The water boiled and slopped against the inner side of the kettle. John took itand poured the water in the tea pot to the herbs. While he waited for the tea to brew, he tidied up the kitchen from the leftovers of his breakfast and looked at the clock above the cupboards. It was already past 7 AM, he soon needed to leave for work.
The tea was ready and he poured in in two cups, one in each hand as he headed to the living room.
Sherlock was lying on the couch, the long legs protruding overthe edge of it, fingertips steepled against each otherin his typical thinking pose.
"I've made you tea", John said, feeling entirely ridiculous.
Pale gray eyes flickered to him and abruptly, the hallucination swiftly raised from the couch and approached him.
Although he knew, it was only his very own mind playing with him, he could not help but observe the movements, how his hair fell as he stood up and the folds in the dressing gown where it had been crumpled.
His hand was still, as he handed the cup over to the hallucination, which was probably a bad sign. After all, the tremors had returned shortly enough after Sherlocks death, together with the limp, which was growing stronger as if to make sure to reach its previous degree as fast as possibly, and of course the nightmares, though they were not any more about blood-red sand and heat and gunfire, but about rooftops, blood on the pavement and dead gray eyes.
So given the state of his normally trembling hand and its now perfect stillness, danger was evident. John knew exactly what was the source of it.
He calmly observed how Sherlock took the cup from his hand, the doctor making instinctively sure that their fingers did not touch, how he raised it to his lips and took a few sips, how the steam curled before his face as he looked into the dark liquid.
And he knew, he could not fight this one.
As he returned from the practice to Baker Street, a shattered tea cup lay on the floor, the remnants of the tea already seeped and dried into the carpet.