John was up before the alarm – long before. He'd had another nightmare and hadn't bothered trying to go back to sleep. Instead he'd sat up and read a book – something he hadn't allowed himself to do in a very long time.
Though he was up early, he didn't really feel tired and – rather than groaning, cursing and trying to fall back to sleep after seeing the time – he'd gotten up to await the sunrise. He was completely relaxed and even a little excited about the day ahead – most likely because he knew that once it officially began it would only be a few short hours before he would get to see Mia again. Though he held David Copperfield firmly in hand, his head was not really absorbing any of the page that he had just re-read three times. He felt like a love-struck school boy, but – though he shook his head at his silliness and tried to focus on the story rather than on what he should wear – he didn't actually mind.
The butterflies were always his favorite part. The start of something new – something exciting. Working hard to impress, and then enjoying the success of an outing where you actually connected with someone on a deep and emotional level – it was the best feeling in the world. Though, to be honest, John hadn't had many of those connections... he never let himself open up that much because his relationships always tended to fall apart. He liked to blame Sherlock, but it wasn't really his fault – it was John's. Perhaps if he put just a little bit more of himself on the line, the relationship would mean more than just the initial thrill of the chase. John was good at getting what he wanted, he just wasn't very good at keeping it. He sighed and put the book down when he began reading the same page for the fourth time. He got up and went to his wardrobe to pick out something to wear. Just one more hour before he could start getting ready for work...
...
Two rooms away Sherlock also lay awake in bed. His mind was spinning out of control – he needed a case. He needed to be useful, to exercise his mind, to feel alive again! His only case since he lost his sight was a set-up that he didn't even get the chance to solve – and that irritated him.
Ever since the bombing that was responsible for the scars on his chest and for taking away the only thing that for most of his life had ever really mattered to him, these dark hours before dawn haunted him. It was always this accursed time of night when he turned to his deepest and most dangerous thoughts. He would never have acknowledged that the hatred and malcontent that boiled inside of him during these distressing episodes were the result of self-pity because he didn't believe that he was capable of self-pity – it was never something he had ever needed to feel before.
It was times like these when all he knew how to do was hate. He hated what had become of him. He hated the constant struggle that never seemed to be getting any better and he hated pretending that it was. He hated that John thought everything was alright. He hated Lestrade for not giving him a case. He hated his brother for not apologizing for anything and for abandoning him the one time he needed him the most. But, most of all, he hated himself for not observing. He hated himself for what had resulted from his pride, his arrogance – the hubris which had led him to this place... that had forever condemned him to the dark.
At first – while lying in that hospital bed all those months ago, letting the knowledge that he would never see again sink into his consciousness – he had thought that his eyes were everything... that he could never be anything without his sight. That his great mind had been almost wholly dependent upon the information those organs had gathered was true, but he quickly realized, that he had four more senses to rely upon. Surely his genius was not solely linked to his ability to notice minute details? Surely he could find other ways to be observant – to be clever. He began almost immediately with those first lonely, tentative, steps around his hospital room.
He never told John what had passed through his mind in those first few hours of reflection after they'd heard the definitive news. Those thoughts which had been dark indeed... too dark to ever speak aloud for fear that they could become a reality. He had swept them aside easily enough, but the doubt remained – a nagging shadow that returned on nights like this, when sleep eluded him. It would come to torment him. On nights like this, Sherlock lived through his own personal hell. The doubt, the continuous thought that repeatedly warned him that soon he would fail; that people doubted him and that he should doubt himself. That he was never going to be the Great Sherlock Holmes again. That he was finished as a consulting detective and would fade into obscurity. For hours he would lay in bed and battle this demon until he felt the warmth of the sun kiss his skin and he could lock the thought away in its cage – hoping and praying that it would never escape to terrorise him again.
He sensed that the cold night was still all around him as he lay brewing atop his covers. There was almost no traffic on the street outside, the night was at its quietest... he judged that it was somewhere between three and four AM. He sat up and reached for his phone. He flipped it open and scrolled through the menu: main menu, the automated voice read: Contacts, Detective Gregory Lestrade, dialing now...
