Duplicated Singularity

Sherlock tapped his fingers erratically against the hard wood of the kitchen table. He was, thoroughly, at a loss.

There was nothing to do. Or rather, he knew what he wanted to do and he just couldn't do it. Because he wanted to do something with John, but John was doing something with his life. Sherlock couldn't bother him for every little thing like going out to Angelo's and having linguini and unlimited breadsticks on the house.

It wasn't for a lack of trying. He'd sent what he thought was a rather inconspicuous text two weeks ago (Dinner. Hour & half. Angelo's. SH) and received what he thought was a rather annoyed text in response (Cant drop everything pin drop. Entertain yourself. J), thus immediately deducing that John was working double shifts at surgery as well as taking care of Mary, who was in her final trimester of pregnancy.

(It was the texting. Sherlock had battered the traces of 'text talk' out of John shortly after they had met years ago, but the fact that John hadn't used an apostrophe in can't, typed out at, or typed out the entirety of his name rather than just the initial, meant he was in a rush and/or stressed. The fact that his response had been that he couldn't drop everything, given that dinner was at night-time, meant that he was working morning as well as evening and once he got home, his concern would be immediately on the things Mary couldn't do in her overly pregnant state, aka cleaning the house, so forth and etcetera.)

Normality dictated that just because something failed once didn't mean that it would again, but John's infatuation with him dictated that he would have called or texted if his schedule had freed up at all. It wasn't like him to forget, and if he was forgetting, it meant he still had a lot on his mind.

Sherlock sighed, his gust of hot breath escaping through slightly parted lips. Maybe it wasn't so much there was nothing to do as much as what he wanted to do couldn't be done and it frustrated him to no end to have to change his plans. Not that they'd been set in stone, but he had expected that John would still be there after he got married... more or less.

He had been prepared to step aside. That's what marriage meant. John was bringing someone else into his life and it was difficult to juggle a friendship, a marriage, a job, and a slight financial crisis (Sherlock knew of it through Mycroft and was planning out a regime of attack to anonymous help out). That was alright. Sherlock had known that from the day he had come back to London and he was willing to let it slide...

Provided that John was still going to be there.

Which... he wasn't.

Being selfish was unbecoming, his mind battered into his conscious thought over and over, but he couldn't help it. He hadn't been lying when he told Mycroft that he thought of it as a new chapter, but he had expected John to be there as well. Because what was the point of multiple chapters if the reoccuring characters didn't remain within them? You kept turning pages to find out what was going to happen between A and B and maybe sometimes C, but what happened when A was J and B was M and C was S and he was completely cut out together? Was it a case of returning in a later chapter or was it just something that was going to become its own spin-off? Sherlock didn't want to become his own spin-off; he'd done that enough when he'd finally found the story where he thought he ought to belong.

He shook his head slightly and pushed himself to his feet, swiping his mug off the table. Tea. He was British; tea fixed everything.

He wasn't so sure when he'd become so emotional. He thought it probably had something to do with the two years he was gone and then coming back. It was a strange thought to think that life went on entirely unaffected whether or not you were present or not. And even if it was affected, if it caused a fuss with him being a fake or breaking John's heart, it was a rift that would be paved over and, eventually, everyone just forgot your name. Making all the difference in the world didn't matter when you were dead and forgotten, because you were only a name then.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock jumped, his hand jerking the teapot and spilling hot water onto the counter before he righted himself. He hadn't heard footsteps, too caught up in his own world to notice.

"Pour me a cuppa, will you? Don't care what it is, as long as you've got some biscuits and good company to go with it," John said, pulling his jacket off and draping it over the back of the kitchen chair.

Sherlock stared at his friend for a moment, his body trying to catch up with his mind over the sudden re-appearance of his friend in their flat. John must have felt like this, exemplified by an unknown amount, when Sherlock had turned up nearly a year ago. That was particularly pathetic, Sherlock's mind supplied, that John managed to attack him when he showed up after two years, but all Sherlock could do was gape when he'd been without him for two weeks. There was something core-rattling about that and Sherlock didn't know what to think about it.

John's chair scraped the linoleum as he flopped into it, startling Sherlock back to reality. He turned back to the cabinet and grabbed John's mug, preparing the tea as fluidly as he could manage. He set the mug in front of John as the tea stained the water and proceeded to infuse its flavor, stopping next to his shoulder and looking down at the head that seemed more covered in gray than he could ever remember.

John looked up. "Oh, ta." He smiled warmly, albeit tiredly, fingers curling around the warm mug.

Sherlock's emotional level did a small flip-flop, moving between uncertain, and sad, and finally genuinely pleased, in the matter of seconds as he stood and breathed in the familiar scent that was John's shampoo, cologne, and something distinctly him. He lamented the fact that the flat no longer smelled of it.

John looked up again, expression turning puzzled. His eyebrows shot up, gaze settling on Sherlock's. "Hi?" he said, in a tone of question, a small smile visible in the corners of his mouth and the light in his eyes.

Sherlock blinked and mentally shook himself again. "Hey," he said in response, a casual smile finally finding his own lips. "Bad day?"

John snorted in dry amusement. "A couple weeks of bad days, but it might be turning around now."

Sherlock fought to restrain his unbridled spark of glee - because was that a reference that his time was better spent here, at Baker Street, of course it wasn't, but it was nice to think about - as he sat down in the chair next to John. "Good," he said, instead of anything he might have been thinking, pushing the tin of biscuits to John.

"Mhmm." John grabbed a biscuit and dunked it in his tea, nibbling on it tiredly. "I haven't seen you in awhile. You find a good case or something to pass the time?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, just... being bored."

John's eyebrows rose again. "And the flat is in this good of shape while you've been bored for two weeks?"

Sherlock smiled. "I find that while I have no flatmate to annoy, my level of enthusiasm to cause trouble is less than usual..."

John rolled his eyes. "That's because you have to clean up your own messes when I'm not here to clean plaster off the sofa or spray paint off the window."

"Perhaps." Sherlock gave him one of his best innocent smiles. "Who's to know?"

"I know," John said wisely. "I lived with you for two years."

"A year and a half," Sherlock corrected.

"It felt like ten," John countered.

Sherlock's smile had been growing during the exchange, blooming into a genuine grin when John gave his rebuttal. "Some of the best," he said, seriously, although without changing facial expression or tone.

"Some of the best," John echoed, tipping his mug towards Sherlock before taking a drink.

Sherlock pressed his lips together into a fine line, hiding the overwhelming joy that he was experiencing on the inside. Emotion was a fickle thing, but the warmth blossoming within his chest was something he was unaccustomed to, and something he wanted to continue to experience without ever letting it go again.

I wanted to get in Sherlock's head when he was feeling particularly lonely one day after John got married and this is what happened. I'm not sure if it's what I intended, but I like it nonetheless.

I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!