I thought I'd try something new and so I basically came up with something where I pick a word for every day and write a short chapter of a story around it. This will maybe end in Johnlock, maybe end in complete and utter angst. It depends entirely on the words that I find in my dictionary or on the internet.

Based partially around Sherlock's fixation with language and my own love of learning new words.

eccedentesiast

noun.

A person who fakes a smile.

He loves words, especially the complicated ones that nobody really knows about. He likes how they can explain so much and yet never really explain anything at all. He likes how he can use them to get what he wants from people, manipulate them and get the information he needs. He likes the easy-to-place labels but doesn't particularly bend to them; uses them to make it easier to categorise things within his mind palace but not to put on himself (unless he so happens to need to use the label to prove a point: "High functioning sociopath, do your research."). He likes how words can say everything he needs them to if only he can muster up the courage to spit them out.

However, unfortunately, getting the words out is the hardest part of speaking. Thinking the words up is easy, done in an instant. But actually being able to say them takes more effort than he would gladly admit. That's why he hasn't told John yet, probably why he never really will. It would be risking far too much if he just blurted it out randomly, and so he won't. He doesn't want to ruin the perfectly good relationship that has formed between him and John just because of some stupid emotions that he's having.

The dictionary snaps shut with a distinctive and definite snap, dust swirling up from the pages before Sherlock places it back down on the desk with a small sigh. John stirs at the noise (of course John is there, he's always there; an unrelenting presence that is both craved and unwanted), turning his head towards Sherlock as he frowns. The detective pushes his hands into his hair and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself on the edge of this cliff that he has unknowingly climbed. It's not that he doesn't want to feel this (well, he doesn't, but that's beside the point), it's just the uncertainty behind the whole ordeal. If he knew how John felt it would be entirely likely that this would be just as hard as it is already because he wouldn't want to be the one to initiate something out of the blue. But he doesn't know how John feels, and hopefully John doesn't know how he feels either.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John says and Sherlock realises that he's clenching his hands into fists, tendrils of hair caught between his fingers. He loosens his grip, pushing air out of his lungs in another sigh.

"Yes, fine. Just..." He fights to find a good excuse, extracting his hands from his hair entirely as he swallows. "I've encountered a problem with one of my hypothesis for this experiment," he says after a good few seconds of pause, lifting his head up and pulling the corners of his lips up into a rather forced smile as he looks over at John.

Wonderful, naive, unassuming John. Sherlock has no idea how he has managed to keep him in his life for so long, even after three years of hiding from him for both of their own goods. They're still best friends no matter how much Sherlock may manage to royally fuck things up, but that's probably part of the reason why John is still here, part of Sherlock's unorthodox charm that somehow continues to pull the good doctor into his space and into his life. But they both know that what they have together isn't just a friendship, not even a close friendship. There's too much long eye contact; too many wayward touches; too much giggling at crime scenes; too much not quite flirting; too much intense tension between them. It's almost painful but completely and utterly depended upon to be present.

They share something more than friendship and it's the only thing that Sherlock hasn't quite managed to find a word to fully describe. He's not really sure if he wants to find a word for it. What they share is something that cannot be articulated and can hardly be described with the simple tones and tenors of words. It feels special if he cannot find a label to put onto it, if it can stay fully individual from everything else.

Their more-than-friendship-but-we're-not-a-couple relationship will never be something that Sherlock can describe with words. But he doesn't want to be able to.

"Do you need some help with it?" John asks and Sherlock's smile drops into an expression of confusion.

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock asks and then immediately realises that what he said what 'a bit not good', realises that he could definitely have phrased that much better than he did.

"I don't have friends." "No, I wonder why."

"You may not be the brightest of people, but as a conductor of light you are invaluable."

"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." "Friends protect you."

Part of himself is still in the defensive and some of the walls that he built up before he met John continue to persist and stay standing in their more than shaky foundations. He's still programmed to the default setting of 'Push People Away', even if he wants to keep John close.

"No reason, no reason at all," John sighs, standing up and putting the newspaper down on the table before Sherlock can take back what he said, reword it and make it good like he knows he can't be. John grabs his coat from the back of the door and slips it on.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock questions, realising too late, again, that what he said should have been an apology. But John, once more, speaks before he can speak again and try to make things better.

"Out," is the simple reply that shows Sherlock that he's hurt John's feelings, that he's still a bit raw from Sherlock's return six months ago.

It shows Sherlock that everything will never be quite as alright as it was in the instant that he faked his own death to try and make things better, evidently to only fail in his efforts. John will not trust him like he once did and Sherlock understands and loathes the fact, yet he refuses to blame John for his own actions. This gap that is forming between them is entirely his fault; he just needs to find a way to close it.