Chapter Twenty Two

Sherlock stayed on the couch, balancing the tea on his stomach for exactly two hours before he got up and walked to the window. John had been typing away on his computer, watching Sherlock from time to time, enjoying the normalcy of things. Now that Sherlock stood by the window, still in his coat, John wondered how he would feel about Sherlock leaving for a new case. He had told him that he wasn't ready yet to get involved in a new case, but he was sure that Sherlock would not be able to say no if anything came up.

When Sherlock turned around, John could see that he was dying to ask him something, but that he was not sure how to do it. He stopped typing and looked at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"What is it?"

"What happened with Sarah?"

"Oh." John remembered that he had not explained himself to Sherlock after it had come up at the hospital. "I think we broke up."

"Why?"

Because of you, idiot, John thought, closing his laptop. "It just didn't work."

"What do you mean? You two worked really well."

John smiled sadly. Sherlock must have known that things had not worked well. He might not have been very experienced in the realm of romantic relationships, but his factual knowledge probably exceeded that of most people. He must have seen what John only realised after Sarah gave up on him.

"She was not alright with the way things were."

"But she was good for you."

"Well, I wasn't good for her."

John wished he would just let it go. He did not want to tell him the real reason for their breakup, and he did not want to blame him, especially not after what had happened earlier at the library. It was partly Sherlock's fault, because he just never assumed that he could be a negative factor in that equation, but it was mostly John's own fault, because he had been ignorant enough to think that what they were doing was perfectly normal.

"But John, you're…you're good." Sherlock really seemed surprised by what he was saying and John wondered if he really had not noticed that anything was wrong. He always knew everything, how could he miss something like this.

"I wasn't fair to her. And she stayed with me for much longer than she should have. It couldn't work, I see that now."

Sherlock frowned, he obviously had a hard time understanding what John was saying, and was baffled at the prospect that anyone would leave John for reasons that did not seem sensible to him. This thought made John strangely happy.

"Don't worry about it, okay? It's fine. It's sad, but it's good that she finally spoke her mind. I couldn't give her what she wanted and she moved on."

"Do you really think that? She seemed to care about you a great deal. I don't think she will just let you go."

"And since when have you become a relationship expert?"

"I merely observed."

"Well, she obviously does not fit your statistics."

"Fine. What about you? You didn't speak of her at all."

"I had other things to think about."

"Like what?"

"You, me, staying alive." He waved his hand around, hoping Sherlock would stop questioning him.

And Sherlock didn't say anything. He sat down on the couch and drank his cold tea until his cup was empty. He carefully placed it on the table and leaned back, looking at John.

John thought about taking up writing again, but he knew he would not be able to formulate proper thoughts when Sherlock was watching him.

"Do you fancy lunch?" and with a glance at the clock. "Or dinner, for that matter?"

"Yes, let's go out." He was up again, this time being rather careful. "We still have to get flowers."

"Ah, yes. Thank you for reminding me."

They walked to 'The Jeremy Bentham', a pub that John had frequented whenever Sherlock had been bored. It was strange to step into the stuffy heat with him by his side. Sherlock kept close to him, obviously uncomfortable around so many people he didn't know. John smiled at him and pulled him towards the back where he greeted the bartender and pushed Sherlock down on a chair. "Don't move!" he told Sherlock, who started to immediately analyse his surroundings. When John came back with two pints of beer and let himself fall on the chair opposite to his, Sherlock exhaled, relaxing visibly.

"Sherlock, it's a pub."

His eyes narrowed. "I know it's a pub. You come here often. Your clothes smell of cigarettes sometimes, even though there's no one smoking in here. However, the door is usually open so that the smoke from outside comes in. You have three pints of beer when you are here, occasionally four. This is your usual table, because most of your sweaters have a small incision in them on your right elbow, where a nail is penetrating the wood of the table and you get caught in it repeatedly. You are on a first name basis with the bartender, and possibly others as well. You usually eat a bacon burger and chips, occasionally you don't eat at all."

John chuckled and picked up his glass. "Cheers, mate."

Sherlock gave him a disapproving look, most likely disappointed that John didn't praise him for his deduction and picked up his glass as well, but he couldn't really think of anything to say, so he just drank.

John felt comfortable, Sherlock clearly did not. He kept opening his mouth as to say something but then thought better of it, probably because he did not want to offend John by stating something that might affect his good mood. John had thought about having Sherlock face the wall, but this way he could at least see what was going on and would not feel that he was missing out on anything.

It became absolutely amusing for John to watch his friend watching the other guests. He was probably filing data right now, sorting people into categories, trying to put them in order so they would not be confusing to him. He wondered what the world looked like through the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you want to eat?"

Sherlock took a second to focus his gaze on John and then seemed to push away his thoughts, clearing his head. "I don't know if I'm hungry."

"Sherlock, for all I know you don't even remember what it feels like to be hungry. You've gotten rid of it, deleted it because it's unnecessary information."

"Are you making fun of me?"

John grinned. "What do you want to eat?"

"I have beer, I'm fine."

John would have none of that. "Because you have beer, you willeat."

"Fine."

"So?"

"Just order something."

"And you will eat it?"

"Yes, sir."

John smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand, not letting his mind sway far enough as to think of how comforting it was to be able to touch him.

At the bar he ordered a basket of chips and two burgers. When Sherlock ate in public, he was rather careful about his orders, always scrutinising the food before consuming it. John had also noticed that he never did that with the food that he cooked for them. He seemed to trust him completely.

