Four-Letter Defect

Beating Expectations

Two days had passed since John left the flat, and already Sherlock was in a state of extreme desolation. He hadn't eaten or slept in over 48 hours, and he was still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing when John kissed him.

John kissed him.

Just the memory of those lips against his brought butterflies to Sherlock's stomach and caused his heart to beat in triple time. His skin tingled all over as he thought about the way John's hands felt cupping his face, those firm lips pressed against his own.

But it was all too fleeting a memory. The kiss had lasted mere seconds, though Sherlock blamed himself for that. He had constantly cursed himself for the way he reacted. Surely if he hadn't frozen in place John would have continued. Or perhaps if he had gotten his vocal chords to work properly he could've called John back, told him that it was all fine. But of course, Sherlock had royally screwed up, and now who knew what would happen with them?

He considered calling John, but each time his hand gripped his phone he thought about how horribly the phone call could go and the next thing he knew his phone was either on the floor or halfway across the room.

Sherlock spent a lot of time on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson came up ever so often to check on him, trying to get him to eat, or do something, and always failing.

After about a week Sherlock called Lestrade, pretending to be asking for a case when really he just wanted to know if the Detective Inspector had seen John. John obviously wasn't staying in Baker Street, but Sherlock knew he wasn't the type to sleep on the streets or go to a hotel. After cycling through several possibilities Sherlock decided on Lestrade. He and John were good enough friends so that John would feel comfortable spending a few nights on his couch. However, Lestrade hadn't seen John in days apparently, and there was no case he needed Sherlock's help for. He supposed it was for the best; Sherlock wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind at the moment, and going out on a case alone probably wouldn't go well.

Sherlock sat in melancholy silence for an immeasurable amount of time, staring at the door and wishing for John to open it and come inside, for John to come home.

He heard a click, and his heart skipped a beat. The disappointment Sherlock felt when Mrs. Hudson stuck her head inside the room was insurmountable.

"Just letting you know I'm back from the hospital." Sherlock made a dismissive noise and turned on his side so that he was facing the back of the couch. He heard Mrs. Hudson muttering disapprovingly, but unfortunately she didn't retreat like she usually did. Instead, she came inside the room and closed the door behind her. Sherlock continued to ignore her, but instead of leaving she sat down on the sofa where Sherlock's feet were. Sherlock curled up even further, but not because he was making room for her.

"I saw John today."

Sherlock instantly turned and sat up, bringing his knees up beneath his chin as he stared expectantly at Mrs. Hudson.

"Where? What was he doing? Did you speak to him? What did you say?"

"I saw him in St. Bart's- No, he wasn't a patient. I ran into him in the hallway." Mrs. Hudson added when she saw the stricken look on Sherlock's face. "He didn't look well though, Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he looked alright, physically. He's got his cast off now. Still walks with a cane." Sherlock sighed dramatically, and silently prayed for Mrs. Hudson to just get it out already. He loved the woman but she had the terrible habit of going off on tangents that no one cared enough about to listen to. Mrs. Hudson seemed oblivious to Sherlock's agitation and continued with her story. "He was smiling and all that, but I could tell he wasn't alright. He even admitted he wasn't okay."