Maintaining a Personal Life

Chapter Eleven

John had just slid into the back of a taxi when he finally worked out what had been niggling at his brain for the past several minutes while he'd hastily gotten dressed. Molly had emailed Sherlock autopsy reports before when he'd needed them urgently and couldn't be bothered to examine the body himself. John was sure of it.

"Where to?" the cabby asked, and John paused, thinking. His mind kept hovering on a particular hunch that he hoped was wrong, but experience had taught him well.

"Can you just circle round the block for a bit?" John asked, ignoring the odd look the taxi driver gave him before he shrugged and complied with this strange request. John got another funny look when he then asked the driver to pull over farther down the street and wait for a few minutes.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Sherlock emerged from 221B with his coat drawn up to his chin. The rain had eased off to a cold drizzle from a grey sky, and as always Sherlock cut an imposing silhouette as he signalled for a taxi. John narrowed his eyes.

"Follow that car, would you?" John asked, a block of ice settling in his gut. Sherlock was the idiot he always insisted John was if he actually thought by now that John didn't realize when he was being sent away. To his credit, Sherlock rarely did so anymore because he knew that it enraged John—and with good reason. Just because John had forgiven Sherlock for his suicide stunt years ago didn't mean that he was going to sit back and make it easy for the other man to manipulate him whenever he pleased. "Stay well back, if you can."

"What are you, some kind of stalker?" The driver asked him, throwing a sceptical glance over his shoulder.

"Private detective. And I'll pay double."

"Righto."

*

They followed Sherlock's cab to a modest block of flats on the West End. John stayed in the back of his taxi as he watched Sherlock get out and look directly at John before turning and walking away. John narrowed his eyes, the ice in his stomach melting to simmering fury as he tossed his promised double fare at the driver and slammed the car door with unnecessary force. He stomped off after Sherlock, catching up to him fairly easily at the mouth of an alleyway leading behind the building where Sherlock had stopped and appeared to be waiting for him.

"So." John's temper was further ignited by the impassive way Sherlock watched him approach, his expression shuttered and unreadable. "You want to explain what the hell that was about?"

"Not particularly," Sherlock said with a matter-of-fact calm that irritated John even more. "Your driver was sloppy. I spotted him barely halfway here. I hope you didn't overpay."

"Shut up," John snarled through clenched teeth, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he squared off in front of Sherlock. "I want to know why you still think you can just—ditch me, whenever you feel like it. Or don't feel like it."

"Now's not really the time for—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" John's voice rose significantly and attracted the attention of a few passers-by on the street, but he was too angry to care. He stepped closer to Sherlock in the shadow of the buildings looming over them, lowering his voice but escalating in his fury. "You're unbelievable. I don't know why I honestly expected..."

"What?" Sherlock asked quietly when John trailed off. He was studiously not looking at John now, his gaze fixed somewhere over John's shoulder. "What did you expect?"

"I don't know," John replied, his anger suddenly fading into a sickening disappointment as he began to doubt himself. It was entirely possible that what he'd imagined to have changed between them yesterday was in fact entirely one-sided. Just because Sherlock was admittedly attracted to him and clearly open to adding a sexual component to their relationship didn't necessarily mean that he wanted anything—more. "I guess I thought I'd earned the right to be more than just a bloody inconvenience to you, at least."

John looked away from Sherlock, clearing his throat in an attempt to regain some dignity because he was certain his foolishness was completely transparent. He wasn't used to being the needy one, the one who demanded reassurances, and damn Sherlock for reducing him to this.

"John..."

"Human error, right?" John said with a bitter twist to his mouth that echoed the twist in his stomach. "God, I really am an idiot. I actually thought for a moment that you might... you know what, just forget it. Delete it, or whatever it is you do. You'll have to teach me that trick, sometime."

Sherlock was silent for so long that John finally squared his shoulders and looked back up at him. Sherlock's eyes were locked on him now, and his expression had warped into something very serious and borderline-pained. "John—" he began in a soft voice that was slightly gravelled, and he seemed to struggle with finding exactly the right words. "You weren't wrong. What you thought...regarding my feelings. For you. It may be an error but I don't care."

John swallowed, somewhat taken aback by Sherlock's admission—fumbling though it was. It effectively doused his anger and his doubt, leaving him merely confused. "Then what's this about?" John asked a little more calmly, his mouth drawn in a quizzical frown. "Tell me."