Disclaimer: nothing mine, as always.

John should have known that the relaxed atmosphere wouldn't last. It was too much to hope that the Woman would pass in their life like a blinding, discomfiting meteor and then leave them behind, free to get back to life as it should be.

Yesterday had seemed so…nice, even happy in a sense, but after all, the doctor hadn't been there for half the day. His medical mind starts wondering if what he'd mistaken for affectionate petting, during their lesson, wasn't instead some attenuated way of stimming. An attempt to deal with the emotions caused by her abrupt, violent death without acting out in a way that would break his disciple's focus. Like an idiot, John had called attention to it and made him stop. Christ, he couldn't do anything right, could he?

Maybe Sherlock had loved Irene, maybe not. The blogger would sell his soul to know the solution to this question… Not that it is any business of his, if one wanted to nitpick…But how can he help, instead of inadvertently making things worse, if he lacks relevant data? My God, now even his brain is starting to sound like the consulting detective!

What is certain is that his flatmate recognised Irene. No, not in the "didn't we go to Uni together?" way. In a deeper, almost soul-bond way, John would say, if the detective hadn't assured him his bonded was long dead.

Both were clever – way too clever for their own good, if the dominatrix's fate is any indication. Both were able to read people's secrets, though the Woman had restricted – and focused – her analytical abilities to a specific field of people's behaviour. And fine, yeah, John can admit it if only to himself – it doesn't mean he is gay, it means he has undamaged optical nerves, thank you very much – both were gorgeous. The same kind of gorgeous even, tall, dark and lean.

If he'd seen the two of them together somewhere – say, in Regent's Park – without previously knowing any of them, he would have wondered for an instant if they were cousins, or something. (At least until Irene started being her usual sexually forward self, then he'd fervently hope they were not related, for everyone's sanity).

She outsmarted the world's only consulting detective. Not even Jim fucking Moriarty managed that. Of course she would make an impression. John can want to erase even the memory of her – to help his flatmate delete her entirely. (Only to ensure that Sherlock stops hurting about losing her almost as soon as he found her, obviously). It doesn't mean that he's able to, or that his friend would agree to such a proposal.

The morning of Boxing Day, a pyjama-clad flatmate emerges from his room, eyes downcast, and mumbles, "I know I lost. I'm not getting out of my penance, John, I promise. I just…was wondering if you could wait a week before claiming your prize. I'm really not hungry, and well – starting to eat properly on New Year – who knows, maybe the habit will stick."

John – who woke up first, as usual, and likes it that way, being able to have a bit of time to get ready for the day before the appearance of Tornado Sherlock – stills, a hand already outstretched to offer a cup of tea to his friend. The weak attempt at humour only makes the situation worse, in his opinion.

This is not an "I'm on a case, I can't eat," childish tantrum. They have no ongoing case, now that the Woman is gone. Every fibre of the sleuth's body broadcasts, "I'm too upset to eat," and no matter how much the doctor looked forward to the occasion to nourish his friend properly for a while, he can't force-feed him. Not in this state.

So he rests the cup on the table, and agrees immediately, "As long as you will pay up some day, I have no problem letting you off the hook now. Starting fresh on New Year sounds good. You're as clever as always."

His flatmate smiles at him, though it does not reach his eyes, and John feels heartened enough to say, "Will you have tea at least? This has nothing at all to do with the bet. It's just me being my usual nosy self."

Sherlock nods, chugging down the drink like a medicine. Oh my. If tea can't help, the blogger feels a bit lost. His urge to get his friend better – a mix of his own nature and long medical training – smashes against the reality of grief. If this is about Irene, and Sherlock doesn't feel comfortable with whatever coping mechanism he'd concocted because of John's careless words yesterday, the truth is that there is no cure. You don't heal grief – and honestly, if you could, it still wouldn't be healthy to do so with a pill or an injection.

Speaking of injections, the doctor is very glad that he's not expected to fill in for anyone at the hospital during the holidays. Keeping an eye out to ensure his flatmate won't self-medicate is the least he can do.

He trusted him yesterday. Well, the flat was clean, and he trusted him not to go buy some under Mrs. Hudson's apparently very-knowing nose – as far as these matters are concerned. But was he right? Maybe yesterday's good mood… No, no. He'd have noticed his pupils or something, if Sherlock was under the influence. He's a doctor. He would have.

