Sherlock sat back in his chair, feet on the lab desk, staring at the door that lay swinging from the force that John had slammed through it with after storming out of St Bart's with a look, Sherlock believed, more of disappointment than anger. Although he couldn't really tell, being the non-emotive "high-functioning sociopath" he referred to himself as.
Just minutes earlier, John had been snoozing, face contorted and buried in his hands that were outstretched across the bench opposite Sherlock. Sherlock was sat deep in thought, eyebrows furrowed as he twiddled his squash ball between his long, slender fingers. He was expecting a reply to his text to Moriarty, but that didn't stop him taking a few sneaky glances at the sleeping army doctor to his right. Transfixed on the slow rising and falling of John's chest as he slept, he paid little attention to the light snuffle John's nose created every time he inhaled and exhaled. All was peaceful, which was surprising for what chaotic lives they both lead.
A glimmer of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face as he reminisced over the many times John had fallen asleep mid-case. Most times John had barely made it back to the bedroom before his obvious exhaustion took ahold of him, the cause of it being Sherlock's desire to finish the stage of whatever case they were on at the time. Of course Sherlock himself never slept. At all. And when he did, it was little more than a nap on the sofa after a take out, a disastrous game of cluedo and a few hours spent yelling at the TV with John watching him, looking either highly amused or gravely concerned for his seemingly psychotic flatmate. Nevertheless a smile never failed to plaster itself on both of their faces as they giggled ferociously at Sherlock's attempt of correcting the language being used in that week's episode of Don't Tell the Bride on BBC3. But no, in Sherlock's brain, sleeping was for the weak, and he put this down to himself being wired differently from most humans, his brother Mycroft included. Maybe it was their genes. Who knew.
Even though John was more ordinary than that of Sherlock's standards, there was something different about him. Something special. He had never met anyone in his entire life that he could call a friend. Someone as caring, devoted and hopelessly romantic as John Watson was. But alas, as John was told by Donovan when he first met Sherlock: Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends. Donovan had been on his case for years, and she'd really taken a dislike to Sherlock and refused to co operate with him on cases, always sniggering in the corner with Anderson about his flaws and nicknaming him the less appealing title of "Freak". He was surprised that John had stuck around after how much she'd slagged him off to John. But that's what began their friendship in the first place; John stuck by him.
The only friend he had when he was a child died, and Sherlock vowed to never let that side of him that the friend had brought out in him show again. So the warm, loving side to Sherlock was thus replaced by a cold, displaced, stone-hearted replica which he used to veil himself from any emotion that threatened to reveal itself on his prominently chiseled face. Since John had appeared in his life, the ties alienating him from the idiots in the world called the human race, started to slip. He even had an inkling that John had made him go soft with all the uses of his repeated textbook vocabulary. "I don't understand" and "I still don't understand" were common denominators of John-talk.
Forget the amount of times John had shouted at Sherlock when finding eyeballs in the microwave or a severed head in the fridge, or the times when Sherlock "borrowed" John's laptop because he was too lazy to get his own (and actually spent the majority of the time reading all 45 emails from John to his girlfriends and then reciting them later on in the bath to his skull). When he was with John he felt safe, he felt needed, he felt a feeling of normality people like to call happiness. And one of those fabulous traits John carried was that he could never stay angry at Sherlock for long. The arguments always ended up resolving themselves via a puppy-dog eyed or joke-cracking Sherlock, either of these making john crack up with laughter and the two of them collapsing in a fit of giggles. One of those times had been when Sherlock basically got arrested and taken to Buckingham Palace with nothing but a sheet on. When John appeared, he sat down on the plush sofa next to Sherlock which colour matched the embarrassment on Mycroft's face when he entered and saw his sibling wearing a concerning lack of clothes. John couldn't hide his curiosity any longer and peeped over at him, frowned, and said very nonchalantly, "Are you wearing any pants?'. Sherlock gave a swift "No" and after a few moments turned to look in Johns direction with a smirk on his face. The two made eye contact and burst out laughing, nearly crying at the stupidity of it all. It would've made Sherlocks day, if he had not been nearly disrobed by his older brother in front of a Monarch.
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Three Unspoken Words
Fanfiction"Goodbye John" Sherlock will fall. And when he does, there is no return for the worlds only Consulting Detective. John is left heartbroken and in regret of the 3 unspoken little words that could have changed the outcome of that fateful day. Can John...
