I didn't know what to do. I didn't have a lick of cash on me, my card had a nasty habit of getting declined when I really needed it, and I'd somehow managed to leave my phone at the pub, all the way across the neighborhood. And it was raining, pouring, really. "Nothing for it," I muttered to myself, turning my coat up against the rain.
Sherlock would read it on me, the moment I walked in. I could hear him, nearly: You turned your coat up against the rain. So you didn't call a cab, then, which means you were out of cash and your card wasn't working. You'd have called me if you could. Did you leave your phone at the pub? You could have used Mary's, but she wouldn't lend it, so you left on poor terms. I take it the night went badly, then?
Huffing, bad shoulder aching from the cold and the night's activities, hands in pockets, I strode through the sheets of water, ducked under lampposts, shook the rain out of my eyes. What was I going to say? What had happened in there? I went over and over it in my mind, speaking both parts. I tried apologetic, belligerent, seductive, all in turn, and a million other variations. When I finally left the pub, still sopping wet and phone safely in an inside pocket, I was no closer to an explanation, a reason, a decision.
—
"Not a good night, was it, John?"
I was dripping onto the rug. Managed to hold back a near-hysterical giggle. "The worst, love." It was the first time I'd called him a pet name of any kind. He started, ever so slightly, at the word. "I just. Can we not talk about it just yet? Let me get a shower, dry off a bit. I'll make something hot to drink, assuming you haven't poisoned the milk again. Then we'll talk, all right?"
"Fine."
"Yeah, fine." I heard him get up as I went into the restroom, and then the blazing hot water erased all other sound. I'm not sure how long I stood there, eyes closed and head bent, letting the water do its magic. All I know is that I didn't hear the door open. All I heard was Sherlock's voice, suddenly, amplified and echoed by the tile.
"Remain calm, John."
That didn't work at all, of course. Tried to spin around, my leg went out from under me, nearly ripped down the shower curtain. Just missed bashing my head into the wall — thank goodness for the rail that miraculously held my weight, or I'd've been back in hospital.
"Fuck! What the…Why are you in the bathroom? It's a bit occupied, you know."
"I wanted to continue our conversation. And you were in here for quite a long time."
"I was frozen solid, Sherlock! It takes a bit to warm up after all that walking in the rain!"
"Why didn't you call me?" He sounded almost hurt. "You picked up your phone, obviously, and it's not dead. I checked. You could have called, I'd have come and picked you up."
I heaved a sigh, pressed my head to the tile. Suddenly I was far too warm, and the cold tile felt like a kiss on my skin. "You're the detective, deduce it."
A long pause. I took advantage of it to quickly soap up and rinse off, sure I'd be stuck in here for a while. "Well, Sherlock?"
"I haven't any idea. Unless you were upset at me for some reason."
"Not you, no. Me. I was, I am upset at me."
"Why?"
I turned off the water. "Hand me a towel, will you?" The curtain still closed, I dried off and wrapped it around my waist. Opened the curtain and stepped out. "Let's, I don't know, let's just go to bed, all right?"
Sherlock just looked at me. He was fully dressed, and I was in a towel and nothing else, and I'd never felt more vulnerable in my entire life.
"I would prefer to discuss this now."
"Fine, all right, fine. What do you want me to say?"
He looked cross. "Why are you angry at me?"
To answer, I slammed my hand into the wall, swore under my breath, stormed out of the room. "I'm not angry," I called over my shoulder, "I'm just going to get dressed, all right? I'd rather not talk to you about this while I'm naked."
He followed me into the bedroom. And that's when and where it all changed for us.