His flatmate, still quietly, goes to take his violin and starts playing it, eyes closed, swaying quietly with the melody. It's not anything John can recognise, but it has a melancholic and almost haunting quality that breaks the blogger's heart. Not that he is an expert about violin pieces, but after a year of flatsharing, he knows at the very least Sherlock's favourite scores. Maybe he can't name them, but he can identify them. This one is not one he's ever heard – it's so poignant, he would remember it.

Of course, it is possible that the detective simply didn't feel like playing it before, or maybe he did – when John was out, or asleep. Though, the blogger doubts that. He has the instinct to come up behind his flatmate and hug him until they both couldn't breathe. Would it help? Comfort him like John is literally aching to do? Or would a surprise, unwanted touch only make things worse? John loiters on the door, unsure of what would help.

The Woman couldn't have the common courtesy to die quietly, without involving Sherlock in the identification of her body, could she? Her assistant, a number of their clients…so many people that knew her more intimately. Why would Mycroft do that to Sherlock?

Why – for that matter – would she ruin their Christmas with her 'gift'? That's selfish. Cruel. Then again, she was a dominatrix. He supposes that being cruel was her business. John, a few days ago, would have laughed if you'd insinuated that he would have wished for Miss Irene fucking Adler to officially become Sherlock's lover.

But at least, whatever violin playing echoed in such an event would be joyous. Triumphant, even. Even if Irene was no good news for anyone – zero principles and magnificent cleverness is not what you want around any human, much less the world's only consulting detective – John would deal with the certainly rowdy sex and continuous put down to his intelligence. Anything, as long as Sherlock was happy.

Instead, he's left looking on, helpless. But for the question about their bet, Sherlock doesn't say a word all day. He warned John – the very first time he met him, in fact – but the doctor is not truly used to lengthy stretches of silence. Not uncomfortable ones, at least. This is different from the consulting detective slipping into his mind palace and emerging from it six hours later with a crick in the neck and the solution to his latest case.

This is…grief? Is he mourning the Woman? She drugged him – still, is he missing her? Writing her funeral dirge? How taken was the consulting detective with her, honestly? John wants to ask, but given the current mood, he doubts he would receive any answer.

So he keeps quiet, too, writes a draft he'll never publish on his blog about what is happening – Ella was right, putting things into words forces you to see them from a different perspective – and then deletes it in a hurry, before his usually nosy flatmate (though today he's being ignored) can get to it and blame him. Because of the style, the grammar, because it's not his fucking business if Sherlock falls in love or not. Technically, he supposes that's true.

He dares interrupt the concert – softly, hoping it won't ruin things again – to warn his flatmate that he's going to run some errands, and does Sherlock need something? The sleuth only shakes his head, still not talking. "I'm going to ask Mrs. Hudson, too," John adds, and it's implied that, yes, he's going to ask their landlady if she needs anything, but he's going to ask her to keep an eye on Sherlock, too. That's the reason he feels confident in leaving his friend alone.

Still, the trip to Tesco – just because it's the closest place – is very quick. It seems he worried uselessly, because sad music is still flowing through the whole house when he comes back, and Mrs. Hudson – who asked for a few ingredients – confirms that he never stopped.

"At least he isn't sawing at it," she sighs, "but it just sounds so…sad. Nobody should be this sad around the holidays."

"I'll try to get him out of it, Mrs. Hudson," he promises, not believing he can. "But people shouldn't have to identify dead bodies at Christmas either."

"Not unless they're happy about it," the old sweet woman concurs, and John is sharply reminded that she wished for someone's death. Her husband. Certainly not her soulmate – a homonym maybe?

He's promised Sherlock not to force him to eat. He hasn't said anything about not tempting him. So, when lunch time comes around, he starts cooking. The smell wafting around might ply his friend's stomach, much better than just ordering takeaway. He's not a great cook, but he has learned his flatmate's tastes by now. To his disappointment, there's no tall lanky shadow peeking in the kitchen. The music stopped though – he's grateful, not because it was unpleasant, but because the obsessive violinist was going to make his fingers bleed otherwise. At least there's that.

When the lunch is done (he's got that recipe from Angelo, who shared it with lots of pleased chuckles and eyebrows wiggling) he enters the sitting room. He's just going to announce the meal is ready. Not pressure anyone. Surely, offering is allowed?

Instead, he's welcomed by Sherlock on the sofa, and voice dies in his throat. The man is either napping, sulking or deep in his mind palace. Well, the sulking option is slightly less likely because he's not trying to suffocate himself, offering his back to the cruel world. First thought would be mind palace, but he's seen the man hold his thinking position while snoring slightly, sometimes, to his great amusement. True, the sleuth isn't snoring now.

