A/N Lalalala...
Thanks to ThisDayWillPass, maggiemacjack, and Natalie Nallareet
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXVI. Tears
Sherlock doesn't cry. That much is a given, really, considering who he is as a whole. Emotion is a separate world form the consulting detective, one to be observed but never experienced. That's what he always tells himself, in any case, and the evidence to back up such a claim is always glaringly obvious. After all, he's given an opportunity to be upset often enough, what with all the shaken, horrified people that he finds himself having to question for various reasons. They're usually crying—sometimes in a steady way, sometimes in a hysterical one. He doesn't care. He has no reason to.
When John cries, it's different.
He isn't suspecting it. He's not even paying attention to his flatmate, being instead focused on his own thoughts, consideration of the case they've just completed. It was a particularly unpleasant one, as they go: the tracking and persecution of a bloody serial killer whose preferred prey happened to be young girls. Too many children had died over the duration of the case. Sherlock knows that, but he's also willing to let it go, because it's in the past, nothing can change it at this point.
The steady stream of his mind is interrupted by a muffled whimper. His eyes snap open, wider than their previous half-lidded state, and he frowns slightly. John is sitting at the table in the center of the room, laptop open, but he's not typing. Instead, he has his elbows braced on the table's cluttered surface and his forehead supported by his hands, back and shoulders shaking with steady, silent tremors.
"John?" Sherlock asks in puzzlement.
The doctor doesn't respond, and Sherlock rises from the couch, pacing over to John's side and watching him curiously. "Are you… alright?"
"Do I look alright, Sherlock?" John demands suddenly, looking up. His eyes are reddish around the edges, and shining with tears that stick to his lashes. None have been shed, but it's still clear that he's trying to hold himself back from sobbing.
"You're upset." Sherlock states the fact in a calm, detached tone, but his insides are consumed by a shockingly violent turmoil, squirming and writing. It's… upsetting to see John like this, disconcerting and frustrating because there probably isn't a single thing he can do about it.
"Of course I'm upset, you complete idiot! Those girls—those children, they were slaughtered! Don't tell me that you're completely unaffected by that. Don't you dare."
Sherlock bites back the truth: that John crying is a much more distressing sight than the mutilated bodies that are on his mind. Instead, he keeps talking, even knowing that his words can't possibly do any good.
"They're gone, John… there's no use crying over them, you know that. There are more productive ways to spend your life than mourning the dead."
"You think I give a shit about being productive right now?" John snarls, and a stray tear escapes his eye, slips down his cheek, leaving a shimmering trail behind.
"…No," Sherlock finally admits with a low sigh.
"Good. Now leave me the hell alone."
"Will that help you feel better?"
"Cut the sarcasm and leave me alone."
He clearly has no idea how little sarcasm the statement involves. Sherlock nods anyways, leaving the room for good measure and closing the door silently behind him.