They stared at each other in an awkward, uncertain silence. John leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. Sherlock shifted in his chair, drawing his legs up to his chest before a frown creased his features. He adjusted his position so that both of his feet were on the floor and his hands rested on his thighs – he was tense, John noted, but he was also aware of his body language. That was pretty much a first for Sherlock. He was so good at reading it in other people to collect information he wanted but rubbish at being aware of his own.
John thought of all of the times Sherlock had read his body language and all of the things he gleaned from it. He wondered what Sherlock was reading now. Reluctance, that was probably obvious. He might as well have it written on his forehead. Sherlock looked the same.
Neither of them wanted to start the conversation, he realized. John felt he shouldn't have to and kept his silence. He'd made a promise to himself to stop making so many concessions to Sherlock – that would help both of them, even if Sherlock wasn't going to like it. He was going to have to get used to not getting his way so much. Everyone gave into him eventually, because it was just easier. John thought back to the past seven years that they'd known each other – maybe it really hadn't been easier in the long run. It had brought them here, after all.
Sherlock was watching him carefully, as it waiting for some cue. John swallowed a sigh – he'd seen that look a lot in the past couple of weeks. He unlaced his fingers and rubbed his palms together. It was a nervous movement and he knew it, but he couldn't help it.
With a jolt, the last thing Sherlock had yelled at him came back to John.
"What about you?"
John remembered the intonation, although he hadn't paid attention to it at the time. He realized with a hard shock that Sherlock hadn't been cruel or dismissive – he'd really been asking. He'd wanted John to tell him what he wanted. He'd wanted it laid out so that he knew what to do.
John glanced away, exhaling a slow deep breath, rubbing the left side of his nose absently. When he glanced back, Sherlock was still watching him with concern mixed with apprehension and confusion. John swallowed on a comment – he really, really could not be the one to begin this conversation. He knew he'd never forgive himself if he did and he'd never forget that he'd done it either. And he'd look back and know he'd just caved again.
"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked, and the unexpectedness of the question brought John up short. He paused, evaluating himself.
"Yes, I am," he replied. He hadn't eaten much that day because of the hangover he'd had that morning. And he'd been busy at work so there hadn't been much time to eat, either. On the way home, he'd been too jumpy to feel hungry but now that Sherlock had drawn attention to it, his stomach rumbled unhappily.
Sherlock hesitated again.
"Chinese?" he asked.
John thought about that – they'd had Chinese during the case, on one tense night, and he thought maybe he should ask for something else. Indian, Thai. But neither of those sounded appealing right now. He didn't want spicy and rich, he wanted heavy and salty. And Sherlock needed the calories in a bad way. John evaluated his husband's face carefully; he had deep circles under his eyes that contrasted sharply with his pale skin.
"Yes," John replied.
Sherlock hesitated another moment before pulling out his phone and going into the kitchen. John listened with half an ear as the detective ordered, picking their favourites. He was glad Sherlock was getting something he enjoyed; it meant he was likely to eat something. He was going to have two full plates if John had anything to say about it. Which he intended to.
"Do you want some tea?" Sherlock asked, coming back into the living room, hovering near the doors to the kitchen. John's lips twitched into a bare smile and he glanced over his shoulder.
"I'm all right," he replied. Sherlock nodded, then fiddled with his phone. John's eyes darted down to his husband's hands and his smile faded into a frown when he saw that Sherlock's ring was visibly loose on his finger. Not a lot, but noticeable.
Sherlock was silent for a long moment, looking down at his phone, then he raised his grey eyes and met John's gaze.
"I'm sorry," he said.
John nodded.
"I'm sorry, too."
Sherlock exhaled hard, looking away, the muscles in his jaw clenching, his nostrils flaring slightly. John waited a moment, but Sherlock stayed tense and turned away.
"Did you think I wouldn't be?" John asked softly.
Sherlock managed a tight nod and then forced himself to look back at John. The doctor saw a horrible uncertainty there – he really did think this was all his fault. John sighed and beckoned with his left hand.
"Come here," he said. Sherlock looked startled, taking half a step toward him, then hesitated again. "Come here," John repeated.
Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and crossed the room to stand in front of John. The doctor looked up, craning his head back. In this position, Sherlock towered over him far more than normal.
"Sit down," John sighed. Sherlock folded his legs, sinking down to his knees, and John rolled his eyes.
"Not on your knees, please," he said. "It's a little – distracting."
At this, a smile twitched on Sherlock's lips and reached his eyes. He tried to suppress it, John could see, but it didn't quite work. But he shifted so he was sitting down fully, his legs crossed, his spine straight. John glanced down at his husband but he didn't like this either. He slid from his chair without a word and Sherlock tried to back up a bit, but John pinned him where he was with his legs. Sherlock gave him a surprised look, then unfolded his legs so that his feet rested against John's hips, his knees bent under John's. John put his hands down, his fingers circling Sherlock's ankles. They were noticeably thinner, too, and the sudden sensation alarmed him. It must have shown on his face, because Sherlock looked concerned.
"You're eating at least two plates tonight," John said in a voice that brooked no argument. Sherlock nodded obediently and John paused. He ordering Sherlock about like a little child and Sherlock was listening.
No, he thought. Let's not keep doing that.
He leaned forward and raised his left hand, running his thumb along Sherlock's bottom lip. The detective parted his lips slightly and John could feel the change along the skin where it was dry on the outer edge and moist on the inner edge. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine and he wondered if he should just push them both back onto the floor and forget about talking altogether. The brief gleam in Sherlock's eyes told him he wasn't alone in that contemplation.
But it wouldn't work. It wouldn't solve anything. They both knew that.
"Can you tell me how much weight you've lost?" he asked and doesn't miss the brief wince that crossed Sherlock's face.
"Six and a half pounds," the detective murmured, eyes sliding away. John cupped Sherlock's chin and applied a gentle pressure with his thumb until Sherlock brought his eyes back up reluctantly.
"I want you to take better care of yourself," John said gently. "Not just for me. For you."
Sherlock's eyes flickered away again and John waited. Sherlock's expression was dark and somewhat closed off. Whatever was coming, John knew he probably deserved it. He wondered how long they'd sit here – well, until their food arrived, he supposed. He bid a reluctant farewell to the idea of a good night's sleep again tonight – but at least he wouldn't be hung over tomorrow morning.
"You left me," Sherlock murmured, still looking away.
John let out a deep breath.
"I know," he said.
"Twice," Sherlock added, his voice taking on a hard edge.
John nodded.
"I– had to. For myself. It's– I didn't want to, Sherlock. But you hurt me."
"And you hurt me," Sherlock snapped, his eyes flashing back to meet John's. "You insist that I need to talk to you but you left me nonetheless."
John drew another deep breath before letting it out slowly.
"And if I'd stayed, we would have spent the whole time hurting each other more, Sherlock. Sometimes we need space. I did, anyway."
Sherlock glanced away again, his grey eyes focused on some point over John's shoulder. He was more tense now, his expression tight around the edges, but John could see that he was deliberately keeping himself from shutting down altogether.
"I don't understand what you want," the detective muttered and John knew how unhappy that made him. He hated not understanding what John wanted because normally he read John like a book. "You insisted I take the case in April and now you insist that I stop."
John sighed, dropping his head slightly, then looking back up. He took Sherlock's hands and ran his thumb over Sherlock's wedding band, alarmed at how easily it turned against his skin. Sherlock tensed slightly at the sensation and looked down as well.
"I don't always want one thing," John sighed, looking back up, meeting his husband's eyes. "I did want you to take the case in April. But neither of us knew it was going to turn into this. If I'd had any idea how much this killer was going to play with us– with you, I wouldn't have asked you to do it. Sherlock, I didn't want this to happen. Any of it. I just wanted you to solve the case and find Kelsi Murray and her killer."
"I could still find him," Sherlock snapped.
John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wedding ring and pulled it off. Sherlock started visibly, pulling back, his eyes widening with shock.
"Is it worth this?" John asked softly. Sherlock wrapped his hand fast around John's, a hard warning look flashing in his eyes. John shook his head. "I don't mean me. Is it worth what you're doing to yourself?"
