That Ship Has Sailed

John & Sherlock

The case had been a long and tiring one. Sherlock had not slept or eaten in days and John had barely caught a wink of sleep and a bite of food with Sherlock dragging him in and out of places so fast. Both collapsed into their chairs in the flat, closing their eyes. John pinched the bridge of his nose and Sherlock held his hands together, resting against his lips.

The only sound that could be heard was Mrs. Hudson singing to herself as she did who knows what in the flat below.

Finally, John spoke up, "You hungry? I'm going to get some food."

Sherlock didn't speak at first, but when he heard John stand, he simply said, "Take your time."

John paused at the doorway, then started to leave. He took his coat off it's hook by the door and had his hand on the handle before he turned and faced the stairs again. He pursed his lips and cleared his throat, lifting his foot to the first step. Changing his mind, he turned back around. One final change of his mind brought him back up to the flat, "You know," he said as he started up the stairs, talking loud enough for Sherlock to hear, "You could be a bit kinder now that you're back. I still haven't quite forgiven you for the whole--"

He stopped when he entered the flat. Sherlock froze for just a moment before shouting, "I thought you were going out?"

John paused, then stepped forward, "Christ, Sherlock--"

"John," Sherlock said more calmly, pulling his robe over his bare shoulders, though his trousers were still on, "On second thought, I'll have a sandwich and some chips."

"Shut up," John said quickly, "Where did you get those? What happened to you?" John pointed.

Sherlock ignored him and walked over the coffee table and sat back in his chair, pressing his hands together and placing them against his lips once more.

"Don't do that--don't you bloody do that," John said, walking forward, "Where the hell did you get those, Sherlock, and don't lie to me!"

"All in a day's work," Sherlock replied, monotonously/

"No, that--that isn't from a normal day's work. What happened to you the past two years? Is that where they came fro--Christ," John turned around, one hand scratching his head while the other made a fist. Soon, the other hand joined in making a fist and John stood, facing away from Sherlock, pursing his lips in thought. "Were you tortured?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock was quiet, but his hands slowly moved from his lips. One rested on the arm of his chair while the other picked at a piece of cracking leather.

"I've seen things like this before, Sherlock," John said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and spoke more clearly, "You see things during war. Horrible things, Sherlock. Some of the men who came back from it--they never--they had--"

"John," Sherlock's voice was steady and calm as he interrupted his friend.

"No, Sherlock, you can't just explain this away with facts and nonsense. Something happened to you and if I ever find out who did it--" John's voice cracked again and it broke off his sentence.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at John now, saying his name once more. John turned around now and Sherlock stood, standing several feet away, "Taking down Moriarty's--"

"I know all about that, Sherlock," John interrupted, "Don't try to explain it away!"

"I'm not, John," Sherlock said, "If you'll shut up!"

John was startled, but shut his mouth, standing and clearing his throat, motioning with his hand for Sherlock to go on. He tried to compose himself as he stood, trying to be the hardened Army vet he used to be.