Which is why he feels allowed to assume mind palace and start the experiment he'd warned Sherlock about. First, he touches the back of his flatmate's hand, lightly. Just a sort of…petting. He's not acknowledged in any way. So far, so good.

Afterwards, he finds a pen and balances it behind his friend's ear. Still no reaction. What to do next… He takes a step back to survey his choices. For a second, he regrets not living with Harry (though living with Harry AND Sherlock in the same house would be nothing short of hell on earth), because his flatmate's feet are bare – aren't they cold? – and he just lost an occasion to paint his nails a rainbow of pretty, maybe glittery colours. Ridiculous enough that it might cheer the mourning man up. John files the idea away for the next time he goes shopping. He might need a whole lot of makeup materials. Bless Harry for making him help when she was getting ready for a date, he's pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't even be able to disparage his technique.

John is half tempted to build a house of cards on his flatmate's lean stomach, but that might be a bit much. For him, not the sleuth. The least touching is done, the better it is. He doesn't need the consulting detective to come back to his senses and find him in a shameful state. So no, that's out.

The idea of balancing something on him is still enticing, though…and the blogger did come to persuade his friend into eating. So he tiptoes back to the kitchen, plates up a small portion in a shatterproof dish, and lays it on the detective's abdomen. Yes, there's a very high chance that he will have to clean that up, but if finding it there makes his flatmate eat it before his brain fully engages, it will be a victory worth the risk.

Sherlock was so John-starved, yesterday, despite the man's absence being less than he should have expected, that he'd forgotten to pout, give him the cold shoulder or punish him in any way for being such a double standards hypocrite. He could bring a girlfriend inside 221b, since he refused to acknowledge their soulmate relationship, but the sleuth wasn't even supposed to text another woman, was he? Never mind that he didn't text her…she texted him. Not that the blogger had any right to know that.

In the morning, he wakes up to the sudden realisation he's supposed to behave. For a week. True, the bet only entailed food. But he knows that if he is particularly troublesome, John will feed him more in retaliation. And as he feels now, hurt and stretched thin, opening his mouth at all is a danger – what if it all spills out, and he demands to know why his own soulmate rejected him? The answer would destroy him.

So, after weaselling his way out of the bet, for the moment – he has a few days to rebuild his inner walls, at least – he mixes the hunger strike with a silent spell. He needs time. Time to plan his next move. Time to understand John, understand Irene, understand if there's anywhere he can seek help.

Because – as loath as he is to acknowledge it, even only to himself – he needs help, if he's not going to lose his mind. Not to let this last, ultimate rejection destroy him from the inside out.

Should he take what little scraps of care and fondness John can spare for him and be grateful for it? What would Mycroft say? "You do not need a soulmate anyway, little brother. By refusing to bond, your doctor is possibly saving your life. Your cases are rife with danger, after all. What if the next criminal you meet has an unlawful firearm of his own, and a lucky shot takes John out? Army people are supposed to be unbonded – you don't want the enemy to double its body count by virtue of biology. Your relationship is based on being brothers in arms, he's been trained to ignore your connection until the end of the war."

Mind palace Mycroft has a point. Why didn't Sherlock realise it sooner? He's always so slow. As immense a relief it is, this suspicion that maybe – just maybe – John is not ignoring their relationship because the sleuth is so very subpar. To shake off the army training is not easy, this is understandable.

Certainly John will take their soulmate relationship seriously as soon as danger is gone… When they retire, somewhere nice and quiet, maybe in the country, or by the coast…

He can see it. He starts to decorate their new home. It will be similar to this one, of course, they are so very happy here. A fireplace, certainly, and not one of these fake ones. One they can cook on. Two armchairs. Will these ones be still serviceable, or should they get new ones? And of course, they should have a garden. He will have to ask Mummy for gardening advice.

Before he can emerge from his musings, happy and relieved, Mike Stamford stumbles in. He wasn't aware that Mike wandered about the mind palace, but it's not surprising that John might have let him in, or that he would come to offer a new point of view about the bond he facilitated. Why would Mike be limping, though? He's not hurt, to the sleuth's knowledge.

"Oh, Sherlock. John, retiring? What did you deduce as soon as you saw him? Somewhere quiet would be detrimental to your soulmate's health. John needs the adrenaline. He needs the thrill of risk, more than you've ever needed cocaine, possibly. Perhaps it is for this very reason that whatever creates the bond paired the two of you. Because you've never been and will never be sensible enough to stay out of danger. John gets a permanent dealer, and you get someone to protect you and keep you alive," the pudgy man explains, ending it in a heavy sigh.