"Hello?" a groggy voice answered.
"Do you have anything for me yet Inspector?"
"Sherlock? Is that you?" Irritation crept into the tone swallowing up the initial sound of confusion and disbelief, "It's four in the morning!"
"You should have turned your phone off then," Sherlock replied heartlessly.
"Well next time I will," the DI responded flatly.
"Well?"
"No I don't have anything for you."
"Do you mean you don't have any cases? Or that you have none that you would trust to a blind consulting detective?"
"I mean that unless you're interested in a drug-store robbery, you're out of luck. Now stop calling me! I will contact you if I get a case," the irritation was quickly turning to mild anger.
"Fine," Sherlock replied flatly and hung up. Then, as a sudden fit of frustration hit him, he whipped the mobile at the wall. It hit with a 'crack!' and he heard the dull thud of several small pieces simultaneously hitting the floor and small throw rug. "Damn it," He muttered to himself and dropped his head to his hands, rubbing his temples and trying to calm himself. He rose, paced the floor slowly and bent to pick up the pieces that he was able to find. He dropped them unceremoniously in the trash bin and went to his wardrobe to dress. He needed to go out.
...
It was still too early to get ready for work, but John had already given up on reading and had picked out his clothes for the day. He checked his email – empty – and was just beginning to wonder if time had actually frozen when his stomach grumbled. Thankful for the distraction, John left his cosy room and plodded downstairs in a white t-shirt and pajama pants to make a nice breakfast in his shiny new kitchen. His feet were bare and the floorboards in the living room were shockingly cold. With a yawn and a stretch John headed towards the fireplace and began stacking kindling upon the ashes of last night's fire.
John heard the front door quietly open and then shut. He turned to find the blind consulting detective carefully hanging up each article of outdoor clothing on his side of the coat-rack.
"Sherlock?"
The man started slightly and then looked in his direction, "John, you're up."
"Did you just get in?"
"Obviously."
"What were you doing outside this early in the morning?"
"I went for a walk."
John eyed him suspiciously. "A walk?" it was said more as a statement than a question. His tone implied the question: "why?"
"Yes, John, a walk," Sherlock replied stubbornly.
"Where did you go?"
"That's none of your business," Sherlock clipped cryptically. He approached the fire rubbing his long pale hands together.
"Fine," John said with a shrug, though the question still burned in his mind, "I'm making breakfast, would you like some?"
"No, thank you." Sherlock's response was short, but yet the tone was almost chipper... John was instantly suspicious.
After warming up his cold fingers Sherlock turned abruptly and headed to his room.
John stood there feeling a bit confused. Sherlock had just returned from an early morning walk and had refused breakfast. Though he never ate much in general, lately he had been pretty good at eating if John offered. Could this mean? ...
John approached the room and knocked.
"Come in," Sherlock's voice murmured through the hard-wood door.
"Sherlock, are you on a case?" John asked. He stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with his hand still resting on the doorknob.
Sherlock was digging though his rather extensive closet. "Why would you think that?" he asked.
"Because you're acting a little... eccentric," John replied.
"Eccentric?" he said absently as he tossed a garment on the bed.
"Yes, like you used you act when you were on a case."
"No case, just research, John. Nothing to worry about... After all, how could I work on a case without you?"
"Ok, I'm going to make breakfast," John said in defeat as he turned to leave the room. He didn't have time to mess around with Sherlock this morning. If he wanted to be mysterious, let him.
"John?"
"Yes?" he asked, poking is head back into the room.
"Have a nice time at lunch today."
John stood dumbfounded. Had Sherlock just told him to have a nice date? What was wrong with him? He was acting very strange indeed... John was wondering if he should change his mind and stay home. But then the memory of Mia's invitation and the realization of how much work he still had to do at work hit him and his reasonable side – the one that wasn't completely obsessed with taking care of Sherlock – kicked in. Surely Sherlock wasn't about to go on some sort of binge... right? He couldn't see any reason why he would... what would be the trigger? He shrugged the feeling off and headed to the kitchen. "Sherlock is just being Sherlock," he said quietly to himself as he turned on the kettle and new stove.
