John considers hiding in his room and sulking for a while, just on principle, but he ends up only staying upstairs long enough to change his clothes and grab a book. Sherlock is a champion sulker, prone to long bouts of moodily staring into the distance and snapping at John for breathing too loudly, but John's sulking skills are mediocre at best. There's no satisfaction in it. Much better to just make a cup of tea and read for a while, letting everything work itself out in the background.
The tea helps. The ritual of it, filling the kettle and plugging it in and waiting for the electric click as it boils. Pulling down one mug, then (with a glance at the bathroom door, still shut and - presumably - locked), two. Steeping the tea, setting the timer, pulling the milk out of the fridge.
That last step is odd, uncomfortable - when John opens the refrigerator, he sees the milk and a half-carton of eggs and even though the usual assortment of anonymous jars covers the door, the rest of the shelves are almost empty. Mrs. Hudson had offered to clean out Sherlock's "experiments" a few weeks after his disappearance, unwilling to stand the smell anymore, and John had accepted. (After serious deliberation, because as much as he felt obligated to hold onto something-anything of Sherlock's, as much as it felt like throwing things out meant throwing out all hope of Sherlock coming back, there is only so much leeway one can be expected to make for decomposing livers in the vegetable crisper and poorly-labeled cups of human blood with things submerged in them taking up the entirety of the middle shelf.) There's something entirely not right about the refrigerator being so empty, so ordinary, and John has to fight back a lump in his throat.
The timer beeps. John mechanically finishes making the tea. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in Sherlock's, then two in his own, carefully not thinking about what his sudden change in taste might mean. He sets the mugs on the counter, tidies up the milk and the kettle and the tins and the stirring spoon, then carefully carries both mugs to the hallway outside the loo and lowers himself to a cross-legged sit outside the door.
"Made you tea."
No response from Sherlock.
"If you open the door a crack, I can pass it to you and you won't have to look at me. I promise I won't barge in."
A noise, then, a tiny baritone rumble, and then the sound of the lock disengaging. John sets his own tea down, opens the door just wide enough to fit the other mug through, and slides it over the tile. The door closes again, then a muffled thump as Sherlock leans against it and (presumably) picks up his tea.
Several minutes of uncomfortable silence.
"I'm not doing this out of charity," John says to the door once he has finished the last of what was in his mug. Overly sweet, of course, but for once the sugar is not unwelcome. "If you need space, I'll give it, but I would really like for you to talk to me. I don't understand what I did wrong here - I thought you would be happy I'm apparently not as heterosexual as I always assumed."
More silence.
John sighs. "Can you sulk somewhere else then, at least? This tea's going to kick in in about ten minutes or so and you're hogging the loo."
Finally, a snort from Sherlock.
"Look, I'm sorry." John leans back against the wall and lets his gaze trace blankly over the wood grain of the door. "Obviously I hit something that's a PTSD trigger for you, and I don't want to do that again. But I can't help you if you don't tell me what it was."
The door swings open suddenly. Sherlock is glowering on the other side, kneeling on the tile with his feet tucked under him and his spine perfectly straight. Radiating anger.
"Don't fucking pity me," he snaps. "The moment I do something that doesn't go along with your little plan, you call it PTSD and try to pity it away. You don't get it. You never will."
"So explain." John is paradoxically more comfortable with this Sherlock - sparring, he can do. Sherlock sniping and growling and complaining and sulking is normal; Sherlock silent is not. "Use small words if you have to, but tell me why exactly me caring about you is such a fucking tragedy."
"Caring." Sherlock sneers. "You don't care. You pity me. You want to sweep in and heal my boo-boos and kiss everything better and bloody well done, you, you've patched me up and set me back on my feet. You want to feel like you're helping, even though at the same time you want to prod at my scars, gawk at how broken I am and then pat yourself on the back for fitting all the pieces of Sherlock Holmes back together again all nice and army-neat and orderly. 'Oh, yes, Sherlock, I'm kind of gay now. You can tell me how you'd suck me off but don't fucking touch me because that would be too much, that would show you I'm really just in this for that pat on the back. Now go and bare your fucking soul and tell me all about the mean men who abused and raped you, but don't think I'm even going to fucking unbutton my shirt for this. Let me drain you empty, mind and body, but I don't want you getting your sullied hands on my own cock because that would be too personal and I don't swing like that.' It's pity, John, pure and simple, and I don't want it."
"Bullshit." John crosses his arms over his chest and levels an even glare at his flatmate. "You got it wrong; deduce again."
Sherlock growls, a throwaway sound torn from deep in his throat. "I'm not wrong. I finally get up the courage to approach you - to offer you the kind of sexual relationship I think you're finally ready to accept - and you throw it in my face. You condescend to masturbate with me in the room, but I can't touch you. You'll touch me as long as I tell you all about how broken and useless I am, but I still can't touch you. I'm just an adrenaline hit to you - proof of your skill in patching up my body. And now you want the ego-stroke of patching up my heart, too. But you can't, not when you're the reason I'm angry."
"Bloody-" John breaks off, takes a breath, starts again. "You're not angry, Sherlock, you're embarrassed and you're lashing out and yes, I bloody well can tell the difference. You're also so damn wedded to the belief that I'm lying to you, you can't see. Why is it so hard to understand that I could want to help and I could want more? It seems to me that helping ought to be the least - the very fucking least - of the things I want to do to you. With you." He swallows. "Under you."
Sherlock's expression has taken on some new quality John's never seen there before. There's still embarrassment and frustration and yes, a hint of anger, but underneath that there's a vulnerability he almost never shows to anyone. The combination knocks John off his soapbox, has him glancing down at where his fingers are twisting tight in his lap.
"I do want to get you better, that much is true," he admits. "I've been blaming myself for two months now about that stupid argument we had, about blowing up at you and making you leave. And I spent the whole time you were gone absolutely frantic because I had no right to be this worried for you, but I was anyway. You have no idea how many times I came within a hairsbreadth of actually punching your brother. And when we finally found you . . ." He exhales and closes his eyes. "It's not pity, Sherlock. I promise. I'm sad - of course I am - and I'm angry as fuck that someone would hurt you like that. But I'm also a bit jealous, because I want you all to myself and it makes me a terrible person to be feeling that after all you've gone through. You can't help what happened, and you're not broken, and only a complete tosser would be jealous of your kidnappers for getting you to themselves, if only for a little while. What they did was - fuck, there aren't even words for what they did. But the base, animalistic part of me is mad at them for taking something I feel is mine. And I never asked you, we never . . . you're not a bone for me to fight over, Sherlock. I have no right to be possessive of you like that, especially since we aren't in a relationship." He huffs out a breath. "Weren't in a relationship. I don't know what the fuck it is now."
Silence. He looks up, finally opening his eyes, to see Sherlock staring at him.
"The thing about not letting you touch me, though," John says awkwardly. "That was . . . um. I'm sorry you got that impression. You can. If you want."
Sherlock continues to stare.
"I mean, let me use the loo first, but then, yeah." John looks back down at his hands. "I'd - I'd like that. If you want to."