Chapter Text
A dismissible comment after a dismissible errand on a dismissible day. John didn't even have his microphone on, that's how forgettable it should’ve been.
Sherlock finds himself alone in his room, twisting away at the small steel grinder in his hands as he leans back and crosses his legs. He stares at the time on his desktop as he begins to zone out. One of the few peaceful nighttime activities became an act of toil as his mind replays John's tone and expression.
“She was pretty wasn’t she?” Said with such bashfulness he's never seen from his flatmate, and so so quietly as if they were sharing a secret. What was he supposed to say to that? The cashier at Aldi’s hadn’t made much of an impression on Sherlock at all, other than the fact she looked somewhat similar to John's ex-wife. Which of course he found through scouring his inactive Facebook as a sort of impromptu background check soon after he officially moved in. At the time, he just nodded his head in quiet agreement and went about their way back home.
The rhythmic movement of his hand has become its own annoyance. He grumbles to himself and looks at his progress, methodically checking each chamber as he often does. He takes the wooden pipe and begins to pack his labor in. Its not that he had minded the comment, but the thoughts that had begun to follow after is what bothered him. The longer he sat alone in his room the more he began to skim over possibilities that hadn't occurred to him before.
Is Watson okay with being single?
And something much worse, with more of a kick to the gut.
Would Watson ever move out one day?
What a terrible thought. Should be dismissible.
Sherlock couldn't imagine himself living all alone in Bakers street. Mariana would visit him surely but its not the same as having someone live with him in this safe haven. He couldn't stand the idea of not hearing John typing away at his laptop, no more clicking of Archie's harness going into place just before his walk, and no more will the kettle whistling away wake him up. John had become as fundamental as his nightly smoke, a part of his routine.
It's a very real possibility, what if one day for whatever reason he moves out? Finds a nice girlfriend and decides to re-enter the medical field and start up some practice to support the two? Sure, he has no outward interest in it now but that's only the present moment. He did seem to grimace at his mothers mention of being a general practitioner, Sherlock reminds himself. Afterall he seems to love podcasting, who would give up a project that actually turns a profit? In the sea of online media, podcasts that aren't being run by pre-established influencers always seemed to sink to the depths of the internet's everflowing stream. No way anyone in their right mind would give this kind of success up.
After filling the chamber he finds himself satisfied enough at his work. A flick of his lighter and the mouthpiece pressed to his lips, he takes a slow inhale. Warmth fills his chest, having done this so many times his lungs don't even protest anymore. The sensation brought little comfort. He tilts his head up and lets the smoke curl over his lips and flow out as he puts the lighter back in his pocket.
Could anyone in love be considered in their right mind?
He repressed a scoff, when did he become so melodramatic?
He couldn’t find it in himself to disagree, however. Sherlock has read hundreds of cases where love was the catalyst to all sorts of depraved acts. Even just the term “crime of passion” elicits a familiar image in the public’s eye. His shoulders untense, but his mind combs through the knots being formed by a memory he should have forgotten by now. He frowns as he feels it taking up space in his brain that could’ve been for something useful.
He wanted him to remain single forever.
Well that’s just excessive.
As soon as he opens his bag of chips, here comes the excited click clacking of trimmed nails and scratching at his door. Sherlock stands up, letting the pipe hang from his mouth as he opens the door for his guest, who happily trots in, already drooling. A welcome distraction from looking into the morality of keeping his friend a forever bachelor.
Not being raised with pets, Sherlock hadn’t known that if you share with a dog once, you share forever. Now whenever he indulges in his cravings Archie is already scratching at the door, no matter how soundly he was snoring next to John in the room over. He returns back to his seat and drops a chip for him like a tithe. Archie chomps away at the offering and sits right under his desk waiting for any future crumbs. He finds himself staring down at him, his begging eyes reminding him of a fact John had shared about canines when he had seen him giving him some of his toast one morning.
Apparently the sweet doggy looking up at him as a puppy was the runt of the litter- which you wouldn’t guess looking at him now. His puppyhood inadvertently had caused him to fall under a common problem of runts once they grow up, resource guarding. Not having enough as a puppy can make them fiercely protective over food or toys. John had said that it was a lot of trouble to train out of him, but was worth the effort.
Was that what this feeling in his chest was?
Another long drag, he wheels his chair over to the window to blow out the smog despite the bulldog not seeming to notice, only following after him. He glances out at baker's street in the midst of the night, looking at the flats across from him and noticing he's one of the few with the lights still on.
Looking back on his childhood, any friendships he had were closely knit and few. He had never been the type to get along in a group of more than three. More often than not he became overwhelmed, so he ended up withdrawing into himself.
He shook his head in disagreement at the temptation of just third wheeling till the end of time. Friends should be happy when they hear about marriages, not dreading the day as if he's waiting for his verdict. He knows he’s being selfish, that this is objectively not how he should think. Just because he feels a certain way doesn't mean John should have to go without the joys and emotional support a relationship can provide. No way the great detective was unreasonable.
He’ll just have to do it himself.
Platonically, obviously. His brain adds quickly.