Now that it appeared they were on speaking terms again, John finding that distance was sometimes the best way to deal with something, he couldn't help the tiniest of smiles at his attempt at a joke. He was about to say that he could borrow one, like he did just about everything else of John's, but that was too-- something.
Sitting in the darkness of their kitchen, smoking fags like he used to in college, every puff of smoke mostly making it out the window.
"I know ... I knew it when I came home and you were still here ... I've come to apologize." He hadn't been at Baker a year yet and he'd slipped and called it home. To John, this wasn't home yet. It was where his things sat and gathered dust, where he spent a good deal of his time on Sherlock's things. Without Sherlock, he'd still be in that Government issued apartment.
"How long? Since your last actual cigarette?" He pointed to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, recognizing the ring of adhesive from where he'd ripped them off. "Just over ten years for me ... didn't think it would ever come back. It wasn't as hard to keep away, given the Army's recently enacted no smoking policy ... now that I'm Invalid, it seems par for the course."
Within stretching arms reach was one of John's cardigans draped over the back of a kitchen chair. He grabbed for it with a soft grunt and had Sherlock hold his cigarette while he slipped it on, not bothering to undo the front buttons. He took his cigarette back and their fingers brushed, quickly bringing the almost finished thing to his lips once more and avoiding his gaze.
In the end, he pushed back the obvious fear in John's mind of a potential relapse, particularly after the blow up they'd just had. But John would be on the lookout soon, and it didn't feel good at all. Perhaps it was also the sickening feeling of having too much nicotine in such a short time after so many years without it. His body was just craving it like mad, and he was about to grab for another one and light it with the dying end of his first when he stopped himself with a hand on the pack.
Sherlock finally did look at him, an impassive expression on his face as he drew another lungful of smoke. "There's nothing for you to apologize for." he replied simply, and truthfully. It wasn't John's fault that he was suspicious Sherlock would try to get another hit of some type of narcotic, and it certainly wasn't his fault that he hadn't felt...whatever that was that Sherlock felt for a fleeting moment when he was so out of sorts during his detox. He was grateful for the change in subject, not wanting to dwell on it too long and end up saying something he'd regret.
"Six months." he answered, taking a long drag and exhaling gratefully. "Too long." He held John's cigarette while he put on his sweater, pulling his hand back automatically when their fingers touched which caused his heart to skip slightly. It made him nervous all over again, and he stood suddenly, both to prepare the kettle to make some tea and just to get away from John and from he danger of accidentally brushing against him again. He didn't like what this was doing to him, and he couldn't help wondering if this was what it felt like to be a normal person with normal illogical emotions. He set the water to boil and held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he readied the mugs and teabags before leaning up against the counter to wait and puff away at his quickly disappearing cigarette.
With his apology out of the way, even if Sherlock seemed to think he wasn't the one that needed to do it, John felt a relieving sigh escape in a fog of cigarette smoke. When he ashed out the window, the small gray fuzzball flew back into the window on a current of wind and landed on Sherlock's pant leg. The reaction was quick and almost involuntary as he reached out and swiped it off, needing a few passes to get it all off, "Sorry, ash got-- " Sherlock was nervous again as he jumped at the contact, and it was making John just a little bit nervous as well. He stood up from the floor himself then and stepped back.
When his cigarette was starting to burn the filter, John flicked it out the window and glanced towards Sherlock as he prepared tea, probably for himself but definitely not for John. The sight of smoke lingering around him in this light was enough to make him stare for a bit too long. He never thought that seeing Sherlock with a cigarette hanging from his lips would send his heart twisting.
"I should toss 'em ... " he toed the box on the floor, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets to keep them from reaching for another.
Sherlock jumped when John reached out to brush away the ash, unsure if the hand he shot out in response was trying to bat off the ash or John's hand. Both, probably. He quickly moved away, cursing himself for practically scrambling off the floor in an effort to get away, hating how annoyingly flustered that simple thing had gotten him.
He turned his back to John for a moment to take a deep breath of smoke to calm his nerves before feeling alright to face him again, though he kept his distance. He wasn't looking at John, but he could feel him staring, and he inwardly chided himself for being too obvious. He told himself that John was just being his normal, caring self and that Sherlock needed to just calm down and stop acting so skittish around him. He didn't know why it ate at him that John would never touch him because he wanted to, only to be a good doctor and friend. That was all it would ever be, and Sherlock would be okay with that. Eventually.
The kettle whistled behind him, and he busied himself with pouring water into the two mugs he'd prepared. He lifted John's mug and moved to place it on the table before backing away in much the way of leaving food for a wild animal. He leaned up against the counter again and shrugged slightly at John's words. "I could take them off your hands. It wouldn't do for a doctor to smoke, after all." he said quietly, successfully avoiding John's eyes by finding the floor utterly fascinating at the moment.
