Time Makes it Harder (JohnLock)

Alone Again

John steps out of the shower and pulls on clothes, going to the room to sit on the bed next to Sherlock. "Sherlock, I'm sorry that this took you by surprise."

He gives a small, fake snore and John rolls his eyes in frustration. "Goodbye Sherlock. I love you."

He gets no reply, and just leaves the flat, the door closing loudly behind him. He passes Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

"You're going early John." She says with a smile, her hands trembling as she carries a tray with 2 teacups of tea.

"Uh, couldn't sleep." He says as he passes her and exits the building without another word.

"Oh dear." She says, and continues up the steps to the flat. Opening the door she calls out cautiously. "Woohoo, Sherlock?"

He comes from the room wrapped in a sheet, his black hair a flaming mess.

"Oh, Sherlock." She places the tray down and wraps her arms around the soldier. "It's so good to see you again." He grunts in response and picks up a teacup. "You must be happy to see John again, no?"

"Yes, I suppose." He sips from the steaming liquid.

"You suppose? Is something wrong?" She says.

"He got a job." Sherlock pouts.

"Well, yes, he had to support himself somehow. And from what I've heard he really likes it." Mrs Hudson says, taking the other cup that was originally meant for John.

"But that's not the problem! I don't have anything against him having a job, but he never told me about it in his letters. And if he really loves it wouldn't he have told me?" Sherlock thinks, his mind not working properly.

"Oh, I don't know dear." She shakes her head and places the cup back on the tray. "Maybe he forgot, or didn't want you to worry while you were away. He was very worried about you Sherlock, he missed you so much." She stands up and places a hand on his shoulder. "If I were you, I really wouldn't worry." She takes the tray and leaves quietly when he doesn't respond and Sherlock is left alone in the flat. He read the paper 3 times, heated up the kettle only to enjoy listening to it whistle then turn it off again. He turns on the telly, and tries to deduct the lives of the actors and characters but fails.

I wish I could just....

He steeples his hands under his chin and tries to go to his mind palace, but every little bump from downstairs, or hum from the lights distracts him, and he soon gives up, moving to the bedroom and idly lays in the bed. A stray tear drips down his cheek, but he wipes it away. Why wouldn't he just tell me?