Okay, I'm really, really sorry for the kinda long update time. I had a busy weekend etc. etc. More angst again this chapter, so brace yourselves :p
John knew he shouldn't have left. Sherlock would see through his excuse for leaving in seconds.
But he supposed that's what he wanted.
It was a childish plea for attention, but he wanted Sherlock to prove he cared by following him. By briefly abandoning the case to come looking for him. He needed to be reassured. Because being ignored, not something he generally minded, was bringing all his fears to the surface.
He walked slowly down the street, trying to give the case some thought, but no ideas came. It seemed, despite Sherlock's arguments on the contrary, that Thomas had done it. Who else had Katrina known who would want to kill her?
Though John couldn't actually think of a motive Thomas, he was sure Sherlock could. He was a consulting detective after all.
He glanced back, and felt disquietude twinge in his stomach as he saw Sherlock hadn't appeared.
Did it mean the detective didn't care for him? Had he not even noticed he was gone? Or had he, and wasn't bothered by the fact.
He tried to think of a scenario which would bring Sherlock from fault, and prove he did care, but he couldn't see one. He knew John didn't work on Thursdays. And if Sherlock cared, then he would put two and two together. That's what he did for a living.
The case hadn't seemed that all-consuming.
He took a deep breath and stopped, still within sight of the house. He could go back, and face extreme embarrassment, or stay away, and risk pushing himself into further despair.
If Sherlock didn't show up, he wasn't sure he could take it.
He was already cursing himself for getting so involved so quickly. But could he have stopped himself?
He hesitating for several long minutes, staring intently at the just visible crime scene tape, waiting for the familiar tall, majestic figure to appear.
But he didn't. Only the odd officer either entering or leaving the area.
So he was faced with the choice, and it was proving surprisingly difficult. Maybe Sherlock had a reason? Maybe...
John was thankful for not being sidetracked by Mrs. Hudson on the way up to the flat. He really didn't think he could cope with one of her 'domestic' speeches. After another five minutes of waiting on the street, he had hurried away.
He didn't want to have to cope with this. Quite simply, he couldn't cope with it.
His slightly more rational side didn't understand it. Sherlock had been so careful, so gentle over the past week. Professing his love twice, and just being almost romantic. His eyes had a light in them John had never seen, and he always appeared to relish any sign of love.
And yet, he'd allowed him to leave.
He was on a case. He's always like that when he's on a case. Stop worrying. He berated himself after making a cup of tea. He had to calm down. If he got this worked up every time Sherlock started a case, he'd be dead within six years.
So he spent the morning reading, sipping cups of tea, and putting the mantelpiece clock under a cushion so he couldn't see the hours slowly slipping past. Hours of being totally and completely ignored by Sherlock.
He'd checked his phone a dozen times. But there was nothing.
He'd strained his ears listening for the familiar, confidant footsteps on the stairs. But no. All morning he waited, but his lover didn't appear.
A little after twelve, Mrs. Hudson appeared to do a little tidying.
"Oh, John dear. I thought you were out." she said, wrinkling her nose as she stepped into the flat.
"Hmm, yes." John said absently, forcing himself to stay seated.
He had hoped Mrs. Hudson wouldn't come up. In his current mood, there was every chance he could get rather worked up.
"Sherlock not in?" she asked a few minutes later.
"No." John said tersely.
Where is he?
"On a case, is he?" she asked good naturedly, oblivious to John's annoyance.
"Yes." John replied on an equally abrupt manner.
He knew she was only trying to make conversation, but still...
"Anything good?" she asked, appearing in his line of sight.
He kept his eyes trained on his book, not wanting to have to meet her gaze.
"I don't know." he answered with a small sigh.
She glanced across to him with pursed lips.
John vaguely wondered when – if he silently corrected himself – they finally revealed their relationship to her, she would be surprised.
He'd certainly denied it enough times, but she had never taken the hint. Chatting on about all sorts of 'incriminating' things, mainly in front of his girlfriends.
Still, she had been a help during the nastier times. Either with girlfriends, or with Sherlock. If... If Sherlock kicked him out completely, it wouldn't be just his friendship he would loose. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly. They were all apart of his life.
