Apology: n. a regretful acknowledgment of an offense or failure.

The twelfth of April, 8:25 am, Baker Street, London

John woke up to a quiet sound coming from across the hall.

He had been a very light sleeper lately, because of Sherlock. Just 2 nights ago, all he heard was Sherlock make a muffled moan into his pillow and he jumped out of bed. Sherlock had pressed his face full-on into the pillow, quieting any sounds he made and words he spoke. John couldn't tell which he was doing. He leaned over and lightly turned Sherlock's shoulder to see his face. His eyes were closed tight and cheeks red, making John's hand fly up to this forehead to check for fever. But no, he felt normal. A dream, then. But Sherlock sat up, fully awake, with a pen in his hand. A pen?

"What?" Sherlock's irritation crept through the question slowly.

John was confused. "I thought-"

"It was nothing. Go back to sleep." Sherlock lied on his back, tossed the pen on the night table, and folded his hands. John waited for a minute and left the room. He closed his door all but to latch it, and got back into his own bed.

Sherlock hit the headboard of his bed with his good hand.

***

John blinked his eyes and looked at the clock. 7:08. It wasn't as late as he had originally wanted to sleep in, but he sat up either way. Rubbed his eyes, slipped on his house shoes, and headed to the kitchen. The Kettle was already hot. And two spoons on the counter. Two? But the kettle wasn't hot. What-

The coffee pot. He had made coffee. He didn't usually drink coffee, but if Sherlock was on a case or couldn't sleep, coffee forced him to stay awake for just a bit longer. Or jump-started his brain for thought.

It still didn't explain the two spoons, though.

Or the woman's coat lying over the arm of John's chair.

A new client? Sherlock wouldn't have done that so soon, especially with his burns. Sad enough to say Sherlock Holmes was the tiniest bit vain, but even sadder to say he'd pause his work because of his vanity. And he shut down the blog since that night, a silent message to all informing them he wasn't taking any cases. John asked why didn't he just leave it up and say he could do small things, from the laptop. To keep his mind moving?

But Sherlock shook his head, with too much emotion trapped in his eyes.

"Wouldn't matter. Not worth the time, in the end." And then he would ask John what his plans for the day were, and if he wanted tea. It was unsettling.

The whole flat was unsettling, as it were. There was an air of urgency and stillness, blended in a way making John feel a need to address it. But there was also an air of…nothing. Nothing happened in this last week. John didn't leave the flat except for food, Sherlock lied around the house and looked at papers, scribbling and typing away at the laptop.

And they had conversations. Ones about Sherlock's addiction and John's sister; Sherlock's brother and John's military days. They talked about everything, they talked about nothing. They were always short, but were full. Sherlock would even initiate one. In fact, he initiated most of them. In the most casual way, he'd ask what John wanted to learn from life or what he would do with one day to live. These questions set John off, a tiny alarm in the back of his mind ringing. But he never questioned. It would only make Sherlock shut down, and he'd never bring it up again.

John made a cup of coffee for himself and looked at the woman's coat again, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. What in Bloody Hell. Even if a new client was here, she'd (she'd!) be in the living room. She was probably young-the coat was very stylish and had silver buttons. And6John walked toward the hall, only to be stopped by the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening. John stood at the doorway, and he could not hide the surprise at what he saw next.

Sherlock's arm was shown through the angled opening of the door as he opened it. A young woman walked out in front of him. Dirty blonde hair pulled up in a slightly messy bun, a few strands framing her face. She had s skirt suit on, black with a pale purple dressy blouse underneath the blazer. She had no shoes on.

She was pretty. Prettier than Sarah, and Molly. She had plump lips and thick eyelashes framing ocean blue eyes like John's. She stood straight when she walked. John leaned back a little more into the living room and pretended to sip his coffee and not notice her. Sherlock, in his pajamas and dressing gown, guided the woman by the small of her back with his hand aa they passed John into the room. The woman stopped and turned.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson."

John swallowed his coffee and smiled. "Morning."

Sherlock didn't look at him. Or he wouldn't, one of the two. John made silent please with his eyes to get him to look as the woman slipped her feet into her very high heels and straightened her jacket. Then she grabbed her coat. Sherlock smiled when she looked up at him, a silent cue to be led to the front door. He guided her again, down the stairs John felt alone in a room of three. Usually it was Sherlock who was separated from a group. But somehow John felt a connection between Sherlock and whoever this girl was.

