Sherlock had quickly fallen into a dreamless sleep while John had remaining in the living room, staring at the empty space that Sherlock had previously occupied.
He sighed and slumped back onto the sofa. Clearly he wasn't going to get anywhere by trying to talk to Sherlock. Greg didn't seem to know anything. Maybe Mycroft..? He cut off that thought before he even finished it.
Partly because he couldn't imagine talking to Mycroft about his concerns with Sherlock and partly because he couldn't imagine for one moment that the elder Holmes would even have the faintest idea of what was wrong.
Sherlock had claimed he was just tired, but they hadn't had many cases lately, and John wasn't aware that Sherlock was working on anything particularly strenuous.
Coupled with the fact that the younger Holmes rarely slept anyway, deeming it unimportant and unnecessary, his 'tired' excuse was flimsy at best.
Sherlock seemed... emotional? John frowned. That couldn't be right.
Maybe something had happened that Sherlock just couldn't talk to him about but somebody must surely know something.
Mrs Hudson would have mentioned if she knew anything. So would Molly.
John thought back to the evening with Greg. He didn't seem to be acting strangely or as if he knew something.
What was it Greg had said to him about Sherlock opening up?
"Maybe, this time... if it's something important... he will."
Maybe it really was nothing important.
Perhaps it was John himself who was working too hard and making a big deal out of something that wasn't there.
He shook his head. He actually was starting to feel tired now. He'd had a long day at work. Two patients had needed referring urgently to the local hospital - suspected food poisoning - and he had spent too much time doing paperwork for his liking. He had another long day tomorrow.
He headed to bed, giving one last long look at Sherlock's bedroom door as he placed the tea mugs in the sink.
Sherlock woke late the following morning to yet another empty flat.
As he stumbled into the kitchen, a note on the kitchen table informed him that John was working and wouldn't be home until about 7pm.
Again?
Sherlock sighed and wandered through to the living room. Pulling his robe around him, he picked up his violin and began to play. He stood by the window for a long while, just watching the hustle and bustle of Baker Street as he played.
All those vacant minds: drones, Sherlock thought.
Did they know? Could they possibly understand?
Mindless worker ants going about their daily business without giving it a second thought. Work; home; eat; sleep; and repeat ad infinitum.
The pace of his music quickened to reflect the ordered chaos of life in London.
How dull!
Sherlock, despite the arduousness of his racing superior mind, had never once wanted that life.
A life of routine; of order; of... normality.
He supposed that had been John's life once. Before he became a blogger; a crime fighter; before Sherlock.
His mind moved away from the cityscape and wrapped itself around 221B.
Music changed tempo: soft; flowing; melodic.
Sherlock looked around him, pacing as he played, taking in the scene around him. His home. Their home.
Little bits of John Watson injected into Sherlock's every day life.
Medical journals on the book shelves.
Two laptops on the desk.
Two tea cups in the sink.
Food in the refrigerator.
Wax jacket on the coat stand.
Cane abandoned, unneeded, against the fireplace.
His bow stuttered and he missed a note.
"Dammit!" he cursed loudly, flinging the violin down on the sofa.
Sherlock's life was better with John in it.
John was order to Sherlock's chaos.
Yet this... this thing that Sherlock was trying to deal with would threaten all that.
Eventually, one day, Sherlock would do something and John would know.
John would find out and then he would leave.
John Watson would leave him.
The thought made Sherlock's stomach roil.
If he couldn't tell John then he would just have to find another way to make the feelings go away.
Greg had taken all of Sherlock's drug paraphernalia. The box, the cloth, the candles. All of it.
He picked up the violin again and began to slowly string together an improvised melody to help him think.
A few minutes later, he picked up his phone, knowing exactly who to call.