When he presented Sherlock with the food he looked at him with an expression that had John giggling helplessly. Sherlock was not amused. He pulled the basket of chips towards him and looked down in disgust. "John, do you know what…"

John interrupted him. "Shut up, you said you would eat whatever I'd bring you. These are normal chips, nothing wrong with them. I've had them a million times before and I did not die of a strange disease or anything."

"But your liver…"

"Sherlock!" John couldn't stop giggling. "We're drinking beer, that's also not healthy. And I bet that eating burgers and chips is less harmful than you eating nothing at all."

"Fine." He picked one single chip up, balanced it between his fingers for a while until he slowly put it into his mouth. John erupted into another fit of giggles, tears in his eyes now.

"Sherlock, you are impossible!"

And there it was; the stare he had hoped he would never have to deal with. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his face straight but with an accusing expression that would have made John feel guilty had it been in a different place and under different circumstances. Now he just kept on laughing, wiping his face.

"John!" Sherlock really must have felt irritated, because usually his look sufficed to get his opponent to react appropriately. But John couldn't help it. Sherlock's reaction was absolutely absurd and yet it was so very much like him that he wanted to lean over the table and kiss that expression away.

That though sobered him up. He swallowed and wiped his face again, feeling himself shy away from Sherlock's intense eyes. "I'm sorry." He could feel his hand shaking and he was sure he would spill his beer if he picked up the glass now. So instead he tried to massage the tremor away with his right hand, his eyes darting from Sherlock's eyes to the food on the table and back. He was avoiding looking at his lips, afraid he might not be able to look away again.

"Please eat." His voice didn't sound quite right, and Sherlock's eyebrow quirked. To make it easier for him, he grabbed a handful of chips and put them on his plate and started to eat. Sherlock watched with interest as John took a bite off his burger and chewed. Then, very slowly, Sherlock started eating as well.

John could barely suppress another laugh when Sherlock carefully took the burger in his hands and tried to take a bite without seeming too awkward, achieving the exact opposite. After a while, Sherlock seemed to accommodate to the situation he was in, finishing his burger without dropping it or spilling sauce on himself. John felt almost triumphant when Sherlock grabbed a napkin and dabbed at his mouth.

"So," he asked. "Was it that bad?"

Sherlock sniffed and pushed his plate away. "It was alright."

John smiled and leaned back, watching Sherlock. He was still not comfortable, sitting up too straight, too serious, too nervous. Why was he nervous?

"Sherlock, are you okay? Do you want to go?"

"No, no, I'm alright, don't worry about me." He drank from his beer, his eyes darting back and forth through the room. John quietly wondered if Sherlock would ever actually get drunk. If he could stand a dose of a strong anesthetic, he doubted that alcohol would have any effect on him. Still, it could be worth finding out.

"How do you know how much beer I drink when I'm here?"

Finally, something for Sherlock to focus on. "You're drunk. You're only tipsy after two pints, and one pint has no effect on you at all. Three makes it difficult for you to walk up the stairs without holding onto the rail, four makes you miss a step or bump into something. You usually make tea when you come home. Three pints only has you clattering around, four makes you curse and drop things."

"Okay."

"Why do you do that?"

John had not expected Sherlock to ask for a reason, and he was sure that he knew more about it than he himself did.

"You mean, why do I come here?"

"Yes."

"Because sometimes I need to be surrounded by people who don't know me." He wondered why his answer came so easily. "Sometimes I need to be able to become someone else, someone, nobody cares about and who is just here, laughing and chatting away with strangers, drinking beer."

"Because you can't do that with me." Sherlock looked somewhat hurt - an unusual expression on his face, and John knew that he had been right. Sherlock knew exactly why John came here.

John's face softened. He could have said so many things, but there really was only one answer that mattered: "You're here with me right now, aren't you?"

And Sherlock's expression changed completely. His face lit up as if he had just received a message by Lestrade that he needed his help to find a serial killer. But there was also something else, something too private and emotional for John to comprehend. So John grabbed his beer and finished it, feeling his head spin slightly. Maybe he shouldn't drink too much, considering he had been sick with a fever not too long ago.

Sherlock seemed to relax, and John wondered if he had for once managed to say the exact right thing, or maybe Sherlock had read something in between the lines and understood what John could never say out loud.

They both were silent for a while, until John remembered that he still did not know why Mycroft's phone had not connected. He did not want to spoil the moment, but he was now sure that Sherlock had to do with it, and not Moriarty.

"You tampered with my phone. How did you do it?"

Sherlock smirked, apparently pleasantly surprised that John realised that it had been his doing. "It wasn't really all that hard. I knew you'd call Mycroft eventually, so I blocked his number for you. Usually you will have a voice on the other end, telling you that you can't connect, but I found someone who replaced the message with white noise." He was almost too proud of that, John thought.

"Lestrade was a little harder. I had to divert the signal. Mycroft switched off all radio towers for a while."

"He did what? Are you telling me that your brother interrupted the entire circuit of London just so I could not finish my conversation with Lestrade?"

"Southern England."

John stared, open mouthed. Then he remembered that it must have been easy for Mycroft to do this and that he should not even try to wrap his head around this.

"I'll get more beer."

A.N. Only three more to go. Be patient, guys :p thanks for the feedback! Muchly appreciated :)