Sherlock waited patiently for John to quit his sulking. He knew it was only a matter of time before the man came back out and the two made up in their way. Sherlock was currently putting on tea, perhaps hoping that the smell would drift up and drag John back down to him. This was an apology, though he didn't fully understand his fault. He'd often not listened to John, pried when he shouldn't have, and had normally received, "Brilliant" from the man. This was the first time that John Watson had acted like other people in reaction to Sherlock's oddness.
Somehow, it hurt. Sherlock wasn't really accustomed to hurting, but there it was. It sat in the center of his chest like a weight. Sherlock couldn't say it was uncomfortable really, but it certainly wasn't a comfort either.
Going to the fridge, Sherlock froze upon opening it. There was no milk. Of course there wasn't. Hadn't Sherlock promised days ago that he'd be the one to run to the store this time 'round? And, unsurprisingly, he hadn't. John hadn't either though. Perhaps the man was truly getting fed up with Sherlock.
Sighing heavily, Sherlock shut the stove off and se the kettle on another part of it. Snagging up his coat and some money, Sherlock headed out of the door and down the stairs. He could feel his phone in his pocket which was good in case John wondered where he'd wandered off to. It was just down the road a pace and wouldn't take him long but John, he knew, worried.
Grabbing a carton of milk and paying for it, Sherlock hurried off back toward the flat. Everything was the same, no texts, no movement upstairs, and the kettle off to the side where he'd left it. Getting things set again, carton of milk now in the fridge, Sherlock settled back into making tea. The honeyed smell of it wafted through the flat, painting it with its perfume. Certainly John had to catch it and come down soon.
He never came. Sherlock sat on the couch with two cups of tea before him, watching them slowly losing their steam. He blinked a few times, steepled his fingers, sat back, then forward, but didn't leave the couch.
Perhaps he'd really done wrong this time, but he couldn't help but think John was being touchy. Sherlock knew so much about him because he was easy to read, so why couldn't he know about his Cross? Secrets were useless anyway. If John paid any attention to Sherlock, he'd know so much about Sherlock.
John did know a lot about him, Sherlock decide. Much more than anyone knew, if you weren't counting Mycroft. Then again, Mycroft couldn't pull Sherlock from a mood with naught but a word or two. John had done so on quite a few occasions. In fact, John did a lot for Sherlock. He gave him things to think about when his mind was stuck in a static void of anything interesting. John played along with his experiments for the most part. Best of all, John spewed his thoughts outright, calling Sherlock genius, or brilliant, or bloody wonderful if Sherlock was good enough. It had come to be that Sherlock based his good work on whenever he could get John Watson to spout some fabulous compliment on his work.
Now, the one person Sherlock's life had found some center of balance with was upset because Sherlock had finally found the boundaries. And over stepped them. Of course he had; for all of Sherlock's complete genius, the workings of the regular human life escaped him.
The tea had not helped. Now it was cold. Sherlock got up and dumped them out.