Sherlock paced the length of the hall, turning when he heard the door clicking shut behind him. John was staring back with an expression slightly more naked now they were alone. At least he was affected. That was something to note. Even if he wasn't behaving anywhere near rationally in response.
Sherlock ran both hands through his hair. John followed the motion with his eyes and Sherlock watched the recognition settling on his face. Fine, it was a gesture of frustration. It wasn't as if his frustrations were a secret.
He snapped at John, "Yes, what? You were angry with me. Please elaborate on it quickly. Do you realize there are seventeen different types of cat hair in that room and half the carriers are allergic?" The last had been bothering him for hours.
John gave a small laugh and pushed himself from the door, closing the distance between them a bit too quickly. He swayed, closed his eyes briefly and leaned on the wall. Sherlock warmed at the proximity, his rage marginally abating as he watched John closely. All the same he huffed at John's play for physical contact and refused to help. Together they smelled the way their flat used to smell.
"Let's start with… then," John said. He shook his head of swimming thoughts, then nodded when he found the right one. "Do you realize how often you refer to me as your ex-partner? D'you realize what that sounds like?"
That question and yet John was inching closer. Sherlock clenched his jaw. The pads of John's fingers made a slow, aching sound along the wallpaper. He was dimly aware of his own body reacting, how much he was squirming. There was an itching in his hands, behind his eyes and knees.
"I very seldom find it necessary to refer to you at all," he answered irritably.
John laughed. "Only because you never see me. And you only never see me because you never return my calls, Sherlock. And you haven't gotten this riled up because you're indifferent to all–"
"You're useless on cases!"
John looked up at him with big, hurt eyes. Sherlock took a quick breath to marginally soften the edge on his voice. "In particular as a married man with a regular job. Too hampered by organization. My needs come at odd times and you know that, John."
John ruffled. "You're talking about business needs, not your –"
"Yes, you miss me," he snapped, jumping ahead. "That sentiment is proving deeply irrelevant."
"Yes. I miss you. That's what friends do and you know it's not -"
"Yes, exactly, John. Exactly. You miss playing house with a friend. You miss making appropriate life plans but then getting mercifully distracted from them by a sudden uptick in danger. You can't get that back and also have your lovely, normal life in the suburbs with the returning limp and the decreasing need for motility. Don't you see they mutually contradict?"
John took an uneven breath, eyes on Sherlock's lips. He hadn't wanted to hear that and by the look on his face Sherlock could tell he still refused to know it. Hence the alcohol, no doubt.
He suddenly leaned again Sherlock's chest with closed eyes, nuzzled his forehead once against Sherlock's neck.
Then Sherlock cleared his throat and broke away. He moved around John, opened the door and found his way back to the party. He was almost blind with rage when he seated himself at the table. He picked up his cards, glanced quickly around, placed a bet and felt Mrs. Hudson's hand on his shoulder. That's when he remembered to breathe.
