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The London streets passed by in an indistinguishable blur; John was vaguely aware of the smooth movement of the taxi, but he stared out the window blankly, his mind in a haze. Light and shadow melded together, buildings became nothing but bypassing blurs of brick red and Heather grey concrete.
There had been nothing but dense silence since he and Sherlock had slid into the cab, after he had given the driver their address. It pained him, but he wasn't entirely sure what to say to the detective, who seemed content to sit and stew in his unpleasant mood.
The case had appeared simple enough when they had been called in by Lestrade. John had watched as Sherlock rolled those distinct blue eyes and gave his usual conclusive muttering of "obvious." A prominent figure of certain merit had found themselves kidnapped, but compared to other similar cases they had worked, this guy seemed like a downright amateur. John figured they'd find the perpetrator and the victim - likely still alive, according to Sherlock - within a day's time, perhaps two, give or take.
What they hadn't counted on was the guy being smarter than he let on, and it was a mistake that Sherlock seemed to be taking rather poorly. The entire thing had accumulated with John finding himself in a disagreeable position of being bound and gagged and surely ready to have his head blown off. He felt that he shouldn't consider this normal by now, but he was finding himself used to these antics since he had become entwined in Sherlock Holmes's world. He was also sure he should feel strange about the sense of adrenaline and excitement this sort of thing caused in him, and he was pretty sure that's one honest truth he should not be admitting to a therapist any time soon.
And the result was Sherlock giving him the brooding silent treatment ever since they had left the scene, leaving Lestrade, Donovan and the rest of the department to deal with the aftermath and cleanup. John stole a side glance over at the younger man, who still sat with his head turned away from his partner, looking out his own window. John couldn't even make out his expression - though he could picture it clearly in his head - and saw nothing but an abundance of black curls and raised coat collar.
Sherlock was gliding out of the seat before the cab even came to a complete stop. The doctor let out a huff of air and took out his wallet to pay the cabbie, then quickly trotted after his flatmate. By the time he arrived upstairs to the flat, Sherlock had already removed his trademark coat and scarf, both now tossed carelessly over John's chair, and had taken his place by the window that overlooked Baker Street, which was relatively quiet by this time of night. His nimble fingers coiled around the neck of his violin and brought the instrument up, and without a word, he began to drag the bow over the strings.
"Sherlock."
No response aside from a cry from the strings.
"Sherlock."
The sound abruptly stopped and the lanky man inclined his head slightly toward John, but did not fully turn to look at him.
"What in hell is going on with you?" The words came out rushed. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn't give him very long to speak.
"Just thinking," came the low rumble of a response. And the playing resumed, clear indication that whatever it was he was thinking about, Sherlock most definitely did not want to have a conversation about it.
John opened his mouth to protest, to shout, to something, changed his mind, and closed it again. His jaw tightened and he pursed his lips, watching Sherlock move seamlessly, the bow gliding in a slow rhythm that would pick up tempo for a few seconds before falling again. Rise, fall, rise, fall. It sounded like the musical equivalent of an argument. John wondered for a moment if Sherlock was, in fact, arguing with himself. The thought passed quickly, and he quietly turned to leave for his room, not even bothering to tell Sherlock he was going to bed. He would try talking to him again in the morning.
-----
John awoke with a distinct knot in his stomach. He knew there had been nightmares - there were rarely nights when they didn't come - but for once he couldn't remember the details. He supposed it was a bit of a blessing. He took his time in the shower, as if trying to let the hot water and steam rinse off the experiences of the previous day; the kidnapping, Sherlock's demeanor, all of it. When he finally went downstairs for his morning cup of tea, he was surprised to find Sherlock seated at the dining table, apparently busy with the morning paper. John had expected to see him sitting curled in his standby position in his overstuffed chair, or perhaps sprawled out, nothing but gangly limbs all over the place, on the couch. He had even somewhat expected him to still be standing in position by the window; Sherlock had continued playing violin through most of the night, and John had been serenaded to sleep by the rise-fall melody that had persisted.
"Morning," he offered as he passed by the table and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the morning cup of tea. "Mmm" was the only response from Sherlock and the sound of a rustling paper. After waiting for the kettle, John took his cup and returned to where Sherlock sat, taking the unoccupied space across from him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock still engrossed in the paper, or at least pretending to be, and John nursing his tea. Just when John thought he may go mad, he heard Sherlock clear his throat and rest the paper flat on the table.
"John." A simple yet so effective way to get his attention. Sherlock's tone was softer than usual, sending a bell off in John's head.
"You ready to tell me why you've been giving me the silent treatment like a child?"
"Maybe you should stay with Harry for a bit."
John froze, his cup in mid-travel toward his mouth, his eyes fixed pointedly on Sherlock who, he realized, was looking at him squarely for the first time in the past several hours. He'd been expecting a conversation, not the drop of a bomb.
"And why would I do that? You know how I feel about Harry."
"I thought you said she was recovered."
"More like in remission. She's still insufferable, even without the booze." Or maybe because of the lack of it, he added silently. Remembering his cup, he gently set it back down. "Why are you telling me this, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's expression became one of agitation, similar to when he felt the answer to a case was right under their noses and John simply wasn't seeing it. To use his favorite phrase: obvious. John thought he was going to say it (and was positive that if he did, he would punch him square in the jaw), but was taken off guard by what came out instead.
"I feel it's for the best. Do you truly feel safe here with me?"
John rolled the words around in his brain for a moment before answering, "Yes."
"You have a strange idea of safety." Long fingers rose and steepled under his chin. "For example, being taken hostage and having a gun to your head does not constitute as 'safe' to most sane people. Which, I should note, has happened to you on more than one occasion."
"Says the man who almost got himself strangled to death by a Czech assassin."
"You can't expect me to always show up at the right moment." Of course he would act as though he hadn't heard that. Sherlock didn't give a damn about his own safety.
"But you always do."
"What happens when I don't?" This statement had a sharp edge to it, almost escaping like an angry hiss. They both fell silent, the question, the what if, the elephant in the room that John had tried not to think about for the past few months, lingering between them like stale cigarette smoke, foul and threatening to choke them both.
At last John said, "I trust you. Simple as that. That's the thing about friends - they trust one another."
"All I can trust is that I will get you into trouble."
"And I trust you to get me out of it."
"Seems more of an expectation, and a rather heavy one at that."
"Sherlock - "
He stood swiftly, dangerously close to knocking back his chair. "Would you rather me say I was tired of your company? Would that make it easier to understand?"
John knew it was a lie, Sherlock trying to push him out, but it still stung. Just a bit.
"For God's sake."
Sherlock was picking up his coat, which still lay on the chair it had been thrown on last night, and making for the door. "Lestrade called. I'll tell him you couldn't make it." He lifted the navy scarf, wrapped it securely around his throat, and with only a glance backward, exited the flat. "Goodbye, John."
The closing door resounded through the room like an exploding gunshot, and John could already feel the gaping hole forming where Sherlock had taken up residence.