When John came downstairs twenty minutes later Sherlock was sitting up, and looked over as he reached the bottom step.
Why was John wearing his nicest shirt?
He'd shaved… he'd even done something to his hair.
And… yes. A deep breath confirmed that he'd put on cologne. Too much, and a cheap brand, clearly.
He lacked taste, but he tried.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock frowned, glancing at his shoes.
Recently shined.
He wanted to make a good impression.
"Out."
Oh, so John was still hung up on being cross with him. Alright then.
"I can see that. Who are you so dressed up for?"
"Not you, obviously." John went for his coat, making sure his wallet was in the pocket before he put it on.
Wherever he was going, he was paying.
Sherlock tilted his head and let his eyes follow his blogger around the room as he moved about, getting ready.
It was getting late, and John hadn't eaten dinner yet.
He must be expecting to eat somewhere else.
At last John stopped by the door and looked back at him. He sighed.
"I've got a date tonight. Out, because I clearly can't bring her over here with the flat looking like it is. I may or may not be coming back tonight, so don't wait up for me." He opened the door and was halfway out before he leaned back into the room with a resigned look. "But, Sherlock… will you be alright?"
No.
"Yes. You've left me alone plenty of times before; don't think you have to babysit me."
John rolled his eyes and almost smiled. "Of course not. I just… you know…"
"Go on. I'll be here." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and rolled over on the sofa, waiting until he heard the snap of the door closing to drop his hand.
A date.
Despite the cheap cologne, the rest of John's personal grooming showed effort, so it must be serious.
Someone who captured his attention.
The flat was getting too quiet.
Sherlock sat up again and got to his feet, going to retrieve his violin and settling it on his shoulder. The solid feel of it in his hands was reassuring somehow, and the slight vibration of the chords through the wood was pleasantly comforting against his fingertips.
Time passed faster when he was composing, but not fast enough.
After a while the bow slowed on the strings, and he looked around the room.
Still empty.
He'd half hoped…
Sherlock took in a deep breath and let it out again in a sigh that sounded louder than normal in the vacant flat. He could still detect that horrible cologne…
This was how it always started, wasn't it?
A date.
Someone else.
He shook his head and lay down the violin on the table. There was the book John had been reading earlier…
He flipped it open and examined the pages half interestedly.
The Scarlet Letter…?
Really, John…?
Didn't you read that one in school or something?
He tossed the book back down on the table with a little huff and went to the kitchen to start a pot of tea. Sherlock stood there for a little while, just watching steam condense on the kettle.
This really was the beginning, wasn't it…
He opened the cabinet and reached up to retrieve a mug, not even looking as he did, having rather zoned out for a minute.
But John cared about him.
He'd said so, point blank.
And he'd told Sherlock to come to him if things ever felt…
The click of the tab on the kettle brought him back to reality, blinking. He was still holding the mug.
John didn't want him to cut any more.
Why, exactly?
Because he cared? That was what that meant, right?
"'I may or may not come back tonight…'" He echoed John's words under his breath as he poured the water into the mug and finished making his tea, a little distractedly.
The date was serious.
This one might last.
He took a bit longer than normal in stirring the tea, watching the little milky auburn vortex swirl after the wake of the spoon.
John left a lot when his girlfriends got serious.
That meant the flat was quiet a lot.
It also meant Sherlock did a lot of work on his own.
It always started like that.
Always.
He took his mobile from his pocket and checked it, though he knew there wouldn't be any new messages.
It was almost 10 thirty now… past the time John would have been trying to get him to eat something…
But why bother?
What John didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and besides, the thought of eating anything made him a little nauseous at the moment.
So instead he brought the tea over to the kitchen table, where it slowly got colder and colder as it waited for its maker to remember to actually drink it.
After nearly another hour of tinkering around with the microscope and the collection of Petri dishes on the table, he glanced up again, pausing to listen carefully in case John had somehow snuck in without him noticing.
But he hadn't, clearly.
Still empty.
Sherlock sighed and scratched at his left arm.
Was it always this quiet?
Would it be considered rude to call John in the middle of a date? He could just say he forgot…
But then, John would most certainly be furious…
He was always angry about silly things…
John wasn't going to leave him.
He stopped and considered for a few minutes.
He wasn't. Was he?
No, he'd made a pact.
But… it was starting… The same way it had always started, with everyone else he'd known…
…With the discovery of someone new, who wasn't completely lost when he was just trying to have a normal conversation, like normal people do.
Somebody who didn't cut himself.
Somebody who didn't make John cross all the time.
Sherlock growled in frustration and pushed the microscope away from him forcefully. The mug overbalanced and teetered on the edge of the table for a few seconds before it tipped over and went crashing to the linoleum, splashing cold tea and splinters of ceramic across the floor.
He just stood there, staring down at the mess without expression.
It spread slowly, a little puddle of tannin and milk and teacup slivers.
Very sharp slivers.