A look across the room.

Tragedy is the best way to become artistic.

Sorrow is even better.

London sang quietly behind their locked windows. The restless, old city never slept.

John's hand shook. The teacup made a small noise.

Sherlock let his hand brush the surface above the fireplace. Sometimes he did these things out of pure want - it wasn't for an experiment. He was just being human - unrational, illogical. Stupid.

John's tea got cold. His hands didn't stop shaking.

After two days, Sherlock finally snapped. Without saying a word, he knelt before John, took the cup from his hands and shoved it to the wall. It broke to millions of pieces.

John didn't look up.

Sherlock drew him to a hug - something that was so out of character to the cold, analytical man. He squeezed his flatmate hard, let his hot breathing brush John's neck, drowning his face into John's hair. He mumbled two words. Two times.

I'm sorry. I'm real.

John's eyes didn't even flicker.

After three weeks, John had another tea cup in his hands. The liquid was cold again. The other tea cup was set to the table, unmoved - filled with the same cold tea.

The violin echoed. Nothing changed.

John's eyes didn't flicker.

Sherlock didn't even try anymore. He was aware that his best friend had gone mad, that he was a lost cause. But he didn't do anything about it. Just kept replaying their days, everything in deep silence.

John didn't move.

He didn't look at Sherlock.

After two monts, a phone rang. Those people - they wanted to break into the tomb at Baker Street, rip the mummy away from there.

John didn't react.

Mrs. Hudson held back tears when she visited.

Sherlock eyed his best friend from time to time, and he had stopped being careful. His eyes were very sad.

John didn't move.

John didn't react.

The tea went cold.

Third month, there were intruders. John didn't care. He could have sat on a bullet rain and not even flinch. He was too tired to end it. Too tired to take his own life - not because he couldn't do it, but because he didn't think it would really change his situation. Not now. The only difference between life and death was the tea.

It went cold.

John didn't react.

Then. A crack. After four months, the strangers came barking into the room.
They talked to Sherlock. They never stopped talking. They ignored John - why would they do such thing? The situation should be other way around.

Then, suddenly, John moved. He jumped up from the chair, eyes suddenly wide, outrageous, shocked.
"Can you see him too?"

Insanity was slowly forced to back down. Locks were opened in closed rooms.

The tea was warm again.