A/N: I've decided to make this into a much much longer series than was first intended. I've got the storyboard planned so you can expect (relatively) regular updates and lengthier chapters and more in depth plot.
"Let's talk." Sherlock parroted.
He was still too far from John for John's liking, but John thought it best not to push those limits. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, and John cut him off like the gentleman he was.
"Before you start on your rant, let me tell you something."
He saw Sherlock tense up at his words. He continued anyway, "Listen, I'm not mad." Sherlock's slope of a frown only steepened. "I'm just lonely.", he finished. And there it was. There were the words that would keep Sherlock up at night as he mussed over how someone as charismatic and amicable as John Watson could ever be lonely. And it would take Sherlock days before he realised that John had meant he felt lonely because Sherlock himself was missing from him. It was just one day. And Sherlock always planned to trudge back up those stairs and face whatever battlefield he had set up for himself. But he had never planned that John would find him and confront him. He wasn't yet prepared for that.
He only realised how long he'd been silent for when John asked him to continue. He did not speak. John wasn't sure whether he preferred he did. He could feel the weight of John's stare as it bore into him much like his has done to others: deducing, seeing through every mask like an x-Ray.
Sherlock was quite the sight as John raked his eyes over the detective. All crumpled shirt and messy hair that needed a wash. His legs were clad in pants creased at the wrong parts, his hands we paler than usual, as was his face. And his lips' normal pink tint intertwined with blue. That was sign enough of hypothermia to rile up the doctor in John. His arm reached to wrap around the detective and embrace him a one arm hug. Sherlock seemed to be relaxing into it when John abruptly spoke.
"Jesus, Sherlock. You're freezing. Bloody freezing."
"John."
"No. Get up and get in bed."
"John."
"Now, Sherlock." Then, because he was almost desperate, he added, "Please."
John stood up, grunting as he did (damn his knee). He outstretched a hand to Sherlock and was surprised when he was so pliant to take it. One firm tug later and they were closing the door of 221C.
John held a very possessive hand on the small of Sherlock's back as they climbed the stairs. And any other day, he would've enjoyed the sensation. But now, he only felt worry wash over him.
~~~
Once upstairs, John wasted no time in what would be considered gallant things. He practically shoved Sherlock to a chair. He practically ripped Sherlock's clothes off. And he most definitely pushed Sherlock into a steaming shower.
"I'll make tea.", he had told him, not that he had received an answer. Not that he had expected one. Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, even for him. Because Sherlock was no longer quiet, not around John at least. And that's what hurt more that any words would have. The quiet burned. The quiet reminded while he tried to forget. He had not lied when he told Sherlock he wasn't mad, but the quiet was enough to make him regret. He reconsidered his emotions. Maybe he was mad? He had the right to be, anyway. He hadn't forgotten their situation, how could he? How could he forget the desire in Sherlock's voice as he said the bastard's name. The hoarse whisper was engraved in his memory and he wanted nothing more than to burn Paul in effigy. Then he realised he did not even know who Paul was let alone what he looked like. This only angered John.
He found himself slamming the teacups on the table rather hard. They didn't deserve that. They were better than that. They had been with him through his ups and downs and lefts and rights and everything in between. 'A cuppa makes everything alright.' he remembered his nana saying. And just like those teacups, it was John's turn to be there, for Sherlock. Because, somehow, their ordeal had affected Sherlock in ways John had not let it affect him.
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Fanfiction"What mattered was now, this exact moment, when John loved him. What mattered was that Sherlock had found a reason to smile. What mattered was that John's fingers had found their way to Sherlock's chest and were gently running along his skin below h...
