course, you are allowed to," said Sherlock, trying to mockingly pacify the man. "But you can't keep on dragging them into my life. You can't have them here in the flat. They get in the way of my work. They are a liability." John huffed.

"Now, see, that is just something you say! They are – Mary is my girlfriend, and I can't see how you can have anything to say about that. I want her in my life, thank you very much. Don't you think I see what you are doing? You've got a bloody system for this. I get to date a woman for a maximum of what, three weeks? And then you've scared her off. Would it kill you to let me have one single healthy relationship for once? You know, I like having a private life sometimes. It helps keeping the good things in my life clear from the mess that you always make of me. Honestly, I don't know why I've put up with this for so long. I really, really liked Mary. Couldn't you just have bloody well behaved for once?"

Sherlock found he could not reply in any dignified way, and thus shut up. Breathless and overwhelmed by the sudden silence, John took the opportunity to get up and leave. He ran upstairs, and slammed the door shut after him. And Sherlock knew better than to follow him.

Sherlock wandered around in the flat. He was annoyed. He ruffled the case files that were piled up high on the desk, and then shoved them aside forcefully. Everything had gone exactly as planned, but for some reason Johns anger struck him harder than expected, and he did not know why. It was no good. He could not get it out of his head. He had done this exact procedure nine times already, and John had gotten almost as upset as this for every one. So why would this one be different?

He didn't feel like playing the violin. But he just had to do something about the storm of thoughts that occupied his brain. Music helped him catalogue and clean up the mess. Shostakovich's second concerto for violin would do. Aggressively he rushed through the first movement and then went on. The music was chaos and order. Disharmonies overlapped and suddenly became pure, clear. His anger and confusion washed over him, and in the back of his head he kept saying Johns name over and over. He let the music flow through him, letting it form his thoughts.

The second movement, the Adagio, was slower and more melancholic, with long phrases in minor carrying on and on. He stalked across the room as he played, long steps matching the pace of the music. He missed their closeness. What wouldn't he give for them to crack inappropriate jokes at a crime scene again, or just collapse in the stairs together, sweaty and breathless after a chase? It had become normal for him, that basic human interaction. He had gotten used to being touched by him, brotherly pats on the back and that occasional touch of hands when reaching for the teapot that made his heart flutter. He had come to long for that. Now it was gone. Probably forever. He would not try to achieve it with another person, he decided. It would not be worth it.

The third movement was more aggressive, and he alternated between angrily sawing away on his violin and violently plucking at the strings. This was all Johns fault. How could he sneak his way into his life, and then expect that he would not care or ensure that he stayed there with him? This endless dating surely was Johns way of saying that he, Sherlock, always was his second choice, that he would abandon him the same moment he met that one woman that he thought was right for him. John was treacherous like that, first going to extreme lengths to get his trust and acceptance, and then subtly telling him he'd very much like to leave him. Sherlock was starting to regret letting him so damned close. Love was such an overrated and annoying aspect of the human condition.

Half way through the last part of the concerto he heard the door open slowly. He slammed the violin down on the desk, frustrated that his thought process had irrevocably been interrupted. He didn't dare to turn around, since he was certain that his face showed a storm of naked emotion. But he knew instantly who it was, by the faint breathing and the hesitant lingering in the doorway. John.

(Hugs for the reviewers out there! You make my day! And seriously people, listen to Dmitri Shostakovich. The man's a genious.)