It wasn't working.
Why wasn't it working?
Sherlock languished on the sofa, letting his right arm loll off the side and onto the floor.
John hated him.
Everyone hated him.
They must.
Otherwise why was John so damn angry with him?
It didn't make sense.
He rolled over and glared up at the ceiling without seeing it. What he wouldn't do for a hit… or a blade… right about now…
But he didn't have time for that. He didn't have time now to let himself be distracted by anything, and emotions ate up a lot of disk space. Much too much. They made it hard to think straight, too. Perhaps he could allow himself to address them later, privately, but… Right now, Moriarty posed the biggest threat, and dealing with him would require his full attention.
But why had that made John cross?
What part of that didn't make sense?
Sherlock had explained it all point blank.
And yet for some reason John had gotten upset, and left in a huff, and maybe now he didn't care anymore. Maybe he'd given up.
With a 'humph' he turned his back to the room again and nestled into the cushions.
Why the hell did people have to be so baffling?
He could hear the door slam downstairs: John was home.
Sherlock didn't bother to move from his position on the sofa, not even to look up as John came upstairs. He wasn't in the mood to deal with any more pointless arguments.
A soft, flowery fragrance had entered the room along with him.
He'd spent the night at a girlfriend's.
Why John had ever even wanted to talk about Sherlock's 'feelings' was perplexing in itself.
He cared.
Sherlock pushed that little voice away to a back corner of his mind, silencing it with an inward scowl. He'd been stupid to ever take that voice seriously.
For a while he'd thought he was beginning to understand, but now it was clearer than ever that he really didn't.
Perhaps John, too, had thought he cared. Perhaps John had somehow been able to convince himself that his admiration for Sherlock's intelligence was somehow more than that—that his appreciation of the skill was actually an appreciation of the person.
But the other day's exchange had certainly dashed any illusions John was holding.
That must be why he hated him now.
Sherlock had opened up too much… he'd driven John away… he'd bled disgusting weakness out all over everything and now John wanted nothing more to do with him.
So much so that even demonstrations of Sherlock's expertise didn't seem to be doing any good.
It had been a last ditch effort—several efforts, actually—to prove to John that he was still just as clever as before, that there was still something there to like about him, but the only thing that had gotten him was an irritated rebuke about 'being a bloody show-off.'
Why wasn't it working?
It had worked before, hadn't it?
That's what had made John like him in the first place, right?
If only the extent of his stupid bloody weakness hadn't been exposed. If only John hadn't found out just how flawed and messy he really was. If only he hadn't lost control so many times.
He should have been more careful.
He should have been more reserved.
He should never have let John in.
That had been dangerous and Sherlock knew it. He didn't want to lose John, too, and now he probably would, all because he couldn't shut him out. He'd tried, certainly, but somehow the ex-army doctor had kept finding his way back in, saying things that made Sherlock spill everything, tell him things he'd never intended anyone to know.
He hadn't meant to.
But now that John had seen the heart of it…
He would doubtless be revolted. Pushed away, tired of it all, sick of trying to negotiate the maze that was oddball Sherlock Holmes and his massive intellect. He would go and 'find someone else to care about,' someone who had much more to offer than just genius.
Sherlock took a deep breath of that faint perfume and listened to John's heavy footsteps across the living room and up the stairs. He opened his eyes and stared at the sofa cushions, barely an inch from his face. They smelled musty and familiar and comforting, in an odd way. The same sort of odd way that the warm iron scent of blood, or the sting of an antiseptic had become comforting.
Maybe that made him strange.
Maybe that only added to what made him a…
He undid his cuff quietly and pushed the sleeve up, letting his fingertips run over the newly healed scars, and slowly over the letters he'd so carefully cut.
A freak.
The word didn't have to be set in stone, or in skin, to be true. It just was.
And this only proved it.
Was there any way he could possibly repair John's vision of him? Any way he could atone for whatever it was he'd said wrong?
Short of rebuilding all his walls, pretending like none of this had ever happened, keeping his back straight and presenting a front that would be aloof and at least somewhat likeable, he didn't seem to have much choice.
But that's what he had been trying to do.
And John didn't seem to be impressed.