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The cab smells like sweaty ballsac and mud much to John’s distaste, spending his weekend in Cambridge had sounded like a lovely plan but he had come along. Mister Sherlock Holmes, Mister ‘I Have to Stick My Big Detective Nose in Everything’ Holmes, the git had to go and screw his lovely weekend plans up to take him to the muddiest place outside of Cornwall to go trekking through a war reancement by the Sealed Knot group who had made it very… realistic. John hadn’t realized where they were until the first lines of shots were fired and not being prepared for that at all he had found himself having a mental break down while Sherlock chased what he deemed a witness by the bags underneath of his eyes. John was scared shitless, alone and verging on angry tears by the time Sherlock came back to John, crouched down behind a barrel praying to God that he wasn’t going to die without seeing another stupid American tourist pretending to have an accent to fit in.
And what does Sherlock say to this? What does Mr. I have to be clever say?
“Can I use your phone?”
Can I use your phone?
John had just about enough of Sherlock Holmes and his insensitivity for the week thank you very much, for the month maybe – for shit’s sake the bloody year! And yet here he was sharing a cab with the crazy back to their apartment where Sherlock might try and talk to him about it, or even talk around the subject. He could never decide which one was worse.
The companions weren’t on speaking terms when they boarded the train back to London two days earlier. John didn’t even get a chance to put his toothbrush in the laboratory before Sherlock barges into his room and declares a case has been opened. And the Hotel clerk hadn’t even finished his shift before John was checking out and walking away with the lost ‘what am I missing’ Holmes following on John’s heels. John didn’t say anything when they boarded the train and when Sherlock sits down in the aisle giving up his window seat for John he just walks past him to the bar car.
The car comes next and of course it’s raining in London, spotty and varies from almost hail to drizzle and back to hard rain before John gives up flagging down one for himself before Sherlock waves him over to the cab pulling up to him. John knew that he was acting like a child , he was glad he was at least out of the rain when he climbs into the back of the cab – still not saying anything to Sherlock and they both waited a good minute for the other to tell the cab where they were heading.
“Baker Street.” Sherlock grumbles, giving into breaking the wall of silence and settling into the stale fabric of the cab for a very stiff and uncomfortable ride between two flatmates.
John was completely drained after the ride and got out of it slamming the door (hopefully) in Sherlock’s stupid face. He has no intention of paying the cabbie or grabbing his bags from the back – make Sherlock figure it out. He doesn’t say hello to Ms. Hudson who’s got his and Sherlock’s whites in a hamper underneath her arm and he barrels straight into the apartment and stands at the door way looking around.
What next? What to do next? John stands confused in the living room, he doesn’t want to march up to his room like a small child that hadn’t gotten his way or just snuggly sit down in his arm chair like everything was fine. Everything thing was not fine, and it was all Sherlock’s fault.
John’s angry at Sherlock, angry enough to punch him or break his violin’s bow but that would be rude and he would surely regret it later. John wouldn’t be able to must up enough energy to even cause Sherlock pain and to emotionally drain from what happened. So John just stands there, not wishing to say anything but needing to confront this intrusion of the bubble he’s made around himself in hopes of blocking out the bad memories he still sweats about at night.
John can hear when Sherlock swishes into the apartment as his hands curl into fists and uncurl when John starts to become unsure of what to do. “Maybe we should talk about what happened, it’s obviously upsetting you.” Sherlock says flatly and John twitches and puffs out a bit of breath that sounds like a bit of laugh.
“W-what do you want to talk about, the fact that you didn’t tell me that we would have to go out to watch the re-enactment, that you didn’t think that maybe, just maybe I wasn’t going to be prepared to listen to screaming, or crying, or gun shots and have to listen to cannons going off and feeling the ground shake when they did. Did the thought,” John clears his throat and looks at Sherlock, stoic as ever. “Did you use your MASSIVE BRAIN when you asked me for my bloody phone?” John finishes and looks at Sherlock, no… glares at Sherlock whose collar is still turned up and scarf still tucked in, he has both John and his own bag in hand and he keeps glaring at the unblinking Sherlock until he drops the bags and stalks away.
