ooc;; I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you, John! I promise, Monday. Monday it will happen.

consultingassistant:

John couldn’t help the quick flinch which forced him to take a step back when Sherlock slammed his hand down on the desk. He knew he should be used to the detective’s sudden outbursts by now, for numerous reasons, but somehow it had still put him off a bit.

He had to remind himself to think about it in different terms than he normally approached things. Sherlock was as passionate about his work as John had been as a field medic. Failure wasn’t an option. Anything less than a perfect success was unacceptable, so when things went wrong, frustration and anger was only natural, even expected.

Sherlock’s question drew John back to the night’s previous events, and he unconsciously tapped the side of his leg once with a clenched fist, his arm hanging loosely at his side. After a moment of quiet, he nodded his head once.

“I will be,” he replied, nodding again.

“Good,” Sherlock stated. Everything about John’s body language said the other was not alright, but he had seen John recover from war. He was sure something like this would turn around in a matter of days. If it even took that long.

The silence that followed was, in a word, intense. Heavy, long, and awkward. Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed again, letting go of his tenseness. It was edging on four in the morning. He thought, for just a moment, that he should get sleep. It refreshed the mind, and would allow Sherlock the chance to act as if nothing happened, his usual method of coping. His eyes flicked towards his bedroom door.

Where John stood, Sherlock had to take a step to the side to get around his flatmate. He stopped, right beside the other, though facing the opposite direction. He lifted a hand and cupped it firmly over John’s shoulder. It rested there briefly. Sherlock nodded, pat the other man twice and made for his bedroom. Once beyond the door, he nudged it mostly shut with his heel, leaving a crack where he could inspect if John had also departed the main room.

Welcome back, John.

consultingassistant:

John watched Sherlock’s movements for a time, even though the detective had tried to assure him that he was fine. From where John stood, the man appeared anything but, and it amazed the doctor that he had learned to pick out normal things in Sherlock’s routine that he would notice should those ticks or habits make any change. His pacing was much brisker, his expression was tight in some thought that seemed to be troubling him, and the way he so quickly went for his nicotine patches.

For a brief moment John entertained the idea of stopping him, of reminding Sherlock how bad of a habit it was, but ended up not saying anything of it. Everything they’d gone through that night looked to be having more of an effect on the detective than John had previously believed, and he couldn’t make himself scold Sherlock for returning to unsavory habits. Everyone had their way of comfort; perhaps this was Sherlock’s. John would of course have a word with him about his dependency later, but for now he kept such thoughts to himself.

When his flatmate gripped the edge of the desk, John found himself a little more than concerned. Despite assurances to the contrary, he now most definitely did not believe that Sherlock was alright. Though John, being the ‘idiot’, as Sherlock called him, couldn’t conjure another reason for Sherlock’s discomfort other than the detective being disappointed he hadn’t caught Moriarty when he’d planned to.

Approaching him after a time, John crossed his arms over his chest, standing just a few feet from Sherlock now. “You’ll have other chances to catch him,” he tried to reassure. “I’m sure he’ll try something again, and you’ll be ready for him.”

“I know!” Sherlock exclaimed, slamming his palm on the desk. He took a slow breath, fixing his eyes on the papers spread across the surface. He couldn’t blame John for not understanding. Well, he could. And did. But he shouldn’t, and he knew he shouldn’t, and it frustrated him. Before John came along, he wouldn’t have cared about blaming idiocy. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

Sentiment is a chemical compound found on the losing side, he repeated to himself internally. His fingers curled under his hand, making a fist against the desk. He took another controlled breath, collected himself, and stood straight. In all his frustration, all his self-directed anger, he had forgotten to ask.

“Are you alright?”

He had asked it once, at the pool, when he had removed the explosives. But, only once. He did not know how John was, after that. Guilt was a very inexperienced emotion for Sherlock, and having it pull at him now jarred him from his usual aloof demeanor. His brow creased and eyes darkened with genuine concern, even if only for the brief moment the question was asked in.

consultingassistant:

‘You should get some sleep.’ John had lost track at how many times he’d said those exact same words to Sherlock, and now here they were with their positions reversed. Of all the people to tell him to go to sleep, he hadn’t expected it to be his flatmate. And of course it would only be a perfect reversal if John refused, which was exactly what he did. He didn’t feel like sleeping right then, as tired as he was.

He walked into the living room a moment to pick up Sherlock’s dishes before returning to the kitchen to put them in the sink, listening to the detective scroll through the cases while commenting monotonously at them all. But it wasn’t until he asked him to call Lestrade that John finally stopped what he was doing to give a short nod, returning to sit at his computer once Sherlock had gotten up.

John looked up after a moment to ask a question when he realized that Sherlock was staring at him, for no particular reason John could decipher other than to stare. It made him slightly uncomfortable but he couldn’t look away either. It wasn’t until Sherlock looked away that John returned his gaze to his computer. Though, after just a few seconds, John got to his feet, leaning against the doorway into the living room as he watched the detective pace the room. “…You, alright?” he asked after a time.

