Promises Series

Broken Promises - Chapter Three

Three Years, One Month, and Sixteen Days Before the Meeting of Sherlock and Julia Holmes

Sherlock glared at John's feet.

"Sherlock? Is something wrong?"

The detective flipped over on the couch and wrapped his dressing gown tighter around himself.

"Nothing," he said.

You're wearing your date shoes, he thought.

He wasn't unused to John going out on dates. It happened often enough, the girls popping by after their fourth or fifth date and quickly deciding that they weren't ready to put up with Sherlock. They weren't heard from often after that.

"Are you sure? I could call Robin, tell her that I can't-"

"No, John. Go. I'll be fine."

John didn't say anything for a while. Sherlock imagined the doctor was flexing his hands like he did when he was nervous or frustrated.

Ten minutes passed, then fifteen and twenty. Sherlock began to hope that John had actually canceled his date in order to be with Sherlock as he sulked. Of course, Sherlock would stop sulking if John canceled his date. That, or if Lestrade texted him with a case he could use to take his mind off things.

Neither seemed likely at this time of evening, but Sherlock hoped nonetheless.

His heart sunk when he heard the creak of John's chair as he stood.

"All right, Sherlock. If you're sure you're fine, I'll be heading out now."

"Goodbye, John."

It was so easy for Sherlock to be crushed these days. It was so easy to hurt him. All John had to do was go out on a date, or deny their relationship to restaurant owners, or just blatantly flirt with women. He only had to smile that brilliant smile at Sherlock from across the room for Sherlock's heart to wail.

Even John's litanies of "Brilliant," or "Fantastic!" made Sherlock feel sick. It warmed his whole chest, coating first his heart, then his ribs and his lungs until he thought he couldn't breathe he was so consumed by his affections for John Watson. After the heat came the cold. The sudden realization that John could never love someone like Sherlock - the one he had every time the warmth overcame him - would chill his heart and ribs and lungs until he was sure he would freeze to death right then and there.

Sherlock was always dying, always healing, always hurting for John Watson. It had always been for John, and it always would be. Sherlock was happy to suffer this way because it wasn't really suffering, was it? Not if John was still his friend.

Sherlock sulked for nearly an hour and a half before deciding to just take a shower and try to sleep. If there was nothing to engage his brain, why shouldn't he turn it off for a while? There was no point in remaining conscious if there wasn't a case to solve or an experiment to do. Even if he couldn't sleep, his bed was a much more comfortable place to wallow in self-pity than the couch was.

Sherlock had just gotten into the shower when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs. He quickly scrubbed himself down and poured shampoo onto his hair. John walked past the loo and into the kitchen as Sherlock rinsed the soap from his curls. He stepped out from under the warm spray of water and grabbed a towel.

Sherlock sighed when he realized he had forgotten a shirt. He tugged on his pants and pajama bottoms, deciding it wouldn't scar John for life if he walked out of the loo shirtless. The detective was just grateful he had been lucky enough to have pants.

He walked out of the bathroom just as John walked out of the kitchen. The shorter man froze in front of him.

"Hello, John," Sherlock greeted. "Good date?"