...
The two week expiration date that Sherlock had placed on John's new relationship had long since passed. John was a constant ball of energy and was disgustingly optimistic and cheerful most of the time. He never said much, but he hummed constantly. He hummed in the shower, while making tea, while cleaning the flat – it was unbelievably irritating. Despite the fact that John seemed to be obnoxiously happy, Sherlock knew that something wasn't quite right in the relationship. It had been nearly a month and John still hadn't slept with her. Now, Sherlock was aware that for many budding relationships this would be relatively normal behaviour... but John wasn't the type to have relationships that lasted more than a few dates and at least one of those dates usually involved him spending the night away from 221B. It wasn't that John didn't want to have longer relationships; it was just that the women in his life couldn't handle his divided attention – though, truthfully, he never really worked very hard to get them to stay around either. Sherlock had noticed a pattern and it was quite obvious that John never really seemed that interested in any of the girlfriends he'd had since Sarah. So why was this girl different? He had gone out to coffee/lunch with her nearly every day since the first day that they met and had also gone on several evening dates usually involving either dinner, or a movie – or both. They had even spent a weekend doing touristy things – such as visiting the London Eye – together. But John had not spent one night away from 221B. Why?
Sherlock found this curious. He wasn't sure what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. But he was certain of one thing: John really liked this woman. He was very clear on that matter. In fact, he had just told Sherlock so when he warned him to be nice to her because she was coming over for a visit tonight. Well, for John's sake, Sherlock would attempt to be nice. Though, he really didn't want to meet her.
He used to find irritating John by scaring off his girl-friends to be rather amusing – not that he had ever really done it intentionally, it was just in his nature... people didn't like him and they definitely didn't like being second fiddle to someone they didn't like. Somehow though, he felt that if he tried a stunt like that now John would find that 'not good' and he didn't want to hurt John. He would be good tonight. It would be just like play-acting and he was good at that. He would be kind and decent and show all the conventional formalities because he had promised and because he needed John and felt that right now John thought that he needed her. If Sherlock ever hoped for things to go back to normal without putting their relationship in jeopardy, he needed to be respectful of John's wishes and wait for the spark to fizzle out on its own. He couldn't be the cause of this breakup – it seemed that the relationship was already too far gone for that to be ok. John wouldn't forgive him this time... he had basically said so:
Sherlock had heard John's tentative and slightly uneven steps as he descended the stairs early that morning and approached the sofa where Sherlock lay with his arm draped over his face.
"Sherlock, um, I'm going out tonight... with Mia," he'd said slowly as if expecting some sort of violent reaction.
"Um hmm," Sherlock had mumbled into his elbow.
"She wants to meet you," he announced quietly as if he were telling Sherlock that his best friend had died suddenly.
"Why?" he'd asked – genuinely curious.
"Because you're my flat-mate, and my best friend, and because she's read my blog."
"Oh, I see, so she's a fan," he stated rather than asked. He had removed his arm from his face, but continued to lay sprawled on the sofa with an air of indifference.
"Sort-of," John agreed.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"Yes, you can bring her by if you feel you must."
John hesitated as if processing this information, "I really like her Sherlock," he confessed.
He'd never spoken about her – except in passing when he was going to be out late. The statement surprised Sherlock and a growing sense of discomfort settled into his chest. If he had been in the habit of analysing himself with the same amount of scrutiny he thrust upon other people he may have wandered if that uncomfortable feeling could be jealousy. He slowly sat up to face John so that he would know that he was taking the situation seriously.
"She's... different from the others," John continued – his voice was faulty. He was acting... unusual.
"Alright," he replied, not knowing what else to say. He had almost asked 'how so?' but decided he didn't really want to know.
"Please, for my sake, if you've ever cared about me as a friend, be nice to her," he practically begged.
"Fine," he acquiesced, forcing himself not to groan in irritation.
"Promise me, Sherlock. Promise me you'll make an effort to be civil."
"Alright, I promise."
He had a dreadful feeling that this was going to be a very difficult promise to keep.