Oh. Sherlock hates his brain, sometimes. It knows him well. If Mycroft had been the one to shot down his hopes – though certainly in character for the great git – the sleuth would have ignored him out of sheer stubbornness. His brother is always right – it doesn't mean that the detective has to agree with him, or comply with his suggestions. Instead, his brain took Mike – kind, sweet, Mike, whom he's never thanked though he really really should – to point out what he doesn't want to remember.

John will never want to retire. It would kill him from the inside out. Abandoning their dangerous lifestyle is – logically – the only situation in which he might be convinced to acknowledge their relationship. In the best potential situation, assuming he might ever be tempted to, and the consulting detective isn't simply too utterly disappointing, of course. But for John, losing the thrill of cases would push him into a dark mood that would destroy him. Ergo, their bond is evermore going to be unspoken. At best.

If John does not truly despise him and finds someone else – anyone else – whose company is more suitable for him. Never mind that commonly accepted knowledge claims this should be impossible. Sherlock might be the first to prove such an event is only highly improbable. Honestly, he's not looking forward to the distinction.

He could end in science books, if John had the bravery to acknowledge publicly their relationship….and that he doesn't care for it. Who knows, maybe that will be a blog post once he dies. (Of course he's going to die earlier than his John. It's only logic.) He has to accept this. Stop railing against his fate.

Still, he can't. The sleuth would do anything for this not to be true. Is there anything he could do, though? His brain keeps running in circles, eating itself out. Help… help… he'd hoped for the dominatrix to solve his quandary, but she keeps teasing and asking for what he can't give. Is that a technique, too? She must know he's not going to give into her – that he can't. For someone who prides herself on knowing what people like, such a level of obliviousness would be unforgivable. So she insists on asking for what he's not willing to concede in order not to have to deny his requests herself. Clever.

Who else is there for him to turn to, though? Mrs. Hudson has never found her soulmate, to his knowledge, and while she's been hurt by her husband, that method of handling the situation is unfathomable.

Molly too has clearly never found hers, and worse, her head is full of drivel from romantic movies where it's all a 'meet, kiss and bang' in nary a day.

Mycroft would congratulate him on having a soulmate sensible enough to refuse bonding and leave it at that, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock as anything but childish for hurting because of it.

Any of his Scotland Yard colleagues *must not* be involved in his personal life. He has an image to maintain – even if it is that of a freaky sociopath. Letting them know he has feelings and they can be hurt would only make things worse for him. Besides, they call him in because they can't figure out things that are literally staring them in the face. How could they help?

And that's it. That's his circle of more-than acquaintances. And they're all useless for what he needs to figure out. As for professionals… A couples' therapist would ultimately be just a shrink, and he's seen enough of these as a child. Besides, there's never been one he couldn't run rings around and have diagnosing whatever Sherlock felt like at the moment. He expects that, with how arrogant and yet simpleminded they are, he's not the only one able to do that.

Which was why he was looking forward a professional of sex, if Irene would just stop being so annoying. Or maybe any escort would do? No, at the very least he needs one who's able to read people's penchants. Use her brain rather than just what is between her legs. And now he's back to square one, isn't he?

Before his brain can start tearing himself apart again, he's brought back into his body by an unexpected warmth on his stomach. He opens his eyes to see the bowl of food. He's… confused, mostly. Of course, teen Sherlock's first reaction is to crow in victory, "See? He does care for me on some level!"

But his most rational side (aka inner Mycroft, always doing his best to be annoying) shuts the boy up. "He's a doctor, Sherlock. Ensuring people's health is instinct for him. He would do it for one of your homeless network. Hell, he would do so for any random stranger that wasn't in any way related to the two of you."

That makes sense. Suddenly nauseous because of the previously delicious smell of food, the sleuth removes the dish from himself without a word and curls up, back to the world. How is he ever going to escape his situation?

John apparently finds the situation agreeable, because he goes about his business without trying to engage him any further. Who knows, maybe he likes this arrangement even better. John is in the sitting room, clicking his time away – videos of cats again, if the suffocated giggling is anything to go by. He's sighed when the consulting detective got rid of the offending plate, but at least not tried to pressure him.

