An Apology
Sherlock hated when John left him.
It was always after some kind of row, some stupidly dull domestic which caused the shorter man to stalk off to his room or go out on a walk, leaving the detective stomping to lie in a ball on the settee. The latter would try and analyze every single word which had been spat out between them; each trying to deduce from it some way to either right whatever wrong he had committed or get John to apologize. He'd prefer the second option.
Sherlock hated the way John's leaving made him feel.
First there was the anger. Even someone with as little interest in emotion as himself was prone to bursts of it. It made him swell, made him want to do nothing more than blow something up (on purpose rather than accident) or shoot at the wall (with something much larger than John's handgun). The second feeling to invade the detectives being was the worry, then the fear… Like he was being eaten from the inside by it; fear not of being alone but of being alone without John. Sherlock knew he wasn't well-liked by many and while that never bothered him the idea of John truly hating him, of his blogger being anything more than angry with him, made the young man… panic. He could be anywhere with John alongside him but there was no where he could think to go if John were ever to leave him.
Sherlock hated how he couldn't say the words to John.
He knew that somewhere he was sorry for how he acted towards his friend. Somewhere he knew what words would solve this puzzle, would make John's anger soften and melt back into… into whatever John felt for Sherlock normally. Still, he couldn't say the words. They were locked away from the inside, wrapped in caution-tape, never to be opened. Most of the time he didn't understand why he must apologize; he simply saved people the trouble of finding things out later than was necessary. Like Molly and Jim from I.T. (otherwise known as James Moriarty) and like… tonight. When he informed John he knew the man was bisexual. This was apparently a bit not good, that knowing…
Sherlock… he hated himself for causing John to leave.
The doctor didn't get home that night till well past midnight, leaving the lights off. Though it was dark there was the glow of some experiment and the silver moon out the window. Going to the fridge first to check for any food-of course there wasn't any- he then moved on to the cupboard to get his mug. It was then that it happened, so unexpected John felt himself jump. When he felt his heartbeat increase he hoped it was the surprise and not the close proximity of… He hadn't seen Sherlock lying on the settee when he came in, but now he could feel the taller man.
John felt the curly hair on the side of his face, tickling his ear. He felt the heavy weight of Sherlock's forehead as it rested on his shoulder, downcast. They didn't touch at any other point but even then John could feel the taller man's body. There was no heat vibrating off which meant Sherlock hadn't covered up to protect himself from the cool air of night, his posture was slack going by the weight of the downcast head… Even John could deduce what Sherlock was doing. He could feel the words he knew he wasn't going to hear.
Turning around slowly, he looked over the pale face of his friend. The light blue-green-grey eyes were avoiding contact with John's darkly storming blue ones; the bags developing under those multicolored eyes were getting concernedly deep… With a sigh, John moved a curl from the middle of pale forehead. Watching Sherlock's eyes close, feeling miniscule movement of the cheekbones into the touch… John felt a pang in his stomach, a feeling of something too close to longing. No, he couldn't accept that yet, but…
Softly, John said the words he knew his friend needed to hear, "apology accepted, Sherlock."