John’s not sorry, no, he’s not one bit sorry. Sherlock needed to hear that and he was in the right to be angry – the absolute right to be…
Sherlock is rolling his scarf around his hand, getting ready to put it away when John walks into his room. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” John says – at least he didn’t apologise. “It was rude of me.”
“It’s alright; I shouldn’t have put you into that situation when you weren’t ready to handle it.” Sherlock says over his shoulder and tucks his scarf into the depths of his long coat before shrugging it off and tossing it onto his bed.
“Yes, well ... right then.” John says and feels the walls between them build up again, another almost heartfelt, feeling sharing moment avoided thanks to Mister ‘I have to be clever so people won’t notice how susceptible I am to criticism’ Holmes. Sherlock turns to face John and stuffs his hands into his trousers and looking just as tired as John must be. “I’m off to bed – I’ll probably go into the hospital in the morning, Sar-Dr. Sawyer will be surprised I’m back a few days early ” John declares and Sherlock nods letting him know that he understood the words out of John’s mouth.
John leaves for his room maybe just a tad too quickly.
-
John gets up in the middle of the night for a glass of water, he’s woken up from a threatening dream that leaves his throat dry and his night shirt drenched around the neck. He gets around the corner into the multifunctional room to see Sherlock with his fingers pressed together, as he seems to be immobilized.
“Tea?” Sherlock asks and then looks down to the cups of tea cooling on the tray beside him. Two cups are set out and the pot has wisps of smoke curling up from its spout and looks inviting. John takes the invitation as a hopeful offering of forgiveness and goes into the kitchen to grab a glass from the drying rack and fill it with some fresh water from the tap. John leans against the cabinets and looks Sherlock in the eye, defying him and denying Sherlock his penance.
“No thank you” John mumbles into his glass and Sherlock rises from his spot in a fluster and joins John in the kitchen and tries to decipher the information that John was supposedly giving off in waves.
“I understand that your upset John-”
“-Really now? What gave you that idea?” John cuts off and Sherlock looks from the lines on John’s forehead to his eyes and then to where the ceiling tile meets the crown moulding of the apartment, he readjusts his posture and ever so slightly raises his head. It was probably uncomfortable for Sherlock to be getting so much negative feedback from one of the first men that had been impressed from Sherlock picking up every detail of him from a few glances.
“Recent profuse sweating around the neck and underarms, tense muscles – calculated, too calculated to be from a person that’s just enjoyed a pleasant REM cycle, bags around the eyes, your favoring your left side to put weight off your right... You limped into the kitchen rather than walked and passed up fresh tea for tap water out of a glass that was holding mould not even a week ago…” Sherlock hesitates and flicks his eyes to John; the Captain puts the glass down and leans back against the counter. “Plus the fact that you’ve just came out of your bedroom without a house coat.” He says and John looks down to his ratty and sweaty white shirt and his boxers before he grits his teeth.
“Are you done?” John says keeping his eyes down onto the linoleum flooring of the flat. “Because I’m really tired of you showing off right now – I do not need this in my life.” John says to the floor and Sherlock slips to his side. John is completely immobile and Sherlock hesitates as he puts his hand to John’s shoulder.
Sherlock’s hands are warm compared to how cold John believed his heart was, neither of them look at one another while Sherlock tries to show is sympathy through touch. Neither of them found the touch comforting and the touch is abandoned. John catches Sherlock looking at him out of the corner of his eye and he smiles before he realizes it and let’s starts to giggle. Sherlock looks concerned for a second and shakes his head as if to say ‘have I missed something’.
“What is it? What have I missed?” Sherlock asks and John shakes his head.
“Nothing … you’ve actually just – did you put out biscuits for a 3am tea time?” John asks Sherlock and he looks towards the tea pot and display of floury treats that went with the tea. John can’t help but keep giggling about the surreal idea of so formal of a tea before the sun even came up.
“I suppose I have.” Sherlock says, this fuels John’s giggle fit, after a while he can hear the throaty laughter of the other man chord in with him. A wave of gushing relief comes pouring off them both as they have a giggle fit in the mess of the kitchen.