He's not even sure what to do – thinking is not giving him any solution. Talking is out of question, should all his anguish slip out like boiling water from a badly closed pot. Approaching John in silence – just peak at what's so interesting (so much more interesting than him, and yes, he knows he's unreasonable and pathetic) – is so very tempting. But that might give his blogger the idea that he's up for conversation, and he's absolutely not ready for it.

In the end, he holes himself in his bedroom, with his own computer, and busies himself by hacking John's. So he can see what he's up to without letting him know. That's a bit not good, probably, but what John doesn't know won't hurt him. Yes, cat videos. And other so called funny animals.

There's an otter who looks properly outraged at being handed cups that can't be properly stacked. Is that how John feels? Receiving the wrong hand from life, something that doesn't fit? No, the time he lingers on it suggests no deep emotional response. Sherlock must stop overthinking things. He's only hurting himself. If only his brain did have an off-switch. Heroin would do nicely, actually, right now.

No, no. He'd lose cases from Lestrade, and John would go away. He won't tolerate addiction. The sleuth knows this from the very first day.

Distraction. He needs a distraction. Maybe an experiment will do. He opened Molly's gift after all the fuss, and found a couple of interesting earlobes. Luckily, they've not suffered from the time spent outside the fridge. Because of rather more formaldehyde than Sherlock usually likes on his samples, yes, but still, she was thoughtful. (What would have happened if he'd opened it at the party? Was she helping him chase whomever-John's-girl was away? Nah, too shrewd and not enough return for her.)

Anyway, it's an idea.

True, this means possibly facing John. But after all, it's his flat, too. They're not going to discuss the elephant in the room – it's almost a year they're 'not together', and they're obviously quite adept at that. And his blogger (that, at least) shouldn't find his hobby too distasteful. As long as he doesn't contaminate the food, his medical background makes him plenty accepting.

So he slips out of his room and starts experimenting (his inner John – who's less likely to ignore him – suggests 'playing', but that's obviously wrong). Then again, he warned his potential flatmate about his bouts of silence from the start. If the doctor takes it in stride instead of trying to force him out of it, like Mycroft used to do, that's good , isn't it?

John wanders towards him every now and then, with silly excuses – a cup of tea, or a fruit, or even just looking on with an interested expression, but not asking for an explanation. Besides, he can see what his flatmate is doing, and as for the reasons, he'll just have to wait. Sherlock accepts with a nod to share the tea, and they pretend the insane amount of honey in it is nothing odd, even if it's clearly John getting at least a few calories into him.

The sleuth loves and hates these little shows of caring. No matter how harshly he beats him down, his teen self still gets excited over Each. Fucking. One. "He wants to know what I'm up to! He finds me interesting!", and, "He cares for me! I don't care what you say!" (pouting, the little idiot), and, "He doesn't need vitamins! He wants to stay close! That must be a sign!" The consulting detective knows better than to believe him, though. There are perfectly sound explanations for all these activities.

Which is why he loathes John, and – thankfully – glares or scowls almost every time the man gets close. He wants more. He wants it all. The whole package he was promised, of love and eternal bond and all that drivel that he laughs at Molly for. One cup of tea is not going to cut it, no matter how sweet. No amount of honey can soothe the bitterness inside him.

Which is why, when John starts preparing dinner, he veritably stomps away. He's not going to cave in – he's not going to open his mouth today, it's the only safe choice, when so many words press in his throat – so avoiding temptation is the wisest choice.

His flatmate (just that) sighs deeply at his leaving, but once again, doesn't try to press it. Instead, he brings his plate to the sofa, asking him to move over a bit, because he wants to watch something while he eats and the sofa is more comfortable. Sherlock huffs nonverbally but agrees, and John starts watching Midsomer Murders.

Well, that is more than the consulting detective can bear quietly. It's obvious, it's bloody obvious, if any of the bumbling police officers just took the time to look, but no, they flit around like drunken bees while the bodies pile up on their metaphorical doorstep. It's astonishing that there's anyone still alive in the bloody county. So the sleuth yells, and it feels good, because he has so many things he needs to rage about, and if he can't, shouting at police is always been a favoured alternative. The fact that Barnaby can't get frustrated with his manners and end the day with him needing bail is just extra points.

At his side, John is openly smiling, and whether it is because he honestly enjoys the ridiculous show or because he's tricked Sherlock into opening his mouth (he's not planning to deftly shove food into it, is he?) it's uncertain. But he's venting at least a tiny part of his frustration, and John is happy (with himself, maybe). This is undoubtedly the best part of the day.