Sorry for the long wait.
Disclaimer - I do not own this show or the characters.
John stood in the kitchen, having just finished pouring himself a cup of tea. His head was pounding, and although there was sunlight streaming in through the slanted shades of the window, it was much too early to be awake after the drink too few he'd had the night before. He grumbled under his breath, already in a sour mood for the day. At least he hadn't seen a sign of Sherlock yet – if he was lucky enough, this was one of the rare times he'd be out.
After the initial findings at the crime scene, Sherlock had gone with Lestrade to pursue the case. Or rather, Lestrade had taken Sherlock with him due to a tenuous agreement with the British government to keep an eye on him for the next few weeks concerning anything to do with investigating crimes. Sherlock had, of course, pompously declared his intentions to act otherwise, and had only gone after being baited with a promise to assist with the autopsy. He'd insisted John accompany him, but he'd refused.
The way Sherlock's face had fallen at that refusal – not something anyone else would have seen, of course, just a minuscule falter that, on Sherlock, spoke volumes – had hurt to see. He paused, hand hovering next to the cup at a small wave of guilt. Considering Sherlock had somehow drawn the conclusion that John didn't trust him anymore only moments previous, spurning his request probably hadn't done much good. But after the look in his eyes when John told him to leave it alone – the exact look he always got when he scented the beginnings of a game – John had needed a few drinks and a break. If he pursued this…
John was snapped out of his thoughts by a warm body brushing up against his as a hand snaked around him to take the cup of tea off of the counter. He froze, his mood pushing him to turn with a sharp accusation on his tongue, and was brought up short by the nearness of his flatmate. Sherlock, wearing his night clothes and robe, towered over him. He held the cup of tea to the side, allowing him to stand close enough for John to smell the pricey, subtle cologne that always hung about him.
John caught himself before he could back away, aware that he was only inches from the counter anyways, but had to wait a moment before he could reform his thoughts into words. He honestly wasn't sure if the pause was caused by the reality of Sherlock here, vibrant and alivein front of him (even after weeks he still had to reassure himself sometimes), or the way he was tempted to lean forward against the taller man's chest.
"You couldn't wait five seconds to pour some yourself?" he asked after what seemed like a long pause, raising an eyebrow.
"You were taking too long." Sherlock replied simply, smiling pleasantly and stepping back to allow John to turn away and retrieve a new cup. John didn't miss the careful look in his eyes as he studied him watchfully.
He didn't reply to that statement, instead choosing to nod over his shoulder at the fridge. "There's leftover takeout," he commented, pouring the last of the tea into the new cup and wrapping his hands around it, thankful for its warmth in the morning chill of the flat. "You're welcome to it, if you'd like."
"Not hungry." Sherlock replied flippantly, thumbing through a book on the nearby table as if searching for something hidden in its pages. John barely refrained from rolling his eyes, turning stiffly to head out of the kitchen.
"Whatever." His head still pulsed with a dull ache, and the word carried a sharper edge than he intended. So what if Sherlock had, more likely than not, refrained from eating last night. So what if his last meal was what John had forced upon him the night before last, worried at the gauntness that still hung about his frame from his six month absence. It wasn't his job to baby Sherlock – or to tolerate his games, for that matter. His feet carried him to his own room unbidden, and he hesitated before closing the door a bit too hard and setting his cup down to change. He was going out.
He missed Sherlock's small frown as he glanced up at his retreating flat mate.
