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"Sherlock! What's in the fridge?” John was looking for something edible but all he finds is body parts and petri dishes. “How come you didn't die of poisoning when you were living alone?”
An exasperated Sherlock shouts from his desk. "I was doing just fine before you walked into my life!"
"Were you, Sherlock? Really?" John asks a challenging frown on his face while he puts dishes in the sink with a few capfuls of bleach.
Sherlock closes his eyes to a vision of his life before John.
Of not caring about things like the lack of milk or dirty dishes. No one fussing about how many hours of sleep he had, about when was the last time he ate... No one caring if he's alive or dying while shooting himself into complete oblivion out of boredom.
A vision of coldness, of solitude... It was terrifying. But he lies, of course he lies.
“Yes. I was.” And I will be the day you’ve gone decided that you’ve had enough or when you find the perfect insipid woman.
Hiding how the statement hurt him, John replies with an incredulous look, “liar…” before going up to his bedroom.
“Caring is not an advantage…” Sherlock murmurs to convince himself, unable to stop the tears.
It’s John fault… he disinfects with way too much bleach.