"Yes, you mean you!" Sherlock snapped, his voice sharp with anger. "You told me to take the case for you and you told me to stop. You've made it quite clear that this is about you, John."
John held up his hands in a pacifying gesture but nodded. Sherlock was right. He was doing it again, trying to avoid taking a stand and demanding that he be treated the way he wanted to be treated. John took a deep breath and nodded again.
"Okay, you're right," he said. "You're right. I want you to do this for me. I wanted you to take the case for me in April and now I want you to stop. I want you to listen to me, to listen to what I want."
"Why?" Sherlock hissed. "John, why have you changed your mind? Contrary to what you insist on believing, I cannot read your thoughts. I can't keep up with these changes in opinion, nor do I understand this! You nearly walked out on me in April when I refused to take the case and now you've walked out on me twice, once because of this case!"
"I know," John said softly, interrupting Sherlock's rant. The detective stilled, his expression tense.
"You have a history of simply walking away when you're angry," Sherlock pointed out, his tone cold. John drew a deep breath but nodded again.
"I know. Look, Sherlock, sometimes it's just easier for me to do that. I don't like to fight. I– when Harry was drinking, it was simpler just to walk away rather than try and reason with her."
"I'm not Harry," Sherlock said in a hard voice.
"And I'm still me," John replied. "And you're not exactly open and communicative when you're upset, you know. You sulk and refuse to talk. So what else should I do, Sherlock? Try and talk to you when you won't answer? I might as well be talking to the walls when you get like that! You can leave without going anywhere just by sulking and not talking to me! I like to get some space to think about things! What's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with that, John, is that you walked out on me for two days and I heard nothing! Nothing! I knew where you were but nothing else! I didn't know if you were coming home or when or if you were planning on divorcing me or simply never speaking to me again! Two days, John! Two days!"
"You could have called me!" John shot back.
"Would you have answered?" Sherlock growled.
John opened his mouth to reply then shut it again abruptly. Sherlock gave a soft huff and looked away.
"Yes," he murmured. "As I thought."
"That isn't fair!" John snapped.
"No?" Sherlock replied, his eyes darting back. "No, perhaps it's not. But nor is it fair that you simply left me without a word for two days. Yet you did. And now you're upset that I didn't contact you when you made no effort to contact me."
"I–"
"Am I completely in the wrong then, John?" Sherlock demanded. "You apologized, but did you do so simply because you think it's easier? Is this all my fault?"
John sighed, shaking his head, holding up his hands. They were getting nowhere.
"No, no," he said. "No, Sherlock, it's not all your fault. It's not all my fault. I– get that you're upset. I do. I'm upset, too. And– " he drew a deep breath. "You're probably right. I need to stop walking away when I'm angry. I'll work on that."
"And in return? What do you require of me?"
John felt his heart twist a little bit and saw Sherlock react to the expression on his face.
"It that how it is for you?" he asked softly. "Are you giving in because I gave you something? Are you keeping score?"
Sherlock drew back slightly but looked alarmed. John realised he was still holding the detective's wedding band and opened his hand. Sherlock snatched it from him but kept hold of it in his fist rather than putting it back on.
"I'm not trying to change you, Sherlock," John said, his eyes focused on Sherlock's closed left hand. "I know that's what you think. Being with me has changed you. But being with you has changed me. It's just how things are. I don't– I don't have some perfect template of you in my head that I'm trying to turn you into. There are things you do that I'd rather you didn't–"
He was cut off suddenly by the buzz from the door. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and then disentangled himself from John, slipping his wedding ring back onto his finger. John watched the movement, remembering the first time he'd put the ring on Sherlock's hand, how awed he'd felt. How lucky. He remembered splaying his left hand over Sherlock's heart that night in bed, captivated by the colours of the metals against Sherlock's pale skin.
He felt so far from that now. But not as far as yesterday.
Sherlock clattered down the stairs to get their food. With a sigh, John pushed himself to his feet and went into the kitchen to get plates and cutlery. Sherlock came back upstairs and deposited the bag on the counter.
"What things?" he asked.
"What?"
"What things do I do that you rather I didn't?" Sherlock demanded in a snappish voice.
