Things with Paulina come to their inevitable end. John climbs the seventeen steps and instinctively knows Sherlock will be in the main room, waiting to deduce it all from his footsteps, the way he enters the room.
"Well. There's that done, then," Sherlock says from the window, where he stands in his dressing gown and bare feet.
John frowns at him. "What d'you mean?"
"It was only a matter of time. You've been averaging about six weeks per girlfriend."
John narrows his eyes at his flatmate. "I wonder why that might be."
Sherlock turns around at John's tone and cocks his head at him, like he ought to know better. "John. They don't leave you because of me."
John shakes his head and bites his tongue, hanging his coat on its hook and moving towards the kitchen but then, no. John turns back and points at him.
"Actually, Sherlock, that's exactly why they leave."
Sherlock ignores this argument. "I don't see why you want a girlfriend anyway," he says instead.
John's eyes widen, and he can't form a sentence to explain.
"They get in the way," Sherlock says, waving a dismissive hand.
"In the way of what?" John asks quietly, but his hands curl and uncurl.
"The work. Us."
John looks down a moment. "Well. Maybe that's not enough for me."
He looks up then, and for an instant he sees the shock on Sherlock's face, something akin to hurt, before Sherlock regains control over his features. He steps forward, walking around to the fireplace so that John can't see his face.
"Well, then, at least could you find one that isn't dull, or stupid, or ridiculous, or cold-"
"Cold?"
"-I mean, find one like Sarah; she wasn't a complete idiot, at least."
And John feels the words welling up in him, the kind of words that cut, that hurt, and he tamps them down, swallows them, and they are sand in his throat.
"I'm not going to talk to you about Sarah," John says instead. Sherlock turns slightly to look at him. "You just have to understand-no. You just have to accept that I need that kind of relationship in my life-"
Sherlock opens his mouth but John shakes his head.
"No, no, not sex. I mean, yes, sex, but it's not just sex-"
"Well, what is it then?" Sherlock demands in consternation, hands flying up as he turns to face John.
John steps closer to him, stopping behind his armchair. "It's physical contact, yes. But from someone you have an emotional connection with, someone who cares about you, someone you care about in return," John attempts, and he is not surprised that Sherlock needs the explanation. "Look, I know you claim to function best on a purely cerebral plane, but that's just-"
John pauses and rubs a hand along his forehead. "Different people need different things." It feels simplistic and inadequate, but he can't sum it up any better.
Sherlock is quiet long enough for John to lower his hand and look up at him. His face is a mask, and John feels guilty.
"Despite your appalling tendency to state the obvious, I actually do value your company, John."
"I know you do, Sherlock."
"And if consorting with uninteresting women who claim to 'care' about you is what makes you happy, then by all means, continue."
John frowns. "I don't actually require your permission."
"No. You don't." Sherlock takes another step forward, taking John's space for his own. His voice deepens. "But maybe you do require a reminder that being with me, working with me, has improved your life more than any other 'relationship' you've had. Any woman who aspires to truly care for you must understand and accept that as well."
The corner of John's mouth twitches up and he meets Sherlock's gaze with his own.
"Well, then," he says. "I'm fucked."
It's not what Sherlock expected, apparently, because his rare, genuine smile is tugging at his lips, and he seems unsure of himself.
"Or not, as the case may be," Sherlock ventures quietly.
And John giggles. "Right," he says, trying to stop, but they burst out of him again, and Sherlock truly smiles.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asks once John works through his fit.
John puffs out a breath. "Starving."