When he sees the broken mug I threw shattered, scattered by the wall it hit. I see him, the real him. He's mad, but it's him. "That was my mug." He says low.
"You're leaving." I say halfheartedly. A tinge of guilt running through me.
"You left first." He says next. Then, looks gravely at the ground, eyes skimming slowly to my feet, waist to torso, to chin. He won't look at my eyes. He begins laughing harshly, head falling back into his hand.
"I had to." I reply.
His head snaps up at me, he goes silent. "You had to? HAD TO?! -" Then goes on to display multiple curses pointed at me and my blindness. I freeze.
"WE WERE FRIENDS AND YOU TORE ME- I, Sherlock, I loved you." The band on his finger relating to his new found love was forgotten as he came to bit my lip, not kiss. This was no kiss, it was almost kinky how he pressed up on his tiptoes, shoving his hands on my cheek and hooked in my trousers.
He doesn't love me. He's just confused. It's logical, with having a friend gone for so long then show up. He doesn't love me.
Yet I can't stop my hips from pressing urgently back.