John looked into his mug, gently moving it in circles and causing the coffee to spiral up onto the sides. He heard soft words at the front door, first from the woman's soprano voice, then a few from Sherlock's baritone.

Surely John would have heard-

The door shut quietly, and John waited for Sherlock to come back up, back against the living room doorway. But there was no movement.

***

The expression of John's face forced Sherlock to avoid it entirely. This was unwanted; John's face was usually the center of Sherlock's atmosphere. It settled him in times of danger and it grounded him in times of irritation. His eyes, especially- they were the skies to Sherlock's fields of green. One look was all it took.

But he had no desire to answer any questions. He had hoped John would sleep in later, all he needed was five more minutes. But of course John would hear something and then decide to stay up. Of course. This one morning.

He opened the front door for her as she stepped out and turned around. She smiled up at him and lightly touched his arm. It made him look away from the ground and into her eyes. They weren't as blue as John's.

"He'll understand." But Sherlock didn't think so. His mind was moving too fast for anything sensible to come out. Apology, regret, excuse. What was he to say to John?

"No, he won't." And that was the truth. She only smiled sadly and gripped Sherlock's arm before kissing his cheek lightly, and went out. Sherlock shut the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes. He didn't want to go upstairs. He didn't want to see John, and yet, everything opposite of that statement was true as well. He did.

John's stare was annoying, like pins and needles long after you've woken up and given your arm some circulation. He felt it into his back and neck as he went over to the file cabinet and locked it. John sat down in his chair, still watching. It was silent except for a sip of his coffee ever few seconds.

***

John knew that Sherlock knew he was looking at him. Dammit, why wouldn't he just look up?
John didn't care if the girl spent the night.

"Who was she?"

Sherlock looked down out of one of the left front windows.

"Angela Bansfury. Old...friend."

Yeah. "Old friend?" John sipped his coffee.

"Yes."

"What does she do?" John tried not to sound too curious.

"She is…a family lawyer."

Ah, that makes sense now. She's smart, and looked the part. She could probably remember laws from heart. Maybe that was Sherlock's kink. If he had one.

"Good night, then?"

Sherlock turned around and looked at John oddly, eyebrows furrowing. Then, after two seconds, they relaxed and he let his stiff posture fall.

"Didn't sleep very much."

"Mmm." John's eyebrows rose as he took another sip.

"She needed help with a case," Sherlock tried.

"Doesn't matter, not my life." Was all that John said. He looked down in his lap.

And suddenly Sherlock's head was there, forehead lightly pressed on John's knee and his hand gripping his leg. John set the coffee mug on the table beside him and looked down at Sherlock's curls.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock's voice was quiet and ragged. John sat up, feeling scared.

"Sherlock, I said it doesn't mat-"

But Sherlock interrupted. "I know you won't understand this now, and you'll hate me for it, but you have to understand that I'm sorry."

John's hand automatically rested on the back of Sherlock's head-fingers tangled in his dark curls- as he looked straight ahead, into the window.

"You have to know that. I'm sorry."

John took a breath in. He didn't understand. Was Sherlock apologizing for being with some girl, like he thought John was jealous? John really wasn't. He wasn't jealous at all. Let Sherlock do what he wanted, with whom he wanted. That wasn't his place.

"What would you do, if I wasn't here anymore?"

"What, you mean, in the flat?"

Sherlock sat back, tea mug in hand, and gave a non-committal shrug."Sure."

"Well...I guess I'd move out? Can't afford-"

"Of course Mycroft would pay my part of the rent if I left."

"Don't know if I'd let him do that."

"Helps Mrs. Hudson."

"I guess so."

It was silent for a few moments. Then John thought-

"Where would you go, though? Am I that bad of a flatmate?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Surely not. But things happen. You never know. I could die, or you could…get married."

John couldn't imagine those things at that moment. He liked things the way they were, now.
John breathed in again, steadying his pulse. Sherlock stood and looked at him.
"Sherlock." John said quietly. "I don't understand."

But Sherlock only gave him a look, the same one as the other night when John tried to calm him from his dream, and walked away. He shut his bedroom door, leaving John alone with his thoughts. And the air that something had changed.