To Make Life Worth Living

~14~

The flat was cold and silent when they had finally paced the streets enough to make it all the way back. Sherlock, used to running the alleys of London, didn't mind but he did wonder if this was something John did daily or if he was merely in a walking mood. The thing that scared Sherlock the most was that he knew he could deduce it but he really didn't want to; talking to John in person and not snooping around his private life suddenly held some sort of value for the detective.

Perhaps this is what personal growth feels like? Sherlock found himself musing.

John led him through to the small living room before the soldier left to change out of his uniform. Sherlock desperately hoped he wasn't overstepping his welcome since John really wasn't cheery. One thing over shone that, Sherlock was in John's flat again! The man hadn't completely rejected him from his life. He hadn't turned his back on their relationship and everything they'd started to build.

Sherlock's eyes took in every detail of the room greedily. He wanted the space committed to memory just in case he was to be excluded from John's life for another period in the future. The small box room was really inadequate to hold the father and son especially since most of Hamish's toys were scattered around.

There were steps coming closer but they took a turn into the kitchen. The temptation to follow was consuming for someone with a curiosity like Sherlock's but he remained rooted to his seat that John had presented for him. The kettle in the room behind his back clicked on and it made a racket as it boiled.

There was a clink of china against the work surface and cupboards being swiftly opened and closed. The bubbling stopped and the sound of trickling water echoed from the kitchen. Sherlock waited patiently.

John stepped around the corner a few seconds later with his hands laden with a tray. He balanced it easily until he reached the small coffee table where he set it down.

The soldier then collapsed beside the detective, letting out a heavy breath as the sofa took his weight. The cushion of the sofa let out a puff of air.

The silence was crisp. John's grey eyes flittered over the other man momentarily before shuffling forward to pour out the tea into the mug. He was glad that the movement forward allowed him to avoid eye contact with the kind Holmes. He fiddled around with the pots for longer than necessary. Sherlock leant forward and scooped up his tea. He could feel the air around them.

"Are you okay?" John finally asked, glancing over his shoulder for barely a second.

Shocked, Sherlock recoiled, "Me?"

The army doctor scratched at his arm self consciously, "Yeah, you're not... Mad?"

"Why would I be mad?"

There was a loud noise outside as a large truck thundered down the small street down in front of the small block of flats. The noise easily breached the thin walls. He could feel himself swallow.

John changed the subject swiftly, "I haven't seen you in months. How has detective work been going?"

"I don't doubt you've had Lestrade keeping tabs on me since day one." He didn't mean for it to sound so bitter but an apparent resentment rose to the surface.

Guilty, John peered at the carpet, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I know I... I know I shut you out but i wasn't in any state to be going out or anything." He admitted.

"John, it's okay." The tall man breathed, relaxing his shoulders. It really wasn't John's fault. He'd just felt angry for being shut out. "Do you need to talk about it?" He didn't know what he was doing but Mrs Hudson had asked this of him enough times.

There was a tense silence.

"Yes, I think I do."