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"You’re good at this."
"My father taught me once. I never deleted it."
John smiles, the faintest upturning of lips. Sherlock ignores the sensation of John's breath on his cheek, the heat he can feel from John's body. He focuses instead on the dark blue silk, twining it around itself, forming a perfect knot. As he moves to fasten the top button of John's shirt, his fingers brush John's neck. John draws a sharp breath.
Sherlock looks up; John is staring at him, his eyes flashing with everything Sherlock's been ignoring for months. John's eyes drop to his mouth and Sherlock can't stop himself leaning forward, palms pressed against John's chest, a tiny bubble of hope welling up. It's never too late, not for them.
John's hands close around his wrists an instant before their lips can touch.
"Sherlock," he murmurs. "No. We tried. It didn't work. I can't do this now, not today."
John takes a deep breath and steps back. He looks young and handsome in his crisp new suit and how can Sherlock possibly stand up there today and pretend he hasn't mapped every inch of the body it covers with his lips, his tongue, his fingertips?
John's shoulders square as he looks at Sherlock, just once, before he turns and leaves the room.
Sherlock's chest tightens as the door shuts. Something inside him is broken.