Three Is Company

Trials and Errors of Trust

"Do you like the shop?" John wondered after the last bag was settled. He led Sherlock to the counter, his long white coat looking more like a cloak of an albino monk from behind. It hung too far down, draping across the floor behind his short ankles.
"I think it's wonderful." Sherlock agreed, turning on his heel to admire the racks of items John had for sale.
"I think so too. I didn't know this was my dream, but it's starting to turn into something wonderful. Business has been better than expected, and I should be breaking even quickly." John admitted with a grin. He settled himself behind the cash register, allowing Sherlock time to browse through the various newspapers they had for sale. Sherlock settled with the first he saw, not knowing enough about the different companies to have a preference. He just chose the more shocking headline, one describing a brutal murder not far from their quaint little town.
"Greg was talking about that the other night." John explained as he typed the total into the cash register.
"The newspaper?" Sherlock asked stupidly.
"The murder." John clarified with a chuckle. Sherlock was thankful for the man's ignorance. He seemed to mistake Sherlock's quick, mindless remarks as clever jokes. Somehow he was twisting this anxiety into a new sense of humor.
"Right." Sherlock whispered. He pulled the newspaper closer, examining the headline with squinted eyes. "That's only twenty miles from here."
"That's just where they found the body! Who knows where the actual killing took place." John pointed out, his voice wavering in sick excitement. Sherlock hesitated, chewing on his lower lip without finding the due excitement.
"That's horrible." Sherlock whispered. He had respect for crimes, the sort that came only from being a victim of similar assaults. A murder victim might be a subject of fascination for John, though to Sherlock it was only a reminder of what he narrowly escaped as a child. If he had stepped one more toe out of line he might have made the front page in a similar fashion.
"I wouldn't worry about it. Probably a personal attack. They'll catch the killer soon enough." John assured, as if he finally caught on to Sherlock's apprehension.
"He was young." Sherlock commented solemnly, leaning heavily upon the counter to examine the first couple of lines. "Our age."
"Marital disputes, life insurance." John listed, passing Sherlock's due change across the countertop. Sherlock nodded, trying to reassure himself with that same mindset. John was obnoxiously optimistic, even in such a dark situation such as this.
"I suppose." The man admitted at last. He held the newspaper tightly within his fingers, trying to hide as much of himself behind it as he could. John was looking normal, suspiciously normal. It was as if he didn't seem to realize how big a moment this is, how monumental it was just to get a conversation in without running away. Sherlock was still shaking, though his coat did a fine job of hiding his trembling muscles.
"Greg and Molly were disappointed that you didn't join us. We all had some pretty good times back in the day." John pointed out, as if he felt the need to keep Sherlock talking.
"Good times? I wouldn't go so far as that." Sherlock scoffed. "I don't think I ever knew Greg, aside from that final kickball."
"I forgot that was him!" John laughed. "He had such a strong kick, as soon as I saw it hit your face I thought you were done for."
"I think I flipped in the air." Sherlock agreed. "Landed hard."
"That was the last..." John swallowed quickly, shuffling his feet uncomfortably as he realized the implications of his words. His dark eyes averted, leaving Sherlock to finish the sentence.
"My last day, yes." Sherlock agreed quietly. It had been no secret, not once the news broke. His treatment from the kickball had led to more discoveries across his body. Bones that had not healed properly. Teeth that were missing prematurely. Scarring, bleeding, in places young boys should not have been hurt.
"Well, even so, we missed you." John admitted. "There have been a million familiar faces around here, but for some reason yours is the one that resonates the most."
"Is that...a good thing?" Sherlock wondered, his eyebrows dropping into a nervous little triangle. John smiled a bit shamefully, as if he wasn't yet prepared to disclose his true feelings upon the matter.
"It's a good thing." John assured. "Always a good thing, Sherlock."
"Right." Sherlock whispered, clearing his throat and pulling his fingers sharply across the newspaper, gouging his anxious fingernails into the print. Suddenly the room was feeling smaller, as if there was no place to hide from those horribly kind eyes. It was as if John was hovering above him, observing every move he made, watching with an unwavering and judgmental eye. Oh it was terrible to have conversations with a man who knew your secrets! Sherlock wished that his childhood affairs had been masked in shadow, erased from the public consciousness just as soon as he vanished from town. He wished that John would have slowly forgotten, that way the elephant in the room did not trample them both underfoot. His breathing began to feel hallow, suddenly his nose felt dry and the air began to rattle its way through his skull. Sherlock nodded again, turning in a tight circle in a desperate and ill-mannered attempt to escape. He shuffled along the aisles, keeping his head down and hoping that his subconsciousness had taken over his lips long enough to say goodbye. He knew it was a rude manner of departure, though at the moment Sherlock felt if he stayed another moment within the pharmacy he may have to be administered a large number of the pills.
"Sherlock, you're leaving?" John called after him, as if with the intent of following him outside. Sherlock looked back, watching that white lab coat swishing upon the floor after him. The man gave a noise of urgency, shuffling even faster across the aisles that never ended. The door seemed to be getting farther away, as if each step he was taking was sending him in the reverse direction. When finally Sherlock collided with the door it opened gently, allowing him to tumble out into the sidewalk as if he had been kicked. The man gulped down the fresh air, though even still he knees began to wobble. He didn't know what had scared him about John Watson, though the very idea that the pharmacist was at his heels began to turn his stomach. He didn't want kind words, he didn't want sympathy. Oh, he just wanted to be left alone!
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John's voice was above him, though Sherlock never remembered when the height difference had been reversed. He was so used to looking down upon John that he didn't expect this angle, this awkward angle, staring up into the crook of his neighbor's chin. It was only when he saw John was crouched that Sherlock realized he had fallen to the sidewalk. Sherlock winced, his body trembling violently as he pulled his arms protectively around his chest. He didn't want John Watson any closer, and yet still the man progressed forward. He kept reaching out, he kept touching. With every finger press Sherlock felt a hot zap, as if John's fingerprint acted as a live wire.
"Stop, stop, get away from me!" Sherlock demanded, collecting his newspaper in one hand and using it to bat off his attacker. John finally got the hint, at last his years in medical school came in handy enough to recognize a nervous breakdown. He crept away, staying crouched and moving like a strange crustacean, his hands in the air and his bent legs moving in an almost inhuman fashion.
"Alright, alright." John assured, his words stumbling out of his lips. Sherlock shivered, hoisting himself up on an elbow and brandishing the newspaper threateningly, preparing to defend himself if he had to. Thankfully John had retreated; far enough away that he pressed his white lab coat against the window of the shop.
"Do you want me to call anyone?" John wondered. "Anyone you trust?"
"No. No!" Sherlock snarled, clambering to his feet and looking around the sidewalk, searching for the eyes he knew were watching. As expected he had rather stopped traffic. The sidewalks were clogged with onlookers, all of the normal suburban figures that would have been expected this time of day. Old women gawked, mothers huddled their children close. Men with briefcases began to back away.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock muttered, clearing his throat and looking back upon John Watson. The poor man was huddled in a pathetic shape in the window, broken down into a timid, regretful size.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock repeated, pocketing his newspaper and beginning to walk swiftly in the other direction. When he thought he had gone far enough he broke out into a run, running far from the shop, from his neighbor, and from his car. He had driven the short distance to the pharmacy but he ran home, figuring it was not worth the risk to clamber back into that vehicle and wait the grueling thirty seconds until the engine turned on. A lot could happen in thirty seconds. A lot of eyes could stare within that frame of time.