The eye contact had not gone unnoticed, it was just a matter of Sherlock not caring if he was caught mid-stare. One hand held his elbow and the other was curled in front of his lips as he meandered around the living room. There was a path—it was the same path he took every time he found himself wrapped up in his thoughts—but it looked aimless. He was so concentrated, once he’d turned away from John, that he did not take notice of the other watching him immediately.

More, he did, but it did not strike him as unusual until John spoke. To which, Sherlock waved the hand in front of his face with a quick scrunch of his face and muttered, “Fine, just fine.”

His hand was shaking. Very minutely, but as soon as he moved it, he had noticed. He reasoned out every possible cause, choosing instead to fix it by fumbling into a box of nicotine patches. It had been a full twelve hours at that point, so he convinced himself that must be what his body was begging him for. It went right on the inside of his wrist, and he gripped the edge of the desk, leaning on it for a moment.

It was rare that Sherlock ever considered sliding back into old, terrible habits. Only shortly before encountering and moving in with John, he had quite the hard drug addiction. Privately, of course. Even Mycroft hadn’t picked up on it until years after it had begun, but he had stopped. He caught himself carefully eyeing the bookshelf where he knew the box was buried under old experiment journals. This cracked his self-assurance, forcing Sherlock to admit to himself that he was definitely not fine.

consultingassistant:

John had been rather fixated on practically murdering the food on his plate when Sherlock came over and plopped the laptop down in front of him. Sitting back slightly, John stared at his computer a moment then over at Sherlock. It was clear his flatmate wouldn’t budge until John moved first, so with a light sigh he pushed his dinner plate aside and pulled the computer closer.

More irritating than the feeling of uselessness was the realization that John had just allowed himself to wallow in self-pity, however short a period of time that had been. If he was so concerned with being of some use, then he figured it was best he do what Sherlock had asked. Starting up the computer, which took a few minutes, John pulled up the internet and opened up a tab with his blog. He figured at that at least that maybe Sherlock would stop staring over his shoulder and go sit down or pace…or whatever.

There weren’t many new requests waiting, not since the ones he’d looked at before leaving the previous night. And he had the sinking feeling that it was going to be even more difficult now for John to find Sherlock cases after the hunt Moriarty had presented. He let out another sigh, turning the screen towards Sherlock. “Take a look yourself,” he offered, picking up his plate and dumping it into the sink. For once, he wasn’t all that hungry.

Having seen John’s nerves, and interpreted them entirely different, Sherlock didn’t move. He waited for John to go through all the steps, not needing the screen to know where in the process his flatmate was, by watching John’s fingers. He waited with unusual patience, not saying a word until John stood up. He didn’t make eye contact, sliding into the chair, but his statement was directed at John. “You should get some sleep.”

Somehow, Sherlock didn’t expect John to follow the advice. He knew John better than that by now. Leaning an arm on the counter, he scrolled through the different messages, commenting a short, “Boring,” at each one, except for the last, which got, “Obvious.”

Sherlock sighed and sat back, staring at the screen in his frustration for a moment before standing up again. “Call Lestrade in the morning. See what he has,” he said offhandedly, positive John was still there to listen. He paced into the living room, turned, and looked at his flatmate. Not for assurance that his demand had been heard. Not to make a new one. Not even to comment on the way John was dressed. He just stared.

It couldn’t have been longer than 30 seconds before Sherlock turned away again to contemplate the thoughts that were now taking the space left when he’d moved on from Moriarty. John had almost died. It came back to him, almost like a slap to the face. John had almost died, and it had been his fault. Granted, John didn’t die. Sherlock wouldn’t let that happen, and that was what was important. But there had been a brief moment when Sherlock was certain that if he didn’t dance Moriarty’s steps exactly, John would have been blown to bits. It unnerved Sherlock that he had shown such a gaping weakness.

consultingassistant:

John had been prepared to argue his point, so he was for a moment pleasantly surprised when Sherlock turned and snatched the plate from his hand. The victory over his flatmate’s stubbornness was short-lived though, as he noticed that Sherlock avoided his gaze. He listened to the shuffling sounds of Sherlock taking his seat before John finally turned back to the kitchen to claim his own dinner, though took to sitting at the table rather than in the living room.

As he ate, poking absently at the food on his plate, John couldn’t help but linger on the intense feelings he’d experienced at the pool side. By nature, John was a fiercely loyal person, something he’d no doubt picked up from his days as an army doctor. And though he hardly knew Sherlock, he still somehow had found it rather easy to put his life in the detective’s hands. It had also come as a bit of a shock at how quick he was to toss away his life for what he considered to be the greater good. He’d forgotten those virtues of himself.

Normally John would have insisted on some sort of conversation, but for once he was rather grateful for the lingering silence that remained between himself and Sherlock. With nothing to say, he for once saw no point in what he knew his flatmate would consider idle chatter. And besides, whatever had gone on inside Moriarty and Sherlock’s minds was obviously above what John would be able to understand. He’d hardly even begun to understand Sherlock, let alone the madman who seemed so fixated on him.

