Anote: There are lots of stories of Sherlock apologising to John after a fight and I wanted to try it the other way around for a bit of a different view. I hope you are still enjoying the story because I am having a great time writing it.

Chapter 7- Do no harm

John was struck by a strong sense of déjà-vous, when Sherlock abruptly craned his head around to look at him. It was more the startled expression in the man's grey eyes that seemed familiar as in this instance, they were not standing alongside a swimming pool nor was John wearing several pounds of explosives wrapped around his torso.

'Good morning,' John said politely in a firm but friendly tone, 'I'm glad you're home.'

Sherlock managed to nod in reply but opted not to say anything out loud.

An hour had passed since Sherlock had spoken to Molly and revealed so much of what he kept hidden in his mind. In that time, John had decided to take the long way back to Baker Street, as much to avoid running into the detective as to gather his thoughts. He didn't think he would encounter the taller man standing in the middle of the doorway, staring blankly into the flat they shared.

'I've brought your favourite for breakfast to apologise for last night,' the doctor added holding up the bakery bag of warm, freshly baked berry scones, 'May I come in?'

Gracefully Sherlock pivoted to one side and with a grand sweeping gesture, he held the door open.

John was much amused at this exaggerated display of manners, up until he walked through the opening, and Sherlock slammed the door shut and threw the bolt closed.

Filled with concern, John stared at Sherlock's back as the man gently rested his forehead on the wooden door with a barely, audible groan.

'Sherlock?' he called out worriedly, 'are you sick? Turn around and let me see your face.'

'I'm fine…I think' came the muffled reply, 'I am just more affected by not finding you at the flat than I thought I would be. This is a most peculiar and unpleasant sensation.'

The doctor noted his use of the word flat not home. It was true enough, because only when they were together, was it home.

The ex-army captain had learnt the harsh distinction between the two words last night, as he sat by the unlit fireplace, staring at the detective's empty armchair while the clock on the mantel mercilessly ticked away the hours.

'Sherlock?!' John cried in false dismay, 'You're standing in the doorway! How could you possibly know if I was home? I could have been under the covers having a lie in.'

John was hoping that an opportunity to show off his deductive prowess would put back the glimmer in Sherlock's eye, and make him turn around, but it was not to be.

'I know what the flat feels like when you are not here, John' Sherlock replied evenly, with not one shred of emotion in his voice.

It was this lack of emotion; neither sad nor angry, nor resentful or judging, that did the doctor in more effectively, than if the detective had dealt him a blow with a hammer.

Many times John had left Sherlock 'to get some air' and it never appeared to bother the detective before. Consequently, the doctor didn't feel the need to call or text during that time. The distance was a coping mechanism they utilised to maintain the health of their friendship and whenever John returned the next day, the most Sherlock would do was nod or if he was feeling particularly agreeable, put some water in the teakettle to boil. He HAD noted that Sherlock never left the flat before he came back home though; beguiling away the minutes of waiting with his beloved violin or searching the internet for crimes to solve from his armchair.

In all those times it would appear Sherlock had never doubted John would return; not until today.

'I don't want to talk to your back,' the small man eventually remarked in a subdued voice, the knowledge that he had caused so much hurt making it hard for him to speak. 'Won't you turn around? Please…do it for me, Sherlock.'

'This way is easier,' the detective replied. 'You should come over and try this.'

'No thank you. I'll just wait here for you to look at me,' John insisted quietly, prepared to stand until his friend composed himself.

It really was the least he could do.

'You're just going to stand there and wait?'

'Yes, I think I will.'

With a sudden, swift movement the slender young man twisted around to face him; defiantly crossing his arms around his chest, as all animals tended to do to protect their soft underbelly from attack.

Years ago, John had taken an oath to do no harm, and the words of his promise echoed in his mind now, as he painfully observed the look of wariness in Sherlock's eyes.

'Can you make me some tea?' the doctor requested.

The taller man looked blank at first, but then his brain came back on line and he hurried to the kitchen, apparently relieved to have some useful employment.

John was just as skilled, if not even more so, in managing an emotional Sherlock as Molly was. In the meantime, he cleared away his writing desk. The two men usually took smaller meals there by the window, as opposed to when they ate their dinner on trays infront of the television at night.

In stark contrast to the depressing gloom inside the flat, the sunlight was shining cheerfully through the narrow glass and John felt his sprits lift as the sun warmed his skin. Vigorously, he shook out a small white tablecloth and threw it over the now cleared surface, decorating the table with a single glass measuring cylinder containing the beautiful, shimmering crystals that Sherlock had grown in his tiny science laboratory. As always, John smiled when he saw the rainbow pattern that was suddenly projected across the table and due to the lateness of the hour, across a good deal of the floor.

Then, much to Sherlock's surprise, John joined him in the kitchen and plugged in the percolator to make coffee.

Standing side by side, they didn't talk as they prepared the beverages but this small domestic act, where they demonstrated intimate knowledge of each others drink preferences, spread like a soothing balm over areas that were raw and red from the sharp words of the night before. It seemed to hint at the strong foundations of their friendship that just like a house, were hidden out of sight but were very, very real. Indeed, Sherlock couldn't help but smile gently down at John's blonde head on his left, as the good doctor absently hummed softly to himself while he carefully measured out the two sugars needed for the detective's coffee.

Soon the drinks were ready and as they walked towards the breakfast, the two men deftly exchanged cups without spilling a single drop, as only an ex-army doctor and a skilled chemist could do.

'Butter?'

The detective turned back for the butter and as was their usual practise, Sherlock waited till John was seated, before he swung his long legs under the small space, lightly capturing one of the doctor's legs between his own as the best way to get all their limbs to fit.

'What's wrong?' John asked quickly; as he felt the reconciliatory atmosphere between them suddenly evaporate.

TBC