To Be Happy

To Be Harsh

It has been thought that the connection between two friends exceeds that of romance. It was John Watson's opinion that you could not have romance without that friendship. Sherlock Holmes barely believed in romance to begin with.

It was Sunday, now, but Sherlock was still thinking about John on Friday night. The way he looked when he'd gotten home. The fact that he hadn't kissed his date goodnight. The outfit he'd changed into because of their conversation. The fact that he'd gotten home so fast that he didn't spend the time to think about her on the walk back. The fact that this date ended differently than most of John's first dates. This one ended with someone else on John Watson's mind. A different woman, perhaps. Maybe not. Sherlock wasn't sure.

It was a morning, and the Baker Street boys were working some sort of case that Sherlock wasn't focused on and had probably already solved. He wasn't sure. His thoughts hadn't caught up to him yet.

It was nice outside, for once. Clear(ish) skies and white clouds and bright leaves on trees that no one noticed because of the crime scene in front of them. A bird was building a nest in front of them. Maybe it wouldn't get to finish, before the rain.

Sherlock had already solved the case, he realized, as all his thoughts finally came together. But he walked around for a few more seconds or so because he appreciated the silence.

In these few seconds that Sherlock Holmes was stealing for peace of mind, a certain Greg Lestrade was thinking his own thoughts.

Lestrade was thinking that it was possible that something had come between the detective and his best friend. Or maybe something had brought them closer. He was having a hard time telling which.

On one hand, John Watson had his eyes trained on Sherlock. He followed his movements, focused on every detail. Sherlock Holmes didn't notice this. Greg Lestrade most certainly did.

On the other hand, however, Sherlock Holmes hadn't stood within three feet of the doctor in quite a while. The pair used to be inseparable, bumping shoulders and hands at every chance. This new personal space issue between them had Lestrade playing guessing games in his mind.

The guessing games were interrupted by Sherlock suddenly spilling the solution to the case, along with a quick explanation. The detective then smiled at Lestrade and walked away, somewhere that was insignificant to Lestrade and therefore forgotten. The doctor, however, had different views.

While Greg may not have been paying attention to where Sherlock had gone, he was focused enough to notice when John Watson quickly left his side and followed the detective. Lestrade sighed, and started to leave the crime scene. He didn't have time to keep up with the Baker Street Boys.

John Watson, coincidentally, couldn't keep up with the Baker Street Boys (or, well, one of them). He was walking faster than was comfortable, and he wasn't slowing down, but Sherlock's tall and thin figure always seemed a little further away, every time he glanced up. He wasn't sure where they were going. He just didn't want to walk behind his best friend the whole way there, so he called out to him.

"Sherlock!" he bellowed, and the detective's pace seemed to slow. Mumbling quite a few curses under his breath, John ran to catch up to Sherlock Holmes, who had fallen into John's normal walking speed. John didn't notice. They walked in silence to a destination that still remained a mystery.

A mystery to all, it seemed, because Sherlock Holmes wasn't planning to go anywhere. He had planned to take a much-needed break and walk aimlessly around the city, alone with his thoughts. He had not planned for the love of his life to tag along.

Not the love of my life, he reminded himself. Not anymore. We're getting over that.

Of course, it was hard to get over someone when they wouldn't leave you alone to think about getting over them and instead insisted on following. Sherlock quickened his pace to his own comfortable walking speed. John Watson, of course, kept up without complaint. Sherlock walked faster. So did John. And faster, and faster down the London street, the doctor keeping up, until they were practically running. And Sherlock was angry.