I do want to apologize for the random hiatus in this fic – a combination of college apps, extreme family issues, and attending an IB high school while working has left me a bit low on time or energy. I already have the next chapter half-written, so rest assured when I say that this time there will actually be an update in a timely manner.
Any and all critiques are welcome.
Disclaimer: I do not own this show or the characters.


Sherlock was already lying on the couch, his long form unmoving and fingers steepled under his chin, by the time John crossed to the door and left without sparing him a glance. His step seemed slightly uneven, but the cane remained in its position by the doorway. After the first few days of Sherlock's return the old thing had seen less and less use, and he was all too content for that particular pattern to continue. This pattern though – John's unpredictable reactions and sudden surliness – was a much less pleasant turn of events.

It wasn't that he'd been foolish enough to expect to return to his old life and continue things like normal. He'd known some things would be different, and after what he'd put John through he couldn't entirely blame him for his behavior. Mistrust was a natural enough response, even continued anger – although seething and grudges had never been a part of John's nature (perhaps a subconscious hesitancy then?). But despite his worst fears of his return, he had allowed himself to entertain the notion that things could, with time, return to normal. John seemed to become more unsettled in his presence by the day though, and darker thoughts threatened to crowd out that hope.

But no, John had claimed to trust him still. Even a trained soldier had tells when they lied, at least to Sherlock, and after all – John had promised the truth. So what else was going on to make him act so strangely? Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes staring intently at a spot in midair, and began to tick off a mental list.

Standing too close or too far away – uncomfortable in presence, unconscious changes. Resistance to contact – hints at mistrust, or a conscious decision to pull away. More adamant than ever concerning my eating and sleeping habits – byproduct of the obvious weight loss incurred on my time away. Stolen glances when he thinks I'm not looking – aftermath of my disappearance. A part of him believes I'll leave again. But why care so much? Why, unless he-

He cut his thoughts off, turning and springing up from the couch in one smooth motion. His lip curled into a sneer and his hands reached to fit into their familiar place on the violin unbidden, his steps having taken him to the window where it rested. A few plucks and basic notes rang out through the air, clear and simple. Then, with the raising of the bow, a complicated melody began to weave through the empty flat.

Bow on string. Expected noise, calculated and exact. Logical. The motion of it threatened to sweep his mind away, a thought process of movement and waves – a linear, simple blessing. But he couldn't help but notice the people on the streets below. Talking, laughing, walking with another. This one was the leader of her little pack, this one was new – prey. This one was trying to court the man beside her, and that one was swaying with an idiot's early afternoon drunkenness. Pieces and bits of their lives floated up to him, piercing through the glass window and swirling through his mind. So many people, living out their boring lives in their own little worlds, so oblivious to everything outside of it.

A discordant note rang out and the bow froze in a clenched fist. Useless information, cluttering his mind. He turned away and began to play once more, but his thoughts disobeyed him - ignored the distraction, turned back to John. Behavior and explanations flew across his mind, but he only grit his teeth and set the violin down tensely.

Sympathy. What a waste.


John took a deep breath, watching his surroundings carefully. He hadn't gone to the pub – not this early in the afternoon, and not when the hangover of last night was still thudding dully at the base of his skull. He just needed somewhere to think, somewhere where he could breathe without being constantly surrounded by Sherlock's presence.

That man didn't even realize the space he filled. Not physically, not in that lean- lanky, he corrected harshly – body of his. But in the manic energy of his movements, the intensity of his gaze even when he lay unmoving. He was erratic, eerily omniscient, and an overbearing presence… The flat had seemed so empty without him.

He took another deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs and pulling his thoughts back to the present. Forced himself to watch the people – tried to fall back into the pattern of observation he'd trained into his thoughts. They walked by, each living in their own little world, each with their own story to tell. It was fascinating. Once Sherlock had… left, he'd begun to sit down and try to discern the small details. Tried to learn to observe.

A man with a young girl, expensive phone in his palm and a stiff smile cast in her direction. She seemed content to simply chase after small butterflies in the grass, but his posture was nervous and his clothes too expensive. Divorced. Lawyer, or business man – he only saw his daughter on the weekends, and only recently. He didn't understand yet how to interact with her, but there was kindness in his smile – he would learn. A woman stood tensely, phone to her ear and stress lining her features. Bad news, probably financial judging by the state of her clothes and the weariness in her stance. Hopefully things would work out for the best. Farther away, a couple walked with hands clasped, laughter drifting across the park. It seemed genuine, and the openness on each of their faces spoke of a strong relationship that he found he almost envied, although he did not begrudge them their happiness.

Other things stood out to him, of course - little details about each of the men and women and their individual lives. But it all took concentration, close attention and thought. Before long, he simply let his gaze wander, mind contentedly calm and drifting.

Nothing would ever happen with Sherlock – that was a truth he'd always known – and there was no use in changing his behavior in some search to hide anything from him. Sherlock had shown his hand, had revealed that he did indeed care, and possessed oh-so-human emotions. Sympathy, he thought with a small smile. But the younger man certainly wasn't one who cared to deduce emotions, or matters of the heart. If he simply relaxed, things would return to normal before long. And after all, that was what he wanted, wasn't it?