It had been a good thing.
A stab in the heart.
It must have been a good thing.
It hurt.
It had put a check on him; he was beginning to let his heart rule his head, after all. And that would be the death of him. Thinking he could really have a friend of any kind...
He was Sherlock Holmes-he didn't have friends.
There was work, and then there were enemies, acquaintances, and colleagues. It didn't really matter whether he bothered sorting them-they all hated him anyway, clearly.
No matter.
At least the work was objective.
So it had to have been a good thing, what John had said. It had reminded him of where things truly stood.
Sherlock remembered exactly how it had been; a neat office at the bank, clean and furnished with decor that tried to be upscale while still being office-affordable. Boring.
Sebastian Wilkes had met them at his door, predictably overly-friendly and positively irritating, as always. Wilkes had always been like that-but before it had been his penchant for late night parties and generally acting like a twat that had really ground on Sherlock's nerves.
Everyone else seemed to have found Wilkes delightful, though.
People...
He already knew Wilkes was just putting on a show of amiability to cover for his past attitudes toward Sherlock. Only now that he could be of some use...
But Sherlock had squared his shoulders and shaken his disgustingly annoying hand, been perfectly polite, and even introduced John.
He'd chosen his words carefully.
Spoken with some force.
Hear me now.
"This is my friend, John Watson."
He had almost taken pleasure in seeing that arch in Wilkes' brow, and hearing that surprised lilt in his voice. "Friend?"
Yes.
Even I am capable of having a friend.
I am not what you think I am.
"Colleague."
John's voice had caught Sherlock off guard.
It had smacked him upside the face.
Might as well have punched him in the jaw.
No-put a boot on his chest and stomped the breath out of him.
He'd thought...
But...
It had seemed as if...
What he and John were like... wasn't that what friends were? Wasn't it?
Maybe he just didn't know...
But it had really seemed...
No time to think.
Time to work.
He had to.
They had both taken seats before Wilkes' desk, and Sherlock had quickly thought up something to say, based on the obvious-the time and date on Wilkes' watch. Making conversation.
But apparently it hadn't been obvious enough.
Because the next moment Wilkes was laughing obnoxiously and going off on some stupid explanation to John, telling him all about how he and Sherlock had gone to uni together-calling what he did a 'trick,' which was completely inaccurate and absolutely degrading-and quite honestly Sherlock wished wholeheartedly not to be sitting there, hearing this, and instead to be anywhere else, working.
John didn't care, after all.
He was just a... colleague.
But Wilkes kept on, unaware of how much Sherlock was willing him to shut up. "-We hated him."
Another twist of that metaphorical knife...
He already knew it, but to hear it spoken out-loud, again, years later...
And there was nothing he could do about it.
Hated...
Obviously.
"We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall," Wilkes was leaning over the desk toward John. "And this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."
Was it supposed to be a joke?
If it was...
"I simply observed." Sherlock knew the man sitting across from him still put no trust in his observations, considering he was always so surprised when he read him correctly.
He must have told him that at least a hundred times.
But he never listened.
Why would he, after all?
If Sherlock couldn't even tell whether he'd actually made a friend or not?
It must have been a good thing...