John placed the two large bowls of pasta on the table, where Sherlock was sat in anticipation. The doctor proceeded to slide into his chair on the opposite end of the table, facing Sherlock as the detective began to consume the slightly over-cooked pasta.
"Stop eating so fast, you'll get indigestion." John sighed, as he carefully moved his food around his plate.. The consulting detective looked up at John and paused whilst he swallowed his mouthful.
"John, stop worrying about me and eat your food." Sherlock said intensely, staring into John's eyes with concern.
"I'm not very hungry. I think I may skip dinner." John murmured, breaking his gaze with the detective and continued to look down at his food, trying to block out Sherlock's complaints.
"You haven't eaten much or frequently for a long time! You're wearing thin, John. It isn't healthy. You cook, but you can't consume, what is wrong?"
John glanced up, detecting the aura of concern that surrounded the detective, a rare but strangely warming occurrence that had the doctor feeling rather guilty. Sherlock stare bore into his eyes with such magnetism that drove John's eyes to become attached to his angelic face, refusing to detach themselves. Sherlock looked away, releasing John, and dramatically rose to his feet, throwing his chair behind him as he approached the window. Raindrops dripped across the windowpane, racing each other. Joining forces to create bigger raindrops, demolishing the weakest on their path to victory. The finish line. Sherlock snarled at this thought. Alone protects him, yet it had started to make him feel emptier than ever. He opened his mouth to confess his feelings to John, yet the words would not escape his mouth. He gave in, resorting to staring out of the window. Thinking.
The doctor's eyes followed the movements of the detective with an empathetic gaze. Ever since the fall, John hadn't truly felt complete. This diminished his appetite, giving him only the drive to eat the bare minimum of which he was able to survive. Three years. When Sherlock released himself back into 221b Baker Street, John was relieved. Yet, as absence made his heart grow fonder, his new affections for the detective had taken their toll. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. He just couldn't, and this evidently affected Sherlock a great deal.
Sherlock had tried to change things back to how they originally were. Tried and failed. Observing John at his most vulnerable had created an attachment that the detective had never experienced, yet he was only able to identify the feeling earlier. Love. An entity that he'd never assumed would be present in his mind, in his life.
"Sherlock. I- I don't think I can tell you that." John replied, guiltily. How could he confess to the great Sherlock Holmes that he was in love with him. Sherlock, in his mind, doesn't know of love. He doesn't understand love, well, not romantic anyway. He would probably freak if he had been exposed to such a thing, especially from his best friend, Dr. John Watson.
"John. Is this due to my absence, I know that affected you badly. I'm sorry." Sherlock said sincerely, refusing to divert his gaze from the window.
"No, no, it isn't that." John replied with haste.
"Then what is it?" Sherlock inquired, turning to face the doctor whom was twirling his thumbs around, staring at his food. "What is it? Tell me."
"Forget it, delete it from your hard drive." John said hurriedly, trying to steer clear of the conversation. "I'm going to bed now."
John rose from his chair steadily and scurried off towards the kitchen exit. Sherlock strode after him, up the stairs and towards his bedroom. The detective slammed the door shut before John could leap inside, leaving the doctor to turn around staring into Sherlock's eyes, inches away from his face, his body backed up against the bedroom door. "I have nothing to tell you." John exclaimed, trying to push Sherlock's arm free away from the door handle, yet failing to shift the detective's slender arm. "Nothing."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Your change of pace in your speech and sweating is evidently pointing towards the signs of a lie." Sherlock calmly said, slowly ending in a whisper. "Tell me."
John's eyes began to dilate, pulse heightening. The detective's face dropped, releasing John from his enclosure created by his body and steadily retreated backwards. The two of them stood stiffly upright, distance between them. John opened his mouth to release some words or excuses, but he just couldn't. He stood there like a deer in the headlights, shock. Sherlock looked deeply into his eyes, partially frightened. "Oh."