Approaching 221B, Sherlock began to feel anxious.
His initial thoughts about getting home and seeing John were good thoughts. He had missed seeing his flatmate and was looking forwards to getting home, drinking tea and just being there.
He had stern words with himself.
It's John. He's your friend. You can do this. etc. etc.
The closer he got however, the more nervous he became. He wasn't sure if it was because of the drugs he was carrying or whether it was just the anticipation of seeing John, but he felt his heart pounding in his chest harder and harder with every step.
He stopped momentarily, leaning against a wall to control himself. Deep breaths. He counted to ten, slowly and deliberately, pausing only to scowl at the elderly woman who passed by him shaking her head in disapproval.
He righted himself, stood straight - like John would, he thought - and carried on towards Baker Street.
He was a grown man, for God's sake.
As Sherlock opened the living room door and hung his scarf and Belstaff, John looked up from his paper.
"Sherlock", he began, "you look... " John looked him up and down, taking in the detective's rather rumpled appearance - jacket and trousers creased; hair even more unruly than usual - and frowned before deciding on a word,
"... rough!"
John laughed a laugh so endearing that Sherlock found it impossible to feel insulted and actually found himself chuckling in that seductive deep baritone in response.
"I suppose I do." he acknowledged finally. "I'll just go and ... " he nodded in the direction of the bedroom and headed off to stow his newly-gained goods and straighten himself up.
Sherlock entered his bedroom and, flicking the light on and closing the door behind him, glanced in the mirror.
He really did look a mess. His coat had hidden the worst of his crumpled clothing and his mussed up wayward hair had been loosely held in check by his scarf but, having shed those on entering the flat, he really did look like something the cat had dragged in... through a hedge... backwards.
He attempted, in vain, to run his fingers through his knotted curls. He needed to shower.
While he waited for the water to heat up, he removed the box from his jacket's inside pocket. Without opening it, he sat on the bed and laid it on his lap.
Could he do this now?
Should he do this now?
He was fairly certain that he couldn't. He would need time to prepare and time to... think.
The thought of doing it so... "naked" was the only word he could come up with... scared him. It would feel wrong to do it without the comfort of being surrounded by deep red and rich purple.
Slowly but somewhat reluctantly, he placed the small box in the bottom of his dresser.
Just in case, he told himself.
Meantime, he would deal with this some other way.
He carefully slipped off his shirt, trousers and underwear, mindful of what his body had been through and what marks it may hold.
Examining his torso in the mirror, he was relieved to see no lasting evidence of his "indiscretion".
He chuckled and then cursed at his own choice of words.
Jim Moriarty was no "indiscretion".
The man was a drug in himself.
He was powerful and addictive and, as Sherlock felt his adrenaline spike for a moment at the thought, he became aware that he wasn't entirely sure which "drug" it was he yearned for most.
Slipping his robe over his slender frame, he headed to the shower.
"Tea?" John shouted through as he heard the shower click off.
The grunt that came from the bedroom sounded like a "yes" so, folding his paper, John stood and headed to the kitchen.
Sherlock emerged from his bedroom a few minutes later, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown, to find John just pouring two cups of tea. He stood awkwardly next to the doctor and took the cup that was passed to him with a smile.
The pair passed into the living room and sat on their facing chairs, both nursing their teacups as if the secrets of the universe were held within them.
"You OK?" John eventually asked, after he had watched Sherlock frown and stare at the tea as he swirled it around in the cup.
"Hmmm?" Sherlock broke from his trance. He blinked almost comically as his eyes raised to John's. "Yes, yes", he continued, "I'm fine."
His skin prickled all over his body with the depth of the lie, and he disguised the shudder that shook through him by shifting in his chair and taking a mouthful of hot tea.
"Right." John was unconvinced. "I can tell something is troubling you though, Sherlock." He sat forwards in his chair, placing his mug on the side table and leaning in closer to Sherlock.
"You know I'm your friend and you can talk to me, right?" his voice was filled with concern. He hadn't been completely oblivious to Sherlock's changed mood of late and, while Sherlock had attempted to dismiss it all as nothing, John was not at all sure that was the truth.
Sherlock placed his own tea on the table and fought to remain passive and unaffected by the doctor's close proximity. As he looked up to find John looking straight at him, Sherlock instinctively closed his eyes and slumped back in the chair with a dramatic sigh.
An uncomfortable silence swept through 221B. All that could be heard were two men's heartbeats, both beating hard.
One with concern for his troubled friend, and the other with panic and anticipation.
"There is something..." he eventually began.