Sherlock was curled on the sofa when John arrived home from his evening out with Greg. He'd tolerated his brother for the minimum length of time required to ensure that John would be out when he returned.
After their discussion about Sherlock during the evening, conversation between the doctor and Greg had become stilted. They had finished their second pints in an awkward silence, neither really sure what to say next. Greg was holding so many secrets that he just couldn't speak at all, and John... well, John's thoughts were just concentrated on Sherlock.
He was sure something was wrong, but he was also sure that Sherlock would not talk to him.
Worry and frustration filled him equally and, quite honestly, he just wanted to go home.
Greg, of course, wasn't oblivious to the change in atmosphere between them and so, after they had finished their second pints, he made his excuses and left.
John followed soon after, returning to Baker Street rather earlier than either man had anticipated.
As John entered the living room at 221B, Sherlock raised his head to meet John's concerned eyes.
"What?" the detective asked defensively. He hated it when John went out drinking with Greg. Invariably, the conversation turned to Sherlock and he disliked being the topic of anybody's alcohol-fuelled discussion.
"Sherlock." John began. He didn't actually know what he was going to say. He had no idea how to even begin to ask Sherlock what was bothering him.
John knew full well that Sherlock didn't discuss such things.
Sentiment. Feelings. Emotions.
Boring!
John could hear Sherlock's response before he had even asked a question.
He decided to start with something simpler.
"Tea?" he asked, completely ignoring the situation for now. Tea would make it easier. It's a starting point. A unifier.
Sherlock spun himself around to sitting on the sofa and, for once - and this wasn't lost on John - nodded.
"Yes, please, John."
John turned to the kitchen returning just a few minutes later with 2 cups of tea and, knowing Sherlock would not have eaten, a plate of Mrs Hudson's fruit scones.
Sherlock took his tea gratefully and, ignoring the plate, rested back on the sofa.
John glanced, momentarily, between his own armchair and the space on the sofa next to Sherlock as he pondered which seat to occupy.
He didn't want it to seem as though he was detached from Sherlock by sitting in his armchair, but he also didn't want him to feel crowded or uncomfortable.
John frowned, realising that such a minor decision as where to sit could be pivotal in the outcome of the conversation.
After what felt like an eternally long few minutes, John placed his tea on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa.
Little point in stalling the inevitable.
"Sherlock." John cleared his throat. This was going to be harder than he thought. Sherlock was cradling his tea cup in his hands, keeping his eyes on the ribbons of steam flowing out of it. He didn't look at John when he spoke to him, but he did grunt an acknowledgement.
Right then, John thought, let's do this.
He took a calming swig of his hot tea before continuing. "Something is bothering you."
Obvious! He was hearing Sherlock's unspoken response again.
It remained unspoken however. Another confirmation that something wasn't right.
Sherlock's gaze didn't falter from its fixation on the tea. Soft white swirls of steam rising higher and higher before vanishing into the air of 221B.
He felt a strong urge to be that steam right now.
Here was his chance. John was here. John was talking to him; asking him; worried; his friend.
Could he talk about this with John? Should he?
He wondered briefly whether this sudden display closeness and concern had been prompted by something Greg had said to John at the pub. Did Greg say something? Would he?
Sherlock didn't think so, but he certainly couldn't be sure. He decided that really it didn't matter. For whatever reason, John was asking, and Sherlock still hadn't answered.
He took a long drink of his tea and placed his mug back on the table.
"I..." he faltered, unsure what he had actually intended his next words to be. "I'm just tired."
He flopped back against the worn leather and sighed.
Couldn't do it then , said a voice inside his head.
He sighed again and closed his eyes, hoping to silence the voice.
Another long minute passed before Sherlock heard John replace his cup on the coffee table. He resisted his urge to open his eyes and see what the doctor was going to do next, but they flew open in alarm when what he was aware of was a hand on his arm.
A hand. John's hand. John was touching him.
OK, so it wasn't the first time they had made physical contact with each other. There had been many instances, in the heat of a crime scene; a chase; a drama, when the detective had pulled along his blogger, or when the good doctor had ushered away his flatmate, but this... this was something else.
Something different.
For Sherlock, at least.
It was burning fire and freezing ice. It was both torture and bliss. It was heaven and hell.
A million thoughts raced through his brilliant mind, each more chaotic than the last. What? Why? How? Should? Can't. No.
No. Not now. Not like this.
Sherlock flew up off the sofa and rounded the coffee table. Have to get away.
"Sherlock" John started, surprised at the reaction. He knew Sherlock didn't really appreciate people invading his personal space, but he was his friend. He had just meant it as a placating gesture; a signal of concern. "Sorry, I just... I didn't think... I was just worried."
Sherlock could feel his heart racing as he dashed into his bedroom, slamming the door in a movement that had almost all of 221B clattering and rattling.
Flinging himself on his bed, he fought for control.
Calm, he thought, stay calm.
It's just John. It's just... John.
There was no 'just John' though.
John wasn't just anything.
John was everything.
Sherlock took a long, deep, grounding breath and closed his eyes.
Emotion was exhausting.
He was tired. So very, very tired.