CHAPTER THREE

JOHN

On his way back home from the surgery (John had taken again on working there after Sherlock's 'death', having decided it made him at least useful, if not better, and occupied his thoughts enough for him not to lose his sanity), John decided that, so far, he was dealing nicely enough with that new situation of his. In a week, the unusual pull towards Sherlock hadn't disappeared — yet! — but it wasn't getting worse, right! (John had learned to focus on the bright side of everything.)

True, his eyes tended to fall on the streets more often on long, thin, dark-haired men than on the usual skirts and cleavages; but, to be honest, that was so for months (he had always been on the look-out during Sherlock's 'absence', constantly hoping for a miracle). And true, there was now a new edge to Sherlock's voice; but Sherlock's voice had always held hypnotising powers anyway…

So, he was doing fine. He just had to keep avoiding looking at Sherlock as a general rule and remember to count in his head from 0 to 100 if he really had to meet Sherlock's eyes.

John walked in with more assurance than he had had in the past week, and headed to the kitchen to prepare two mugs of tea.

And then, he had to take his head out of the sand…

/ / /

"John?"

John nearly broke a mug from Sherlock's unexpected breathing out of his name; he hadn't heard Sherlock approaching. He turned, and then tensed, understanding by the way Sherlock filled the doorway that he was literally being cornered by a seemingly nervous, unsure detective (and an unsure Sherlock was not only surprising, but very worrying too generally).

"I hadn't foreseen some… consequences… of my disappearance…"

Oh no. Big NO. Please NO.

"Obviously, I… miscalculated something, but I fail to understand what and…"

Relief. John released the breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding in.

"Well, you know I'm not exactly versed in (waving one hand in the air between them) all this. But even I can sense that something's amiss and… How does that saying go? I can't make bread without butter — shouldn't it be flour? — Anyway… If you feel angry, then be angry. If you need to sit down and talk, then let's talk; I can be patient and even repetitive when needed. But stop avoiding me."

John decided his best option was to play dumb. "I don't understand what you're hinting at. I'm right here, making tea for the both of us, am I not?"

Sherlock insisted. "You know exactly what I mean. You're guarded. You never were before. You're shutting me out."

John threw his hands in the air out of frustration. "So what? Can't I have one little secret, like everyone?"

"No!"

Sherlock's horrified, startled face would have been quite funny — or truly infuriating — if it hadn't been actually painful to witness… The glitch didn't stay long though, and got quickly replaced by a flash of (for once mis)understanding.

"Oh wait. Is that it? You miss your privacy? You've grown accustomed to being on your own and… I'm working on your nerves? Should I move out—"

John wondered where the hell Sherlock was coming up with such an incongruous idea and cut him mid-sentence.

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. You told me once this was the first place in ages that felt like home to you."

And truth was, the flat was Sherlock's. It had been Sherlock's, from the start, and had never stopped being Sherlock's, even when the violin had painfully kept silent and when the experiments had all been gone to never return and when nothing had ever been moved even by an inch in this shrine because the state of the flat had simply been the last thing John still had from his lost friend…

John had never had a problem with this fact, because the way it was Sherlock's was what made it feel like home to him. He had even used to think that the fact that the flat just screamed Sherlock was the reason why Mycroft had kept paying Sherlock's half of the rent, and then the full rent after Mrs Hudson had actually kicked John out "for his own good" (but had instituted a 'Sunday Tea' visit rule in order to keep an eye on him anyway, of course); you bet John had felt rather stupid when it had dawned on him that Mycroft had simply done so because he had known all along that his brother would get back.

Sherlock just eyed him even more suspiciously, "Are you planning to move out then?"

"What? No! Why would you think—"

A memory hit him — now wasn't the first time Sherlock looked anxious about him moving out — and John realised exactly how his recent behaviour might look like in Sherlock's eyes: he never looked at him for more than a few seconds, he constantly escaped the flat, and he had flinched or froze the few times they had accidentally touched… — definitely more alike to a "I can't stand being in your presence" attitude than to a "I'm SO happy you're back" mood, huh. And John felt guilty. Because it was plain to see that it actually hurt Sherlock — the man, not his massive ego.

John deliberately came close to Sherlock, laid one hand on one of his friend's tensed, crossed arms, and met his eyes.

"Sherlock. I am happy you're back, and here. Do not even dare to think otherwise."

Sherlock though seemed to need more than a declaration to believe him. So hiding was not an option any more. John wouldn't speak, of course, but he would have to throw the dices and see how they'd land.

John just sighed in defeat —"Fine" — took the two teas to the table, and sat down, remembering all the deducing ever done at that table and knowing that Sherlock couldn't misunderstand what he was offering.

Less than two seconds later, Sherlock was sitting opposite him, eyes dead serious and zooming on him, fingers shaping that trademark triangle before his lips, and John was overwhelmed with just how much he had missed that — being deduced.

It was truly frightening right now, because John didn't want Sherlock to find everything out; but it was inescapable, as always.