Watching Sherlock make him tea, John tried to summon the courage to deal with this. There was nothing so out of the ordinary as Sherlock making him tea.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he whispered, reaching for his mug slowly, afraid that one quick move might scare the rabbit that Sherlock Holmes had become. "You shouldn't have any either." John raised his mug up to his lips and took a careful sip. He decided he needed to leave the kitchen to avoid staring at the sorrowful detective. There was no point in bringing it up if it would only stir up more emotions.
Dammit, he wanted to go back to bed. He hadn't admitted it out loud or even to himself, but that had been the best night's sleep in a while (with another person), even if it was still a bit choppy. When his eyes were closed and he felt Sherlock's body breathing against him, he slept without a thought in his tiny little brain.
Sherlock frowned when his cigarette reached the filter, tossing it into the sink before watching John's movements carefully.
"I'm fine." he lied, at least somewhat pleased that it sounded convincing to his ears. He'd said his piece, and it had been met with ridicule, and he certainly wasn't desperate to revisit that. He would get over it soon, he hoped, given adequate time and distance. And maybe the rest of those cigarettes. He waited until John had left before picking up the discarded fags and pocketing them, thoroughly ignoring John's advice. He needed something to take the edge off and wanted to keep the cigarettes in case something happened that would wind him up again.
He paused for a moment after grabbing the cigarettes, momentarily unsure of where to go. He shut the window to give him a moment, finally resigning to the fact that John was going to be around, and he'd just have to deal with it. At least in the sitting room he could have his space on the couch and John would be far enough away that nothing like the incident in the kitchen would happen again. He padded into the sitting room and placed his mug on an end table, picking up a nearby magazine to flip through it idly and distract himself from whatever John might be doing. Not that he cared. He was much too interested in reading the same paragraph over and over again without really absorbing it.
It almost hurt to hear him say that again, but John let it go and left. Sherlock could have the cigarettes, his throat was starting to burn. John gave up and let Sherlock have his space, returning to his room to fiddle around with his laptop. He needed something to do that was mindless and could take hours. Online games usually did the trick.
As soon as his laptop was awake, he just stared at the screen. Eventually, his hands covered his face and he was squeezing his eyes shut to keep out the harsh glow of the screen.
He'd give anything to take back what he said, the harsh and dismissive way he'd said it, his wall was placed quicker than he could say 'bollocks'. Eventually, John found something to entertain himself for a couple of hours until he started to feel a bit peckish.
Sherlock glanced up from his reading (that he wasn't actually reading) when John left again, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to hear John say 'it's all fine' again. He huffed a sigh at that completely unhelpful line of thought. He was certainly doing a bang-up job at forgetting all about it.
He wasn't sure if his inner turmoil or inescapable boredom was worse, but both at the same time was just completely unfair. His boredom led to nothing but thinking more about exactly how far off from 'fine' he really was. He closed his eyes in an effort to shut everything out, and what started as something akin to meditation turned into his falling asleep on the couch.
When his stomach began that telltale growl, John knew there was little food in the fridge, he decided to order some Chinese food. There would be plenty enough for John to share with Sherlock, and he even managed to remember Sherlock didn't like seafood when he ordered them fried rice. It was dinner time rush hour, so it would take nearly an hour he was told.
When he came downstairs to see how Sherlock was doing, John stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man asleep on the couch, curled up into a lanky ball. He stood there for a quiet moment, assured that he was actually asleep before tip toeing closer. His face was relaxed during sleep and John could see those bow shaped lips very well from there. He hesitated a long moment while standing over him, wondering how long it would take before Sherlock awoke knowing John was staring.
Sherlock shifted with a soft sigh in sleep, his eyes finally coming open after a few moments. His first thought when he saw John was that he was probably dreaming. He blinked blearily a few times as he came to terms with the fact that he was very much awake, and John was standing over him. He furrowed his brow as he looked up at him, hyper-aware of the fact that John was barely an arm's reach away, so easy to reach out and touch him if he was so inclined. No, never again, he reminded himself, pushing himself sitting to peer up at him curiously.
"What's wrong?" he asked, grasping at some explanation for this turn of events. John wouldn't just be there to stare at him, surely. Something must have happened. He glanced about for his mobile and picked it up off the table to cycle through his texts. Nothing. Just when he thought this couldn't get more odd. He looked up from his phone to give John another even more bewildered look. "John, what is it?"
"I-- wha ... yeah, I'm sorry, didn't m-mean to wake you ... I got hungry, ordered some Chinese for us. It sh-should be here soon. I ... I didn't think you'd be sleeping ... " without me, he thought bitterly for a moment. Furrowing his brow, John looked away and grabbed up Sherlock's used mug to bring into the kitchen and tried to devise a way to clear off the table enough to eat. The last time they had take out, they ate straight out of the boxes. John was desperately trying to break that habit, but John wouldn't give up on trying a few domestics on the detective.
