Of course it wasn't enough.
Working on his own case was good, yes, but that alone could not fill the aching need the detective felt to be working on an actual case.
Something real.
Interesting.
Exciting.
John had expected that.
So it had come as no surprise when Sherlock had finally accepted a real case, once John had deemed him healthy enough for the challenge. It had gone well enough, so far—until tonight.
It wasn't the first time it had ever happened.
John should have expected it, too.
But it was still no less irritating when the detective had a sudden idea and rushed away from the crime scene, leaving John behind in his wake. When John had finally realised what was happening and hurried down to the street, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
Damn it to hell.
He'd taken a fucking cab. To who knew where.
Honestly...
John let out a low growl of frustration and gave the pavement an aggravated kick. He really, really wished Sherlock wouldn't do that.
So much for teamwork.
He was so preoccupied with trying to hail a cab of his own, intending to go back to 221B and wait for him there, that he hardly noticed Sally Donovan walking past.
"You know, I'm really not surprised he's done that again."
He glanced around to find her there, with a hand on her hip and a pitying look on her face.
"Hm? Yeah, well... I'm not..."
"I almost feel sorry for you."
"What?" John frowned slightly. "Why would you? I'm perfectly happy."
"Yeah? You're so devoted; you follow him around everywhere and do everything he tells you to, even though he's a twat. You poor little love-sick puppy."
"Shut up." John rolled his eyes and turned his back on her. "I am not love-sick. I'm a soldier."
"And he's just a lunatic, and he will always let you down."
John felt the cold chill of fury crystallising in his chest, and he had to work to keep his fists down at his sides.
Don't hit her.
Don't hit her.
Don't look at her.
Don't…
"You're wrong."
"Am I?"
"Yes." John refused to justify her by turning around. He could do this. "You don't know anything about him. I can't believe you're even saying this, after all that… You have no idea… Okay?You're… you're just jealous, aren't you? I can tell. No, nevermind—I don't even care—just… stop. Alright?" He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry he's rude, we're working on that—but just leave him alone. You don't even know."
There—a cabdriver was finally paying attention…
Sally opened her mouth to respond, but before she could John had climbed into the cab and slammed the door.
Not interested.
He'd already said too much.
John glanced at the clock again, and sighed.
Eight o'clock pm...
And still no Sherlock.
He could have done with a text. A phone call, maybe. 'Don't wait up, I'm busy doing things without you.'
This was just annoying.
He rested his cheek in his palm and let his eyes wander over to the fireplace. The first place Sherlock had hidden his blades. John could remember it well, even though it had been ages ago, now.
He could remember the fear.
The worry.
The shock.
Not to mention his own feelings.
There had been difficult times, and times when he had thought things were getting better, and... times when he knew they weren't.
It had been confusing, to say the least, but...
In a way, also enlightening.
Enlightening because it had shown him things about Sherlock that he probably would never have found out otherwise. It had given him a new perspective on the detective's generally hostile attitude, and he now felt somehow like an insider.
He knew things few other people did.
He'd seen scars that almost no one else knew Sherlock had.
Not to mention the physical scars.
John shut his eyes for a moment, reflecting.
He still didn't feel like he really knew Sherlock. No one did. But he was possibly one of the closest human beings to him.
And that was something.
Before now John hadn't really thought about what the words 'best friend' truly meant. It had always been just a thing you say; a title thrown about generously on childhood playgrounds between youngsters who will soon forget the other ever existed.
But that's not what it meant to Sherlock.
With him, 'best' was synonymous with 'only.' It had always seemed as if it didn't bother him, as if he wanted to be alone—but now John could see that wasn't entirely true.
He had simply come to terms with the fact that he was friendless, and refused to let it appear that it bothered him.
He was always aware.
'Oh come on, who would want to share a flat with me?'
And now that he had John... Back then, he'd been shocked to realise that John actually considered him to be his best friend.
Maybe that phrase meant more to him than it did to most people.
Maybe he needed that more than most.
"John? Are you asleep?"
John nearly jumped out of skin, gripping the arms of his chair and sitting bolt upright, head snapping about to look at him. "Oh god—Jesus, Sherlock—don't do that to me!"
Sherlock shrugged, stripping off his coat and disappearing into his bedroom for a minute.
John just sat there, letting his heartbeat come back down to normal, and finally heaved himself up.
Eight thirty... A little late for dinner, but a detective's got to eat.
He padded over to the kitchen and started a pot of tea before poking about in the cabinets for something to fix.
When Sherlock finally returned, changed into his lounging clothes and dressing gown, John had a pot of pasta on the hob and two cups of tea on the table.
"Solved the case, then?"
"Mm." Sherlock nodded absently as he took one of the cups, warming his fingers against it.
"Have fun?"
"Moderately."
John watched the detective retreat to the sofa and curl up, quite obviously at least a little knackered.
Moderately my arse.
"Pasta okay for tonight?"
"Mm."
"Not speaking much?"
"Mm."
John couldn't help but smile. He really was an insider. A best friend.
And Sally would never really understand.