John sighed.
"Sulk. Make me give in to you all the time. Not listen to me. Act like you haven't the faintest idea what I want when it's not what you want."
Sherlock stared at him while John untied the bag and put the take away containers on the counter.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you want me to know what you want, but you also want me to tell you when I want something?" he enquired, arching an eyebrow coolly. "You did say that I should ask you for help when needed."
John paused in the act of opening a container then leaned on the counter, putting his head in his hands and exhaling a sharp sigh.
"Yes," he muttered. "That is what I want. But you're right: it doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"No, it doesn't," Sherlock agreed flatly. John felt his lips twitch with no real humour. He glanced up to see Sherlock leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded over his thin chest. In the dim light of the kitchen, the shadows under his eyes seemed darker.
"I would like you not to walk out when you're angry," Sherlock said, his voice taut. "I would also like you not to act as though I cannot take care of myself."
"Then I want you to take better care of yourself," John sighed.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed somewhat. John straightened, leaning back a bit, feeling tired.
"We're not being particularly productive," Sherlock commented in a clipped tone.
"No," John agreed. "We're not." He turned away from the counter, curling his left hand around the edge, facing his husband. Then he hesitated, uncertain if he should continue. One of Sherlock's eyebrows twitched upward. He leaned forward slightly, eyes intent on John's face.
"Since I can't read your mind, you'll have to tell me the reason you're hesitating right now," he said.
John sighed again.
"I said it would take time. And it will. We're not going to sort this out tonight, Sherlock. Not all of it."
Sherlock was silent for a long moment.
"But we're both here," he pointed out.
John nodded.
"We're both here." It was a start. He rubbed his face and watched Sherlock carefully. Despite it all, it actually felt good not to be alone in this anymore.
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder back into the living room and John wondered if he was thinking of escaping back in there. The idea almost appealed to John as well – then he realized he was just mentally stepping back again. If they were in separate rooms, it meant physical space. John had had enough of that. Rather, he knew their relationship had had enough of that, even if he wanted more.
"Of all the things I have learned about you, John, the most pertinent right now is that you feel we will both be better for a good meal."
John stared at Sherlock then dropped his head into his hand and began to chuckle helplessly. He knew it wasn't even that funny, but he was tired and hungry and needed something to break the tension. He raised his head again when he felt Sherlock's hand curl over his and tug gently.
"What?" John asked.
Sherlock pulled him a step away from the counter and John glanced back at the take away containers and the plates he'd spread out.
"In a few minutes," Sherlock promised. He took John's left arm and wound it round his back. John rested his hand on Sherlock's mid back then let it drop to the small of the back and received an irritated look.
"On my upper back, John," his husband ordered. Mystified, John obeyed and Sherlock settled his right hand on John's upper arm. He clasped John's right hand with his left and John suddenly had an idea what was going on.
"We're dancing?" he asked.
"Mm," Sherlock agreed with a brief nod.
"With no music and in our kitchen?"
"We have the whole flat," Sherlock pointed out. John glanced over Sherlock's shoulder at the living room – it was still filled with obstacles. He looked back up with a smile. The last time they'd done this had been on their wedding day.
"We don't dance nearly enough," John said.
"I'm not often inclined to let you lead," Sherlock replied with a slight warning in his voice, arching an eyebrow. It hadn't escaped John's notice that he'd been positioned to lead. He unwound his hand from Sherlock's, earning a questioning look. John just shook his head and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He waited until the detective conceded and put his left hand on the small of John's back.
"This is good right here," the doctor said. Sherlock smirked, tilting his head back slightly and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. But he took half a step forward, folding John into his arms and resting his chin against the top of John's head. John dropped both his arms to wrap them around Sherlock's waist. He felt the smooth slide of silk against his skin and inhaled the subtle cologne mixed with the scent that was just Sherlock.
John closed his eyes, letting himself appreciate the moment. He knew this wasn't it, and he knew Sherlock understood that, too. But he felt a little better equipped to face everything they'd need to sort out now. At least they both wanted to do it, and they'd be doing it together.
It wouldn't be easy, he thought, and there would be a lot to get through. But it would be worth it.