Chapter three
Sherlock saw John shift and remove his gloves. He opened his mouth to ask how the doctor was- he'd finally settled on the colloquial and informal 'what is up', but what emerged instead was a throaty rasp. He cleared his throat to try again but John's gaze pinned to words to his tongue.
Dark shadows under hooded and listless eyes. No spark of life, no shine of energy or laughter peeked out from under long blond lashes. John was looking at him with the hollow stare of a cadaver.
"What, Sherlock?" John finally asked, starling Holmes so badly that he blurted out the first idea his brain latched onto.
"You never made tea," no, stupid, no no that isn't what he meant to say at all.
John's mouth turned down at the edges as if Sherlock's answer had disappointed him, "One minute, I'll make your cuppa just as soon as I've put my things away,"
Sherlock watched, quailing inside for having said so grievously the wrong thing, as John swept from the room with his bag. Sherlock leapt to his feet,
"No!"
John froze in the entryway to the hall, not turning, not responding, for some reason not even breathing.
"John, I didn't mean to say that," Sherlock began, grasping for words.
John scoffed without turning, "You always mean to say what you say Sherlock," his voice was listless.
Blasted emotions. There were no universal words for them, and Sherlock floundered momentarily, "I, John, wanted to ask, uh, I mean I wanted to know…" still John refused to look at him and it made thinking hard.
He was silent too long Holmes realized when John made to continue to his room.
"John-are-you-alright?" he blurted out, and then cringed; not knowing if he'd asked the wrong question.
His flat mate swung around quickly, eyes bulging slightly, "What did you just say?" It came out as a very un-John-like squeak.
Sherlock squirmed in his seat, not meeting that suddenly piercing gaze, "I apologize John. I had merely noticed that you, after coming home two hours and twenty six minutes later than normal, had not made your usual cuppa. Nor did you as usual place your outerwear in the closet or your bag in your room. I was unable to deduce an obvious reason for this and have come to the conclusion that something I cannot see is bothering you- if something is bothering you. It is my understanding that friends inquire to the state of being of each other, but was unable to decide on a proper phrasing. I apologize," he said all this so quickly that he felt light headed.
Sherlock vehemently wished he better understood the way normal people felt. He also wished that John's face was not such a blank page to him at the moment. His chest heaved with the strain of emotion.
Sherlock's brain buzzed. What was this he felt? Concern. Concern for who? Not himself. Concern for John. Worry for John. He felt possessive of John's well being. Sherlock wanted nothing to cloud John's face. Wanted to understand and help his friend.
"We, are… friends, John, are we not?" Hesitant, unsure, vulnerable-all things that Sherlock Holmes was not but he would be anything for John.
Because John would be anything for him.
And that was how friendship worked.
Right?