FLAMENCO SKETCHES

In which things are at risk and there is talk of feelings.

John sat down quietly on the sofa and looked wearily at him, where he stood by the desk, still clutching the neck of his violin. The silence that followed was not intense but it was obvious that something needed to be said, even to Sherlock. Just when he had decided to speak up, John did.

"Why must you always do this? Mary will probably never see me again after this," he said, and he sounded genuinely tired. "I tried to phone her, but, well, what can you expect?" He trailed off, and Sherlock started to inspect the rug very closely. He was aware that John was watching him intently, but for some reason he couldn't look up, couldn't meet his gaze. Slowly he let go of the violin and went to sit on the sofa, as far away from John as possible on the small furniture. His head was bent down, and did his best to not fidget too noticeably. He had no idea how or where to begin.

"What was that music you were playing earlier? I wouldn't call it beautiful, but it was intense. I liked it," John said lamely, probably just to break the silence, but Sherlock knew that he meant it. He always did. John was good in that way. No falsities, no nonsense. Honest.

Sherlock knew he had to do something about what happened with Mary. He felt that this conflict could and probably would make a wedge between them, destroy some fundamental things that could not be repaired. Like the mutual trust that came so naturally to them from the very first day they had met. They always had each other's back, no matter what. Or the fact that they could speak plainly and Sherlock never had to fear alienating himself from lack of understanding the human condition. Or teatime. Such things could not be jeopardized.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, barely audible. Apologies usually helped situations like this even if they were not wholeheartedly admitted, he recalled. "I didn't know she'd be so susceptible to my comments."

"Sherlock Holmes apologizing," John sniggered bleakly and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, I suppose there must be a first time for everything." He paused and thought for a moment before speaking up again, his face alight with emotion.

"Coming from you, that means a lot. I can't let you off that easily, but you know. If you do that again, I swear I'll have your head on a bloody plate." He spoke kindly but seriously, and Sherlock could instantly tell that he wasn't angry with him anymore. Things were not all right, but at least there was that.

But he still felt like explaining himself further. For some inexplicable reason he just had the urge to expose all of his stunted little emotions to John. It was frustrating and unnatural to him, and damned if he knew why. But he figured that if he had already let the floodgates open like that, to hell with embarrassment and inhibitions, he might as well do it thoroughly. He steeled himself, and spoke once more.

"John, about earlier. When I said that I was fine about you having girlfriends, I might have been manipulating the truth somewhat…"

"Well. Okay. I get it. We're good now." Sherlock was confused. This would not do, he simply could not leave it at that vague comment. "Good" was not enough to summarize the situation. He needed more than that.

"But…" he feebly tried to interject.

"Alright. Leave it be. We're good. That's what matters," John cut him off and rose from the sofa. Sherlock peeked at his back as he walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. How could a small man like that pry his way into his life and be so infuriatingly confusing and so easily drag feelings out of him that he himself barely knew existed?

Sherlock went over what had been said in his head. Was this "good" like in "good to talk, now get out of my life", or as in "good, we've sorted things out and will continue to be friends", or was it something else entirely? Did this mean they were back to their pre-Mary friendship with bad jokes and John making him tea in the morning and sitting close on the sofa, or was this the civil but definite end to all that? He felt his mouth go dry, and his heart was definitely in great danger of stopping entirely.

(Sorry for the wait, exams and life in general got in the way. And thanks again for all of the lovely comments!)