make Basti bi, you cowards

Sherlock is sitting in his chair with his eyes closed and the head slightly tilted forwards, forehead resting on his clasped hands. Several newspaper clippings and a handful of rather crude drawings are draped over the armrest next to him. The top drawing flutters as it is eventually blown down by a gust of autumnal wind that creeps in through the open window. Sherlock does not make any attempt at picking it up.

For a moment John wonders if Sherlock has fallen asleep. After all, from the steps he could hear on the stairs in the middle of the night, Sherlock could not have gotten much sleep. Maybe it is best if John left him alone. He would not want to disturb Sherlock’s much-needed rest. But something stops him from turning around and taking the steaming cups of tea back to the kitchen.

This was supposed to be his last try, his last attempt at forming a crack in the shell that surrounds the great Sherlock Holmes.

John lingers and thinks. He lets his eyes wander over the dark curls that adorn his flatmate’s fascinating mind that he so desperately wishes to get a glimpse into. He wants to get to know the man he is sharing his quarters with, who sometimes – Not often enough, John thinks – looks at him with a smile so bright that John cannot help but smile back, engulfed by the warmth and mystery this man radiates.

There is a lump in John’s throat as he eventually sets the tray down on the table and tries to fall into his own seat without making too much noise. His gaze is still fixed on Sherlock.

Something flutters in John’s chest, something that leaves his throat dry.

He finally averts his eyes and grabs one of the teacups. The porcelain is so wonderfully smooth and hot underneath his fingertips. He raises the cup to his lips and takes in the comforting and familiar scent of bergamot. He is about to take a sip when he feels a pair of eyes on him.

“I made tea,” John says, almost defensively, and he points his head in the direction of the table where the steam rises from the second teacup.

Sherlock lowers his hands and puts his arms on the armrests, his left hand landing on the sheets of newspaper. The contact seems to remind him that he used this spot for collecting evidence, which he bunches up and throws onto an ever-growing pile of documents on his desk.

John duly notes that Sherlock has not uttered a single word yet, in fact, he has not said anything in the last couple of hours. Nonetheless, a shy smile forms on his lips as he watches Sherlock reach for the other cup of tea. This was an improvement to a few weeks ago when Sherlock would not even consider the offer of a drink at all.

And even though a simple word of gratitude is still amiss, John no longer minds its absence. Instead, he can see it, right there in the way the wrinkle on Sherlock’s forehead disappears as he sips his tea, the way the tension leaves his shoulders.

This would be John’s favourite part of the day, if there wasn’t this invisible wall between him and Sherlock, a wall that still separates the two men.

A wall that John is intent on tearing down, one way or another.

“How are you coming along with your case?”, John asks, his voice quiet and low, as if it is cautiously opening a door to see if it could enter the room.

Sherlock lifts his head and meets John’s eyes. He looks startled, taken aback, as if he was caught doing something forbidden. He does not answer John’s question and instead turns his attention back to his tea. He takes another sip, the slurping sound joining the crackling of the firewood.

John wants to sigh, but he stops himself. Maybe this is all a mistake. Maybe Sherlock prefers to live alone after all, and the only reason he has taken John in is to share the rent and not at all the company. Maybe all of John’s attempts of becoming Sherlock’s friend have been in vain. Maybe –

“Excuse me,” Sherlock says as he gets up from his armchair, interrupting John’s spiralling thoughts. Without saying another word he disappears into his bedroom, positively slamming the door behind him.

John presses his lips together. Understood, he thinks, nodding to himself. An unexplainable sadness begins to course through his chest. He does not want to admit it, but perhaps he has had an entirely wrong impression of Sherlock. Maybe he should let this go sooner rather than later, if this is how unhappy it all makes him.

Yes, maybe.

John doesn’t know how long he sits there in silence, watching the trees bending in the wind behind the windows. Eventually he looks at the cup in his hands. The tea has gone cold.

John does not sleep particularly well that night.

- - -

It takes John a while to adapt to this growing distance between him and Sherlock. In order to escape its awkwardness, he often goes out for a stroll through Regent’s Park, usually before Sherlock has even gotten up for breakfast. When it’s not raining, he sits down on a bench and simply watches the world go by – anything that would distract him from that ache in his heart. That ache which has become a constant reminder of his failed attempts at getting to know Sherlock Holmes. He is slowly coming to terms with the fact that he might never truly know this man.

