It had been 2 weeks since, ‘The Incident’ and neither of the two men had dared to approach the topic again. The atmosphere after the first 3 or so days had returned back to a ‘reasonable’ version of normal within 221b.
Sherlock was back to his experiments, John back to complaining about buying milk and Mrs’s Hudson was back to still not being their housekeeper. On the surface, everything was fine. Underneath, however was a different story. Below, there was residual tension and hurt feelings. Sherlock was hurt John was still mad even after he’d apologised. John was hurt about… well pretty much everything.
Eventually, the stilted conversation about nothing, the limited amounts of eye contact, the absence of comfortable silence and most importantly the maddening lack of physical… well anything. Became too much for Sherlock and it all boiled over on an evening during the last moments of a case. The detective had just been explaining to everyone how he knew to prevent the planned explosions of 7 separate mainline train stations, by distracting the bomber and switching out the phones by pick-pocketing him. It was impressive. John had been impressed.
The doctor had told Sherlock he was “brilliant, just… bloody brilliant” and Sherlock had positively preened under the praise, until from the corner of his eye he saw what had become one of his doctor’s newest enraging habits.
John, who had always been so free with his tactile touches had actually hesitated to pat Sherlock on the shoulder, his bloody shoulder.
And well that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, after 2 weeks with no touches seeing John stop himself from touching his ‘shoulder’ was too infuriating for words. Sherlock’ pride could only take so much and being the object of ‘john’s’ constant rejection and lack of affection was causing him a continuous ache.
Sherlock stormed off from the crime scene towards a fortuitously waiting cab and ordered the driver to immediately take him to Baker Street not even attempting to wait for John. ‘Fuck john!’ Sherlock had screamed to himself ‘fuck him! Fuck him! Fuck him!’
Sherlock steadfastly ignored the furious, burning sting behind his eyeballs. He was angry.
Sherlock sat in the back of the taxi angrily strumming his hands on his thigh looking unseeingly out of the darkening window.
‘How DARE he, how fucking DARE he.’
Sherlock’s thoughts were crowding him.
‘I apologised and I DO NOT APOLOGISE.’
‘He won’t touch me.’
‘Why won’t he touch me?’
‘I told him the truth… in the end.’
‘I did ‘good’ I saved ‘people’… and John said I was amazing, he said I was ‘brilliant’. But, then… he couldn’t… touch me.’
‘Wouldn’t?’
‘Couldn’t?’
‘Maybe, he doesn’t want me anymore?’
‘Maybe, he wants me too much.’
‘Stupid! Of course not.’
‘He’s pulling away.’
‘Wrong. Correction.’
‘John, is pulling ‘further’ away.’
‘Was merely ‘pulling away’ 2 weeks ago, and now…’
Sherlock’s thoughts began to veer off into many threads of many tangents as his eyes darted rhythmically in time with the cab’s engine.
Re: Filled: What's Done In The Dark 9/?
It had been 2 weeks since, ‘The Incident’ and neither of the two men had dared to approach the topic again. The atmosphere after the first 3 or so days had returned back to a ‘reasonable’ version of normal within 221b.
Sherlock was back to his experiments, John back to complaining about buying milk and Mrs’s Hudson was back to still not being their housekeeper. On the surface, everything was fine. Underneath, however was a different story. Below, there was residual tension and hurt feelings. Sherlock was hurt John was still mad even after he’d apologised. John was hurt about… well pretty much everything.
Eventually, the stilted conversation about nothing, the limited amounts of eye contact, the absence of comfortable silence and most importantly the maddening lack of physical… well anything. Became too much for Sherlock and it all boiled over on an evening during the last moments of a case. The detective had just been explaining to everyone how he knew to prevent the planned explosions of 7 separate mainline train stations, by distracting the bomber and switching out the phones by pick-pocketing him. It was impressive. John had been impressed.
The doctor had told Sherlock he was “brilliant, just… bloody brilliant” and Sherlock had positively preened under the praise, until from the corner of his eye he saw what had become one of his doctor’s newest enraging habits.
John, who had always been so free with his tactile touches had actually hesitated to pat Sherlock on the shoulder, his bloody shoulder.
And well that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, after 2 weeks with no touches seeing John stop himself from touching his ‘shoulder’ was too infuriating for words. Sherlock’ pride could only take so much and being the object of ‘john’s’ constant rejection and lack of affection was causing him a continuous ache.
Sherlock stormed off from the crime scene towards a fortuitously waiting cab and ordered the driver to immediately take him to Baker Street not even attempting to wait for John. ‘Fuck john!’ Sherlock had screamed to himself ‘fuck him! Fuck him! Fuck him!’
Sherlock steadfastly ignored the furious, burning sting behind his eyeballs. He was angry.
Sherlock sat in the back of the taxi angrily strumming his hands on his thigh looking unseeingly out of the darkening window.
‘How DARE he, how fucking DARE he.’
Sherlock’s thoughts were crowding him.
‘I apologised and I DO NOT APOLOGISE.’
‘He won’t touch me.’
‘Why won’t he touch me?’
‘I told him the truth… in the end.’
‘I did ‘good’ I saved ‘people’… and John said I was amazing, he said I was ‘brilliant’. But, then… he couldn’t… touch me.’
‘Wouldn’t?’
‘Couldn’t?’
‘Maybe, he doesn’t want me anymore?’
‘Maybe, he wants me too much.’
‘Stupid! Of course not.’
‘He’s pulling away.’
‘Wrong. Correction.’
‘John, is pulling ‘further’ away.’
‘Was merely ‘pulling away’ 2 weeks ago, and now…’
Sherlock’s thoughts began to veer off into many threads of many tangents as his eyes darted rhythmically in time with the cab’s engine.