And now...
If Sherlock pushed him away, or even pushed him out completely, would he ever find somebody committed enough to heal his severely broken heart?
"Are you planning on going out tonight?" Mrs. Hudson asked, lips still holding their slightly reproachful look.
Why not? John thought. If Sherlock came back, they could go out together. And if he didn't...
"Yes, I think so." he said evenly.
"Would you mind if I borrowed your flat? I've got some friend's coming, and my place is a bit small..." she trailed off, pausing in her cleaning of the skull.
"No, of course not. Just don't let them in the fridge." John said absently.
"Thank you, dear. I'll let Sherlock know if he comes in." she said, bustling out the room.
John nodded vaguely. It would be nice to pop down to the pub, and get a glass or two of beer. Maybe one of his few friends would be able to make it down too.
Four painfully long hours later, he was sitting in his favourite pub, with a glass of cold beer, chatting to the barman, Edward.
He'd decided that four o'clock was an okay time to leave, though that was partly because of being unable to stand the noiseless flat.
Mrs. Hudson had also informed him the first of her cronies was arriving at five, and he really, really hadn't want to be around when they arrived. A couple of them reminded him of vultures...
He'd known Edward for quite some time, and was pleased to have somebody with which he could talk to, without having to go into details about Sherlock. Edward read his blog, but that was it.
The hours slipped by, and he knew he was probably drinking a little more than he should. He'd switched from Edward, to somebody he knew from work, and then to a random stranger who had recognised him from his blog. That thing was certainly getting out of hand.
Nevertheless, it wasn't exactly getting late when a pretty young lady, probably a few years younger than himself, sat hesitantly beside him.
"Hey." he said, a little dully.
She smiled, and ordered herself a glass of wine.
"You don't mind me sitting here?" she asked after a while of silence.
"No, 'cause not." John said with a smile, taking a sip of his beer.
He was immensely relieved she didn't appear to recognise him from the blog. Talking about Sherlock once was bad enough.
"I don't think I've seen you here before." he said after a slightly awkward silence.
"No, I only moved to London a few weeks ago." she answered.
"Oh? What's it you do?"
And with that they fell into an easy conversation. She was a artist, but he didn't really gather much more than that. His mind wasn't focused on the conversation. He knew she was called Ruth.
He told her he was a doctor, and mentioned a flatmate, but he quickly discovered she was more of a talker than a listener.
So he listened as she rambled on, sipping his third, or maybe fourth beer, aware Ruth was getting closer, but not really minding. Her rather strong perfume seemed to disable all thoughts, which was good with him. He didn't want to think too much.
The pub got busier, but he had no inclination to leave, and it was obvious Ruth was staying as long as he was.
He checked his phone frequently, but no text arrived. Nothing. Zilch.
He hadn't seen hide or hair of Sherlock since the morning. And his 'partner' had made no attempt to contact him.
So it was about six thirty when he began to think about leaving.
"I should probably be getting back." he said, a little reluctantly to Ruth.
They had held several very interesting conversations. But it was arriving at an empty flat that he was dreading.
"Oh, don't go." she said, a light frown playing over her features, and an unobtrusive hand settling on his knee.
He resisted the urge to push it off and forced a smile.
"I really have to be going." he said, taking a final gulp of his beer, the alcohol rushing through the body like fire.
He definitely had a tot or so to much.
"At least give me your phone number." she asked, leaning forward until they were very close indeed.
He was about to pull away and announce that he wasn't interested. That he was in love with somebody already. And that he certainly wouldn't be dating anybody for a long time either way, when somebody yanked him to his feet.
He staggered, and spun to face the person who had probably bruised his shoulder with the force of their grip. He hadn't expected the accusation to die on his throat. And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself confronted with a devastated looking Sherlock.
Righty! I hope you enjoyed that. Any opinions on what you think of the case would be good, and also why John didn't get the text Sherlock sent him. Next chapter, we shall find out what happened to stop Sherlock finding John quicker. Reviews = a quicker update time, plus make me very happy indeed.