But John is struggling more than he anticipated. Anytime the two are in a room together, it takes everything in John not to pound his fist on the desk and demand openness and honesty from Sherlock. He knows that those things cannot be forced, especially not if he wants to have a sincere relationship built on mutual trust. And so he keeps his distance.

But still, John aches.

Which is why he buries himself in work.

One afternoon, John is sitting in the living room, his notebook open on his legs. His skin is all nice and warm from the orange light of the fireplace. Every now and then John catches himself looking across the room as if he is expecting something, someone.

But Sherlock’s chair is empty, has been all day. John can hear him in his bedroom, puttering around with containers of ash, if he had to make a guess. Invaluable detective work, no doubt.

And so the day goes by. John is so engrossed in his notebook that he doesn’t even notice the sun starting to set. He is going over his latest notes, absentmindedly chewing on his pencil when he hears the floorboards creak behind him. And then there is a shadow, he can see it out of the corner of his eyes. John puts his pen down and lifts his head.

It’s Sherlock, a smiling Sherlock. With the tea tray in his hands.

John’s mouth falls open. For a split second he believes he’s dreaming.

“I made tea,” Sherlock says, his voice a bit creaky. He clears his throat. John knows it’s because he hasn’t talked today. In fact, neither has he.

And because John is still frozen in his seat, Sherlock balances the tray on one hand and gives John a teacup with the other. A shiver runs down John’s spine as he brushes his fingertips over Sherlock’s hand, taking the cup from him, careful not to spill any of the hot liquid. He is still not convinced that this isn’t a dream.

“Th–thank you,” he stammers, stumbling over the words. He might just be surprised by Sherlock’s sudden appearance, but the smile on Sherlock’s face certainly doesn’t help. It overwhelms John when he realises that he has missed this smile.

Sherlock sits down across from him, clinging to his own cup as if his life depends on it. John has never seen him so nervous before.

“John, I–“ Sherlock’s voice interrupts the silence. He opens his mouth again, and by the deep intake of breath it is clear that he is searching for the correct words.

Correct words for what?, John wonders, his thoughts running wild.

Sherlock clears his throat again. “John, I want to express my sincerest apology,” he finally says. “I have not been a good flatmate, not even an adequate one. Far from it, in fact.” He sinks his head, almost as if in shame. His gaze lands on the teacup in his hands. “These past weeks you have shown me nothing but kindness and interest, and I didn’t return it.”

There is a glint in his eyes that John cannot quite make out.

“You are a good man, John, and I consider myself lucky to have you. If you are still interested, I want to tell you about my cases.”

John shakes his head. “You really don’t have to, Sherlock, not if you–“

“No, no, I want to tell you, John, I just–“ Sherlock raises his free hand to his face, kneading his temples. He shrugs his shoulders. “I have been alone, all my life. I–”

“You have two siblings.”

“They don’t count,” Sherlock says, a tad too harshly. He takes in a deep breath, starting again. “I have always been alone, in life and at work. I am not used to having a–“ He stops, waving his hand in the air between himself and John.

“A flatmate,” John says.

“A friend,” Sherlock says at the same time.

John smiles, his cheeks heating up. It seems as though all of his attempts at getting closer to Sherlock had not been in vain after all. He feels his heart thump loudly in his chest as Sherlock meets his eyes again. And although John is usually good with words, he does not quite know how to describe this feeling, except that it simply feels right.

“I no longer want to keep any secrets from you,” Sherlock says, finally.

John nods. “No more secrets,” he echoes with a smile. His chest feels warm, like a swarm of bees have made it their home. He lifts up his teacup, takes a sip – and contorts his face into a grimace. “Sherlock, this tastes terrible!” He pulls his head back from the cup as if it bit him.

“What?” Sherlock frowns and tries the tea, swirling it around in his mouth before he swallows. “It tastes fine to me,” he says.

“Far too much milk, Sherlock.”

“I guess I’m going to have to learn how you like your tea,” Sherlock replies, and the sly smile in the corner of his lips is apology enough for the unpleasant taste in John’s mouth.

“You have to learn a lot, then,” John clarifies, catching himself staring a bit too long at Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and makes a point of taking a big gulp from his tea. His smile does not waver. “You are right, this is awful,” he concludes and puts the cup away.

John laughs, giving the almost white tea a last look before putting the cup next to Sherlock’s. When he leans back in his chair again, he tilts his head slightly to the left. “So,” he begins, crossing his arms. “I believe I was promised some detective stories.”

Sherlock takes in a deep breath. And he tells him. Tells him about a house that has been abandoned on Brixton Road. About a dead person, a murder. About writings on the wall, scarlet red.