“John, I owe you a thousand apologies…I had no idea you would be so…affected.”
Sherlock’s nose crinkles in a disapproving taste towards the small tuft of hair running the length above his flatmates mouth. He rolls his eyes and turns the other way so that when he bares his fangs in frustration, John dosent make the mistake of the emotion being aimed towards himself.
It’s pointed in the direction of that ungodly mustache, which Sherlock finds himself in secret despise of. He reads far too much into the simple change of appearance, the primary data being that John Watson has changed during his three year absence. The secondary, being that mustache signifies, to John at least, a certain degree of sentimental closure towards his past.
“Honestly, John, the jumpers alone were horrid.”
John self consciously scrubs his fingers across his mustache, leaning forward. His cane ominously rests against both the neglected flaking forest-green paint of the wooden bench and the aging man’s right leg. John glances around regent’s park, unable to make eye contact with the detective. He subtly clenches his hands together beneath his chin to stabilize the returning intermittent tremors, in an attempt to hide this information from Sherlock.
“I’m no longer caught up in youthful adventures, Sherlock. It felt like the right thing to do… you know… stop trying to cling to days past.”
John chooses his words so very carefully, so as not to open old wounds. Sherlock is unsure of wether those wounds are his own or the doctor’s. He Huffs with a fold of his arms. Sulking, he sinks into the bench and follows John’s absent gaze. He is watching two children play together on a tuft of grass. Sherlock ignores the deductions of their life filtering across his eyes. ‘Youth’ had somehow become synonymous for John’s time with Sherlock. John was subtly telling his friend that he had outgrown Sherlock Holmes. As if he were an article of clothing in which John, reposing through his dull monotonous routine of an inactive lifestyle had become too fat to fit the detective into his life any longer.
“God help us, you are not to the point of dieting alongside Mycroft are you?
“We can’t all be running about the streets of London.”
Confirmation. Sherlock bolts upright in the bench glaring at this stranger-to-him. Upset, he loses control of his willpower to remain above “bit not good.” With a glare towards everything that is far too average about the doctor, He reads John. An elementary school book which Sherlock finds himself ripping pages upon pages of the well guarded secrets protected beneath dull, boring covers. Sherlock claws at the wounds, which weren’t particularly healing anyways. and Here I thought you fancied yourself a doctor, John. They were infectiously festering his flatmate’s existence. Ink spreading across the clarity of type. Sherlock would give them the attention they needed. He would painfully pour salt into them so that they would finally begin to heal.
“You get a wife out of it, Mycroft gets the credit..and for me?” Sherlock snarls towards the spectrum of emotion flicking across John’s features.
“Well, there still remains the cocaine-bottle.“
By the time Sherlock finishes, he can’t remember what he had stated. After all he was merely relating the visual language around him into words. A Translator reading from an open book.
But the sting of his face as Watson abruptly stands from the bench, cane forgotten, shaking fingers clenched into military ammunition, gives Sherlock a self-satisfied grin. Youthful desire at least, remained within the aging man. A punch to the face was a small price to pay.
“Piss Off!”
Before John can stop himself He shouts the one thing he promised not to. Not towards Sherlock Holmes. Not like everyone else. Sherlock’s smug grin breaks into a sad and distant frown. His eyes fog over betraying the emotion of hearing those two words from his blogger. After a moment, Sherlock stands, taking the doctor’s advice in full pivoting on his heel to walk away.
It was only a matter of time. John was no different than the rest.
In that moment, John Watson really dosen’t feel like himself.
He dosent feel like John. Sherlock drives the point home, adressing him by his surname with a flip of his collar.
“Watson.”
And with that, he’s gone.
What he said before. he meant it.
He dosent have friends.