Sometimes John wondered if he’d ever be able to keep up. There were things going on here that were beyond his level of comprehension, and for only the second time in his life John had experienced a degree of such uselessness it was infuriating. He angrily stabbed his fork into his dinner.

Sherlock was good about the food. He ate most of it before setting the plate onto a side table and sinking down in his chair. He slid so far down that his head rested on the back of the chair and his feet stuck out, toes of his shoes brushing the leg of John’s armchair across from him. He propped one elbow up on the chair, fingers rolling against his palm, the other hand tapping away at his knee. His frustration and restlessness mounted incrementally within minutes. He was finally coming down from the adrenaline rush that had been the meeting at the pool.

All at once, it stopped. Externally as well as internally. Sherlock hopped out of his chair, mind having moved on to the next thing. And it hadn’t even lasted the whole night! He walked over his chair—literally stepping up into it and over the back—to the table John kept a computer at. His hand went for the cover, but with a second thought, he cast a wary glance at John sitting in the kitchen. He then picked up the computer, unplugged it, and brought it over to John, setting it on the counter and opening it for his flatmate.

“Check your blog. I need a new case in the morning,” Sherlock said with no hint of a polite question. He didn’t leave, sinking his hands into his pockets and staring at John. He would wait there until his demand was fulfilled.

consultingassistant:

John sat quietly in his chair, one hand resting on the arm rest as he propped up his other elbow, that hand rubbing absently at his brow. Neither he nor Sherlock had spoken a word since returning to the flat, both their minds he assumed otherwise preoccupied with what events had transpired prior to their return home. It was still vividly fresh in John’s head; his body still felt as though it carried the weight of the Semtex. It was an irritating sensation to say the least.

Occasionally his gaze traveled over to the window where Sherlock stood. The detective hadn’t moved from his spot for quite some time, and John was starting to worry a little. It wasn’t anything new or surprising for Sherlock to go hours, or even days at a time without much movement, or hardly saying a word; but of course that didn’t stop John from being concerned. And after the night they’d had, he was even more so.

Finally getting up from his seat, John migrated into the kitchen, attempting to locate something for them both to eat. But while the fridge was thankfully lacking in body parts, it also offered very few choices for a meal. With a sigh he pulled out a plate of leftovers and set it on the counter, pulling off the plastic cover and sticking it in the microwave. He made some tea while he waited, pouring the hot liquid into two cups as the microwave beeped at him. Removing the contents, he split it onto two plates and brought one of them, along with one of the two cups of tea, into the living room.

John kept several feet behind Sherlock, hands full with the offered meal. “Come on. You need to eat something,” he commented on a slight breath, voice a bit quieter than he’d anticipated it to be.

As soon as they had returned to the flat, Sherlock had taken to pacing around the open living room. That didn’t last long, though, before he found himself standing in front of the window, curtains drawn back so he had a clear view of the street below. He wasn’t looking at the street, though. His eyes weren’t particularly focused on anything. Hands folded together behind his back, fingers idly drumming, he considered the night’s events.

First thing that bothered Sherlock, was that he had been willing to kill the three of them together, to stop Moriarty. It had been brief, and Sherlock was certain Moriarty wouldn’t let him do it, but he had been ready to pull the trigger and blow the entire building to bits. Never before, even in his lowest of lows, had Sherlock considered taking his own life. And he would have taken John’s, too.

The second thing to come to Sherlock’s mind was that John had been so willing to give his life. It could have just been the war hero in his flatmate, but Sherlock was vexed at the idea that anyone would willingly give that much for him, or at least for his case. No one ever showed that level of loyalty to Sherlock’s work—other than himself—before tonight.

Lastly, while it came as little surprise, Sherlock still disliked how quickly Moriarty was to leave the scene from a phone call. What could possibly be so important that a master criminal would give up the chance to toy with a master detective, as that seemed to be Moriarty’s entire goal? A better offer, clearly. There was no trail, though. Nothing to follow, nothing to get a step ahead of Moriarty anymore. There was no more case.

No more case meant an oncoming wave of boredom. Sure, Sherlock could exhaust hours devoting himself to looking for nonexistent clues as to Moriarty’s change of heart, but there would be no point. He shouldn’t dwell longer than a night on it, or it would cloud his thoughts. He allowed himself time to stew on it now, but after sunrise, he would be moving on to the next thing that demanded his attention, so as not to waste his potential on nonexistent evidence.

Sherlock had become angry at himself, seeing his errors after the fact, seeing what he should have seen from the very beginning. Anger that he had let John leave the flat at all, knowing Moriarty was likely to do exactly what he had done. So angry, that when John mentioned food, he quipped a short, “Not hungry.”

It only took a moment, and Sherlock was turning around to take his plate from John. He didn’t offer an apology, or any other form of communication, really. He couldn’t even look John in the eye. He just took his plate and went to his chair, where he propped the dish on his lap to eat.

ooc;; With a resurrection of TTI and the remodeling that happened, I cleared this blog and will be starting fresh.