Three Is Company

Damaged Goods

Sherlock stood much taller, though he slunk back in apprehension, as if he didn't trust John to come any closer. The man stared out from under his long, heavy curls with frightened green eyes. He seemed ready to run, like a snake coiled into a threatening ball. John tried not to be intimidating, though it would seem as though Sherlock was scared of just about anyone, even childhood friends.
"So we're neighbors again?" John wondered, shoving his hands into his pocket and trying to look as approachable as possible.
"Yes." Sherlock agreed. "I inherited the house when my father died. It only seemed reasonable."
"He died?" John clarified.
"In prison." Sherlock agreed.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's what he deserved. In fact...I wish he might have died in a worse way. Cancer seemed too good for him." Sherlock admitted, his words turning steadily to a white mist as the cold air claimed his warm breath. John nodded, casting his eyes towards his shoes and trying to hide the blush that had crept into his cheeks. It was difficult not to associate every mention of Mr. Holmes with his crimes, and even now, some twenty years after the incident, John still felt responsible. He knew that as a seven year old boy there was not much he could have done, though still there might have been some recognition, some suggestion of abuse earlier. If only he had mentioned Sherlock's broken state to his parents, if only the man could have been taken down before any more blood had to be shed.
"My parents are at the nursing home." John explained. "I inherited the house as well."
"A full circle." Sherlock agreed stiffly, his gloved hands dangling by their thumbs within his pocket.
"I suppose so."
"I'm told you're opening a pharmacy?" Sherlock wondered, obviously grasping at any conversation starter that might be considered small talk. He didn't seem to like the silence, the spaces that opened up to allow the brain to start making assumptions. Better to keep them talking. Better to keep them occupied.
"Downtown. I'm trying to bring my new college education back home." John grinned, watching as Sherlock chuckled a bit hesitantly, his parted lips blowing fog as if he had just taken a puff on a cigarette.
"College. How prestigious. So you're not going to be a baseball star anymore? Not going to be the next explorer?"
"Pharmacist is cooler than all of that." John defended.
"Depends on who you talk to." Sherlock shrugged. John chuckled, not having remembered his childhood friend having a sense of humor. Of course the two of them had grown tremendously, though for some reason John still expected Sherlock to remain constant. He expected Sherlock to be small, timid, and nearly silent.
"What are you up to then?" he wondered. Sherlock's face ducked down, the light catching his face in an elegant glow, exemplifying his almost tragic beauty.
"Oh, nothing much. I'm just...well I'm just surviving. As always."
"Surviving is better than the alternative." John assured. Sherlock forced a smile, a mournful sigh passing his lips as he began to shuffle uncomfortably upon the cement.
"I suppose so." he agreed at last. John's heart began to sink, staring at this thin frame of a man and remembering what pain he had grown through. The child who had been dragged away and the man that had returned to his doorstep did not seem too different, especially not from this angle.
"Are you married?" John wondered. Sherlock let loose a hallow laugh, though he shook his head abruptly as if he felt the need to deny any suspicion before it materialized on his neighbor's lips.
"No, no." he whispered. "I'm not suited for marriage. Not for any sort of companion."
"But you've got roommates?"
"Yes, two of them."
"Well then you've got at least some friends." John added. "Still get your daily dose of human interaction."
"I don't see them often." Sherlock admitted quietly. "But that's...well that's none of your business I suppose. Not your trouble."
"I would be glad to help you in any trouble, Sherlock." John assured. "I'm overdue."
"Surely you are not." Sherlock insisted, straightening his back in a tall, intimidating stance. A defensive stance, if anything. Defense in the form of a harsh, challenging glare. "It was good to see you, John."
"Likewise." John agreed, sensing a farewell. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to come in for a drink? Greg Lestrade is over, with Molly Hooper."
"Maybe some other time." Sherlock whispered, his voice wavering as he took a step backwards. John nodded, pursing his lips and trying to get some other form of commitment out of the man. For some reason he became obsessed with the idea of reconciliation, he wanted to see Sherlock again, and soon. Nevertheless John could not summon the polite words; he could not figure a way to summon the man back to his porch again. And so, instead of shooting out yet another plea, he just nodded his head timidly. Sherlock was already making his retreat, turning his back upon his neighbor and treading elegantly down the sidewalk.
"Come again, Sherlock." John declared, words that he did not wholly permit to leave his lips. The man paused, his long white fingers emerging from his pocket to unlock the white picket fence that separated the yard from the sidewalk. His figure was painted against the street lamps, a beautiful curve across the mundane glow.
"I will." The man agreed, without sparing a look behind. John swallowed hard, though with the slamming of the gate behind his guest's retreating back he took his own cue. He turned back towards his front door, hesitating against the frame, before returning to his guests who were waiting with wide, anxious eyes. Everyone wanted to hear the story of Sherlock Holmes. Everyone wanted to dig up that tragedy and taste the gossip fresh upon the tongue.