John stifled a yawn as he came down the stairs the next morning, doing his best to clear the sleepy fuzz out of his head.
Early mornings were better when you could actually get to sleep on time the night before.
He stretched, blearily finding his way to the kitchen and starting a pot of coffee. It was only when he'd got a mug down from the cabinet that he became aware that he wasn't the only one awake.
He put the mug down and stepped out of the kitchen, slowly, cautiously approaching the armchair where Sherlock was sitting.
"...Sherlock? What are you doing?" His tone was tense and demanded an answer, but Sherlock took his time, turning the knife this way and that in his hands, examining every inch of it.
It was sharp.
John could see that much.
Sharp, and unspeakably evil.
It took all his newly woken control to keep his voice even. "I asked you a question. What are you doing?"
"I'm looking over evidence." Sherlock let the blade dangle from his fingertips, turning it to catch the light.
"Evidence...?"
"That's what I said. This is the knife Moriarty used to kill that girl. Of course there aren't any prints on it, they've already checked for them, but there must be something about it... There's always something..."
John finally gave in to impulse and snatched the knife from him, carrying it warily back to the kitchen with him.
"Hey!" Sherlock started up and glared at him. "Hands off! I was looking at that!"
"You said there's always something about it! Did you ever stop to think that maybe—just maybe—Moriarty is sending you a message, by leaving you this knife? Telling you to do something?"
"Of course I thought of that. I didn't say it because it's really a bit obvious, John."
"Don't fuck with me this early in the morning! I haven't had my coffee yet and I..." He looked down at the knife in his hand, suddenly very opposed to holding it anymore. "Never mind."
"Is there a reason you didn't sleep well last night? Trouble with the latest girlfriend? The... librarian, right? She's cheating on you, by the way."
"Shut up."
"I couldn't help but notice that she's—"
"Shut your face, and quit showing off. I'm not in the mood for this."
"—Not the right fit for you."
John stared at him for a moment, and then turned back to the kitchen to pour his coffee with rigidly held restraint and shut the knife up in a cabinet, if only so he didn't have to look at it for now.
Just a bad morning turned worse.
"John…"
"What?" He snapped and turned around, instantly regretting his tone.
Sherlock sighed, settling into his perch on the arm of the chair and tucking his feet up on the seat. "I… realize you're not very interested in dealing with me now, but… at this point in the case your assistance would be… good. So, if only for the sake of those girls—I know you felt sorry for them, I saw your eyes—would you stay?"
John stood there, the mug feeling very heavy in his hand. He swallowed. "…Stay? What do you mean? Where would I be going?"
"You said… You'd find someone else." Sherlock seemed a little jolted that things weren't going the way he'd expected them to.
"Sherlock…" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I didn't actually mean that. Sometimes when people are angry they say things they don't mean."
"Oh." The detective suddenly seemed very small in the midst of the big room, lost in a chaotic sea of books and papers and odds and ends, curled up in his armchair-ship and pretending he wasn't confused. "I knew that."
"Of course. Of course I'm going to stay. I said I would." John's anger at him slowly subsided for the moment, taking pause as he saw how disoriented Sherlock was at finding out that he wasn't actually going to leave him. Almost as if he was fighting to not seem vulnerable, but it wasn't working out so well.
He'd really believed him.
He'd accepted it as inevitable and moped about on the couch, waiting.
Could that mean he actually did care…?