Wordlessly, Sherlock left the room to make a phone call to Lestrade. John stayed behind to continue examining the house. He found nothing else out of the ordinary and was about to leave when the officer stopped him.
"Is your friend always like that?" The man asked quietly. There was always that one person who went beyond staring curiously and actually questioned Sherlock's methods. In the past John would defend him, laugh or play it off, but it was different today.
"I'm not his friend," John said before turning his back on the confused man and walking away. Was it really that easy to say?
John only walked a few feet before he saw Sherlock standing just outside the front door, his back turned as he was speaking on the phone. Silently praying that Sherlock had not just heard what he said, John reconsidered his words.
Was he being too harsh? Had things between the two gotten to the point that he no longer considered Sherlock a friend?
It used to be "I'm not his date," or "I'm not his boyfriend." But it seemed now that their relationship had reached yet another level of complexity.
Sherlock had made his mistakes, if you could call what he did a mistake, but John was still making his.
Sherlock suddenly turned around, startling John who failed to realize that he no was longer on the phone. There was only silence and unsteady eye contact between them before John broke it.
"So what did Lestrade say?"
"He's coming by to take us to the morgue, we need to look at the writing on the bodies."
"Right, right. Have you eaten?"
"No."
"Well you should. You're thinner than ever."
Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away, successfully hiding the small smile that appeared on his face.
"No time, plus you know I don't eat when I'm on a case."
"Seriously? That's your excuse? Honestly you really should learn to eat better especially now that you're alone - ,"
John paused as he realized the implications of his words. Sherlock turned to look at him, that steady glare John had come to associate with anger. Behind him, a black car pulled up and Lestrade stepped out.
"Is that what I am then, John? Alone?" Sherlock kept his gaze on John, refusing to acknowledge the sound of someone walking up the driveway behind him.
John was saved from giving an answer when Lestrade walked up to them, not bothering to mask his questioning gaze.
"You two alright?"
Sherlock, forced to look away, greeted Lestrade with a tight smile, "Never better."
He looked between them for another moment before turning around silently and walking towards the car. They followed silently, John took the back seat and ignored Lestrade who was attempting to make eye contact in the mirror the entire ride over. He would tell him the results of their renewed partnership later.
A little more than an hour was spent in the morgue and after taking notes Lestrade forced them to agree to meet the next day to continue with the investigation. Because of the information they gathered that day he was able to cross a few suspects off of his list.
John and Sherlock shared a cab away from the morgue. A majority of the last hour was spent by the two ignoring Lestrade's attempts to make them speak to one another.
The cab ride was much like the one earlier that day. Quiet and filled with unspoken things that should have already been said. John's curiosity got the best of him as the car pulled up in front of 221B.
"Where are you staying?" He asked as he paid the driver.
"I have a room at Lancaster Court." Sherlock said, his words clipped, devoid of emotion. John guessed he deserved it.
"Oh," John stopped speaking, he almost found himself telling Sherlock to come back to Baker Street. His old room was still there, untouched. Mrs. Hudson made her way up there weekly to clean it, all the while insisting that she was not John's housekeeper. But his determination to stay firm in his indifference proved overwhelming, so he kept his mouth shut.
"Good night then," John stepped out of the cab and walked to the door.
When he got upstairs John went straight to his room and got into bed. The day didn't go nearly as bad as he thought it would, but was the alone comment really necessary? He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head as he attempted to repress the bad memory of his stupidity and get some sleep.
He only thought of one thing, when twenty minutes ago he heard Sherlock's soft "Goodnight," as he shut the cab door.