John was in the kitchen buttering a slice of toast when Sherlock emerged from his room, still in the clothes from the day before. He ran his hands through his hair as his room-mate eyed him suspiciously, tossing his now complete breakfast onto a plate and taking a seat at the table.
" Didn't sleep again last night then?" John asked before digging in.
" Mmno." Sherlock dragged out, striding over to check the kettle. After his sleepless night he found himself craving a strong coffee and a nicotine patch. Maybe two. Setting the kettle to boil he turned to face the doctor.
" I'll need you to go down to Bart's when you finish that, I've been advised of a potential client. Thirty four year old male spotted by a tourist off the London Bridge floating in the Thames, the police are treating it as suspicious." Sherlock deliberately ignored the look of disbelief on Johns face as he busied himself making a cup of coffee. He knew the likelihood of John going anywhere other than the treatment ward was relatively non-existent, but a small part of him still hoped. " I'll need photos of the body, and try to make them useful to me. Face, hands,feet… just everything really-"
"Sherlock," the scrape of Johns chair across the floor as he stood up made the detective grow still. "Are you being serious right now?" His eyes locked on a particular mark on the counter as he registered the tone of incredulity in his friends voice. A moment passed before John continued.
"I know you know. I bloody well know you're not being serious right now." Another pause, yet Sherlock stayed silent. John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before letting his arms fall to his sides.
"Sherlock, this is really happening. I don't like it any more than you do, but I have to go to hospital to start treatment today. Now I know it's hard for you, its hard for both of us, but I was really hoping…" he faulted, and Sherlock released the breathe he hadn't known he was holding. He turned to face the stricken blogger, eyes narrowed in thought.
"You were hoping what?"
The flash of desperation Sherlock saw when Johns eyes met him brought back the knot in his stomach from the previous night, causing him to swallow dryly.
"Well, I was rather hoping you'd come with me to the clinic today."
Before he could stop the words from coming out of his mouth, Sherlock answered.
"Why would I want to do that?"
The silence that hung in the air could have been thick enough with tension to sink the floor. The two men stared at each other, Johns mouth slightly agape, Sherlock's pressed together in a thin line. Neither of them knew what to say next, and the tension was left to build, until finally John couldn't handle it any more. He shook his head, eyes falling to the floor in a wounded scowl.
"No reason. No reason… at all." He moved out of the kitchen, going to gather a few items before he left for the hospital. Sherlock followed him, aware that somehow, he had overstepped a line.
"Have I upset you John?"
The look on Johns face was enough to answer Sherlock's question, and he found himself uncomfortable with the progression. Trying to fix what he had started, he continued on.
"Well, what would I even do there? All that's going to happen is you'll be hooked up to a machine in a room filled with other people hooked up to machines, there is literally nothing I would be able to do to make it any different. I may as well continue working while you get better, anything else doesn't really make much sense!"
"Fine!" Johns hands were running over his face again when his voice burst through the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath while Sherlock stood awkwardly by, stress and concern showing on his face.
"You're right, Sherlock, fine. Go, solve the case of the floating… person. Ill handle this by myself."
With a sigh, John grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Sherlock followed him to the top of the stairs, acutely aware that he'd made things worse.
"John…"
The soft thud of the door echoed up the stairs, leaving Sherlock alone in the hallway, confused, frustrated and over all, ashamed.