Sherlock I
Now that he had arrived back at the flat, John wasn't so sure he could break the news to Sherlock. Sherlock could be distant, complacent, bitter; he had the potential to live up to his sociopathic title, at least in public – most definitely. But he didn't know how Sherlock would react to something like this – something this personal.
It was new territory.
There were things John knew Sherlock cared about, but he never quite knew in regards to actual people. Something in him, however skeptical of Mycroft he was, knew that being described as close to Sherlock Holmes was no small matter.
He shuffled uncomfortably to the doorway of the kitchen, observing Sherlock as he fretted over some complicated experiment. He'd been working on it for more than a week now – John was unsure of what it was, but it was more than something to simply tide him over between cases.
Sherlock had forgone protective goggles, settling plainly for latex gloves. He broke his concentration momentarily to push a stray curl from his face. It was then that he noticed John.
John straightened unconsciously to his full height, squaring his shoulders and speaking before Sherlock had a chance. "Something's come up," he started, and he sat down at the table across from the detective. He was mindful not to jarr anything on the tabletop.
Sherlock's eyebrows were raised, drawn up in interest before he groaned loudly. "Did you set yourself another date, John? Please tell me she's at least mildly intelligent," he complained. "The last one was less interesting than a toaster."
He adjusted, thinking. "Likely had a lower IQ than one as well."
John grit his teeth at the mention of her, and did not comment. It had ended quickly and rather terribly. Sherlock had a point, he could admit.
He folded his hands on the table. "This isn't about me. It's about..." he paused. He couldn't make out the reason why he was so hesitant to speak. Sherlock leaned in, inspecting something on the tray of his microscope.
"It's about your mother."
Sherlock glanced up at him for a moment before returning his gaze to his experiment.
"Yes, and what about her?"
John couldn't read his expression.
"She's... she's grown ill, Sherlock. Something they aren't sure they can repair."
Sherlock still didn't meet his gaze.
"Mycroft asked me to tell you. He couldn't tell me exactly what was wrong, but," he paused again. His fingers were steady. "He said that, because of her age, and its progression, they could only..." he trailed off.
He wasn't sure if Sherlock was even still listening. He wondered what his mother was like. Was she as dreadfully... cold as her sons could be? Or was she anything like John's own? What about their father – was he involved in their lives or was he out of the picture? Dead, maybe? John frowned. He'd never thought to inquire. He knew almost nothing about the Holmes family. Surely, after all this time, he should have at least asked...
"John."
Sherlock's hand was paused above his microscope, in the process of adjusting the stage clips to get a better look at his slide.
He stared intensely at John, making direct eyecontact. John could feel his fingers twitch, but he held his gaze.
The light casted an icy blue hue onto Sherlock, his skin even less coloured than usual. Porcelain, almost. John wondered if it was even healthy for someone to become that pale. Even as a doctor, it wasn't something he'd thought about before. Sherlock's hair was bouncy; frazzled and slightly damp at the tips. That was surprising – there must have been a gap of inactivity in his experiment if he'd had the time to bathe.
John wasn't a person that enforced a large amount of eyecontact, but when Sherlock gazed at him so acutely, John found it difficult to look away. It felt as if Sherlock was sorting through his thoughts; as if he could see them through his facial expressions. It was as if, with a simple look, Sherlock could pull away all of his layers; leave him naked, with all of his secrets revealed to no one else in the world but him – his intense scrutiny and fierce observation.
And it was as if John were to look away, it'd be an admission to every terrible thing he'd ever done.
A few moments later, Sherlock broke contact. He moved his slide and focused his attention on it, rather than John or anything else.
John swallowed a shaky breath.
He sat in his place for a few moments more, giving Sherlock the opportunity to speak if he was going to.
He didn't.
John stood slowly, reaching for Sherlock's empty teacup. He placed it on the counter next to the sink as quietly as he could. "I'll-" John somehow knew Sherlock was listening. "I'll be upstairs if you need me, yeah?" The question was rhetorical. There was no response from Sherlock except the minuscule incline of his head as he peered through the lens of his microscope.
When John came back downstairs later that evening, he pretended not to noticed the glass slide shards in the bin.