He had a few valuable hours to come up with a way to make things not feel so awkward and push past the nagging feeling that he was going about this all wrong. Sherlock was clearly not fine despite his saying so, and John was not alright with things not being 'all fine.'
"Oh. I see." came Sherlock's reply, inwardly disappointed at the explanation being something so ordinary as food. He wasn't sure what he was expecting. It was absurd to think that John was secretly having the same issue Sherlock was having when he'd made it abundantly clear that he wasn't interested. It was becoming increasingly tiresome to have his thoughts so consumed by something so pointless to think about.
It wasn't like he'd have any idea what to do if John made some sort of startling confession that it had all been a lie anyway. That wasn't going to happen, he told himself for the umpteenth time, hoping against hope that he would get another case soon so he could think about something productive. As it was, he could do nothing but sigh at the empty room and slump against the couch again to stare at the ceiling. He stood again after a moment, following cautiously into the kitchen to watch John from the doorway. "You've asked me this tonight more than once, so it seems about time that I ask you. Are you alright?" he asked, feeling a bit of a return to normalcy in deducing John's body language and deciphering his mood. He could tell something was off, and was grateful to find it wasn't just him feeling out of sorts right now.
"I'm not the one that was kidnapped, knocked unconscious and drugged ... I would've thought something like that would scramble a brilliant mind like yours for a few days ... besides, a Doctor's most overused words are 'Are you alright?' ... so yeah, I'm ... just fine ... and I'm surprised that you ... a-are ... " He started doing it again, rambling on without thinking over what was coming out of his mouth. That might not have been good.
"We can eat at the coffee table, unless you want to clear the dinning table of a few things ... or the kitchen table ... " he tried again, motioning with an arm towards the two tables before looking up at him with his sleep mused hair. He raised a single eyebrow and moved to lean against the counter.
Sitting in the darkness of their kitchen, smoking fags like he used to in college, every puff of smoke mostly making it out the window.
"I know ... I knew it when I came home and you were still here ... I've come to apologize." He hadn't been at Baker a year yet and he'd slipped and called it home. To John, this wasn't home yet. It was where his things sat and gathered dust, where he spent a good deal of his time on Sherlock's things. Without Sherlock, he'd still be in that Government issued apartment.
"How long? Since your last actual cigarette?" He pointed to the crook of Sherlock's elbow, recognizing the ring of adhesive from where he'd ripped them off. "Just over ten years for me ... didn't think it would ever come back. It wasn't as hard to keep away, given the Army's recently enacted no smoking policy ... now that I'm Invalid, it seems par for the course."
Within stretching arms reach was one of John's cardigans draped over the back of a kitchen chair. He grabbed for it with a soft grunt and had Sherlock hold his cigarette while he slipped it on, not bothering to undo the front buttons. He took his cigarette back and their fingers brushed, quickly bringing the almost finished thing to his lips once more and avoiding his gaze.
In the end, he pushed back the obvious fear in John's mind of a potential relapse, particularly after the blow up they'd just had. But John would be on the lookout soon, and it didn't feel good at all. Perhaps it was also the sickening feeling of having too much nicotine in such a short time after so many years without it. His body was just craving it like mad, and he was about to grab for another one and light it with the dying end of his first when he stopped himself with a hand on the pack.
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"Six months." he answered, taking a long drag and exhaling gratefully. "Too long." He held John's cigarette while he put on his sweater, pulling his hand back automatically when their fingers touched which caused his heart to skip slightly. It made him nervous all over again, and he stood suddenly, both to prepare the kettle to make some tea and just to get away from John and from he danger of accidentally brushing against him again. He didn't like what this was doing to him, and he couldn't help wondering if this was what it felt like to be a normal person with normal illogical emotions. He set the water to boil and held the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he readied the mugs and teabags before leaning up against the counter to wait and puff away at his quickly disappearing cigarette.
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When his cigarette was starting to burn the filter, John flicked it out the window and glanced towards Sherlock as he prepared tea, probably for himself but definitely not for John. The sight of smoke lingering around him in this light was enough to make him stare for a bit too long. He never thought that seeing Sherlock with a cigarette hanging from his lips would send his heart twisting.
"I should toss 'em ... " he toed the box on the floor, shoving his hands deeply into his pockets to keep them from reaching for another.
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He turned his back to John for a moment to take a deep breath of smoke to calm his nerves before feeling alright to face him again, though he kept his distance. He wasn't looking at John, but he could feel him staring, and he inwardly chided himself for being too obvious. He told himself that John was just being his normal, caring self and that Sherlock needed to just calm down and stop acting so skittish around him. He didn't know why it ate at him that John would never touch him because he wanted to, only to be a good doctor and friend. That was all it would ever be, and Sherlock would be okay with that. Eventually.
The kettle whistled behind him, and he busied himself with pouring water into the two mugs he'd prepared. He lifted John's mug and moved to place it on the table before backing away in much the way of leaving food for a wild animal. He leaned up against the counter again and shrugged slightly at John's words. "I could take them off your hands. It wouldn't do for a doctor to smoke, after all." he said quietly, successfully avoiding John's eyes by finding the floor utterly fascinating at the moment.
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"Are you sure you're alright?" he whispered, reaching for his mug slowly, afraid that one quick move might scare the rabbit that Sherlock Holmes had become. "You shouldn't have any either." John raised his mug up to his lips and took a careful sip. He decided he needed to leave the kitchen to avoid staring at the sorrowful detective. There was no point in bringing it up if it would only stir up more emotions.
Dammit, he wanted to go back to bed. He hadn't admitted it out loud or even to himself, but that had been the best night's sleep in a while (with another person), even if it was still a bit choppy. When his eyes were closed and he felt Sherlock's body breathing against him, he slept without a thought in his tiny little brain.
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"I'm fine." he lied, at least somewhat pleased that it sounded convincing to his ears. He'd said his piece, and it had been met with ridicule, and he certainly wasn't desperate to revisit that. He would get over it soon, he hoped, given adequate time and distance. And maybe the rest of those cigarettes. He waited until John had left before picking up the discarded fags and pocketing them, thoroughly ignoring John's advice. He needed something to take the edge off and wanted to keep the cigarettes in case something happened that would wind him up again.
He paused for a moment after grabbing the cigarettes, momentarily unsure of where to go. He shut the window to give him a moment, finally resigning to the fact that John was going to be around, and he'd just have to deal with it. At least in the sitting room he could have his space on the couch and John would be far enough away that nothing like the incident in the kitchen would happen again. He padded into the sitting room and placed his mug on an end table, picking up a nearby magazine to flip through it idly and distract himself from whatever John might be doing. Not that he cared. He was much too interested in reading the same paragraph over and over again without really absorbing it.
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As soon as his laptop was awake, he just stared at the screen. Eventually, his hands covered his face and he was squeezing his eyes shut to keep out the harsh glow of the screen.
He'd give anything to take back what he said, the harsh and dismissive way he'd said it, his wall was placed quicker than he could say 'bollocks'. Eventually, John found something to entertain himself for a couple of hours until he started to feel a bit peckish.
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He wasn't sure if his inner turmoil or inescapable boredom was worse, but both at the same time was just completely unfair. His boredom led to nothing but thinking more about exactly how far off from 'fine' he really was. He closed his eyes in an effort to shut everything out, and what started as something akin to meditation turned into his falling asleep on the couch.
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When he came downstairs to see how Sherlock was doing, John stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man asleep on the couch, curled up into a lanky ball. He stood there for a quiet moment, assured that he was actually asleep before tip toeing closer. His face was relaxed during sleep and John could see those bow shaped lips very well from there. He hesitated a long moment while standing over him, wondering how long it would take before Sherlock awoke knowing John was staring.
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"What's wrong?" he asked, grasping at some explanation for this turn of events. John wouldn't just be there to stare at him, surely. Something must have happened. He glanced about for his mobile and picked it up off the table to cycle through his texts. Nothing. Just when he thought this couldn't get more odd. He looked up from his phone to give John another even more bewildered look. "John, what is it?"
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He had a few valuable hours to come up with a way to make things not feel so awkward and push past the nagging feeling that he was going about this all wrong. Sherlock was clearly not fine despite his saying so, and John was not alright with things not being 'all fine.'
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It wasn't like he'd have any idea what to do if John made some sort of startling confession that it had all been a lie anyway. That wasn't going to happen, he told himself for the umpteenth time, hoping against hope that he would get another case soon so he could think about something productive. As it was, he could do nothing but sigh at the empty room and slump against the couch again to stare at the ceiling. He stood again after a moment, following cautiously into the kitchen to watch John from the doorway. "You've asked me this tonight more than once, so it seems about time that I ask you. Are you alright?" he asked, feeling a bit of a return to normalcy in deducing John's body language and deciphering his mood. He could tell something was off, and was grateful to find it wasn't just him feeling out of sorts right now.
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"We can eat at the coffee table, unless you want to clear the dinning table of a few things ... or the kitchen table ... " he tried again, motioning with an arm towards the two tables before looking up at him with his sleep mused hair. He raised a single eyebrow and moved to lean against the counter.
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