Disclaimer :: Sherlock and the characters mentioned here do not belong to me.
Pairing :: Sherlock/John
A/N :: This is my first slash fiction. Not going to be too explicit because I don't trust myself to write explicit well. Please read and review.

Sherlock wasn't letting him get a single word in edgewise. Not for the first time during his stint as a flatmate to the insufferable genius, John Watson wondered if the man actually had need of oxygen. He finally gave up his attempt to cut in on Sherlock's explanation of what they, or rather he, knew about the case thus far, instead turning his head to stare out of the window of the cab and wonder what was going on.

It had been a fairly dull morning until he'd ventured into the kitchen. When he'd turned around to ask Sherlock why in the name of all things good and holy was there a strange purple substance coating the inside of the microwave and whether said substance was dangerous, he'd found Sherlock much closer than he had been a few moments before, closer than even his usual indifference towards the concept of personal space could explain. Then, Sherlock had leaned in and pressed his lips against John's.

It was over before John even noticed that it had begun, although that wasn't actually saying much. In fact, in the time that it had taken for him to realize what had transpired, Sherlock had pulled on his coat, wound his scarf around his neck, declared that there was a case that required their immediate attention, and charged down the stairs, telling John to stop gaping and come along.

And, so, here he was, off to a crime scene in a cab with a man who wouldn't cease his monologue – which had at some point become an extended diatribe against Scotland Yard's collective stupidity – long enough to let John ask what the bloody hell just happened. When he did pause, it was always when John would need to take a breath to speak, and he was always speaking again by the time John's lungs were full enough to say anything. And he wasn't even looking in John's direction, instead glaring zealously at the back of the cabbie's head. As they neared their destination, Sherlock was still talking, though he'd by then resorted to emphatically listing synonyms for idiocy, quite a few of which may or may not have been actual words as John had certainly never heard of them before.

As soon as the cab halted, half a block from the scene, Sherlock catapulted out with a distinctly relieved exclamation of "Finally!" The beleaguered cabbie seemed to have similar sentiments, mumbling "Chatty, your friend, isn't he?" as John pulled a few notes from his pocket to pay the fare.

"Sometimes," John truthfully responded, smiling apologetically. These bursts of talkativity were rare, though no more atypical than was his typical behavior, if that made any sense at all. Still, Sherlock was far more likely to pursue a complete lack of vocal communication than such an excess.

John watched the cab drive off, delaying for as long as possible. He wasn't too keen to be there, to be honest. If Sherlock wouldn't let him speak, he was no more useful than the skull would be, and perhaps less so, which was certainly a galling notion. He sighed to himself and started off towards the gathered police vehicles. He still had a question to ask.

A question which, he realized, he couldn't possibly ask at the moment. Both Anderson and Donovan were in attendance, pretending to be working while actually just watching Sherlock like a pair of hawks – no, more like vultures – for any sign of him making a mistake or just doing something unconventional. If John mentioned whatever-that-was, God only knew how they would respond. And, upon thinking of how they could respond, John figured that he should try to avoid being charged with assault for punching Anderson in the face, for Lestrade's sake if nothing else. The man had quite enough on his plate dealing with Sherlock's rogue ways without John stepping out of line as well. He knew the D.I. relied on him to keep Sherlock within certain bounds, inasmuch as anyone could. Crossing those bounds himself would be near inexcusable.

As he watched Sherlock prowl around, observing and deducing, John almost convinced himself that what he thought had happened earlier hadn't really happened at all, or at least not the way he remembered. Perhaps it was because he hadn't slept particularly well the previous night – even though he'd had much worse nights without becoming delusional. Or, perhaps it was just that Sherlock had spotted a morsel of food on his lip, decided not to let it go to waste, and, since his hands were probably doused in all sorts of chemicals, hadn't used his fingers to grab it – even though Sherlock never ate when on a case and never really cared about waste, and John, having been in the middle of preparing breakfast when he discovered the purple stuff in the microwave, couldn't have had food on his lip as he had not yet eaten, a fact which his stomach was now rather loudly making known, sending several looks with varied levels of amusement, disgust, and sympathy in his direction. Sherlock, predictably, was the only person in the room who acknowledged neither his existence nor his empty stomach's complaint.

John awkwardly cleared his throat, approaching the consulting detective, who was kneeling beside the corpse of a young man in his twenties. It had been some form of poison that killed him and the body was otherwise completely unmarked, so there was no way for John's medical expertise to help here – not without the lab results on the poison, which the Met were already getting, if they were even half as competent as Sherlock alleged during the cab ride to the crime scene. He stopped next to Sherlock – who hadn't turned to face him and seemed strangely tense, making John wonder vaguely if his utter disregard for what he considered 'transport' was finally catching up to him or if it was something else – and leaned down to his ear, softly asking, "Sherlock, do you need me?"

Just as he'd finished speaking, Sherlock stiffened, but his gaze didn't move from the man's corpse. Though, if John looked closely, he could see that Sherlock wasn't looking at the body so much as at the floor just beyond it. He assumed that Sherlock had figured something out about the case until he heard the man, in a careful, deliberate tone, question, "Why do you ask?"

Surprised at the inquiry, John blinked a few times. "Er… because I'm a bit, well, peckish, I suppose," he responded, keeping his voice low. He felt self-conscious worrying about being hungry while a poor man was dead, and if the scene had been gruesome, he was confident he would have lost his appetite – but it wasn't, not at all, and he didn't. "I thought I might step out and get a bite to eat."

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched, but not into a smile or even a smirk. He looked annoyed, and John figured that must mean that Sherlock wanted him to remain. "If you need me, I can stay. I won't starve for a while yet," he said, trying to reassure the detective that he would be fine either way. In fact, he was flattered to think he was useful to his friend, and wouldn't really mind going hungry for a while for the sake of having a purpose.

"I don't need you," Sherlock declared suddenly and vehemently, startling John and everyone else in the room. When those words registered in John's mind, a painful mixture of hurt and resignation coursed through him. Naturally Sherlock would be fine whether John was present or not; he didn't know why he'd ever thought differently.

He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat and mumbled, "Then, I'll be going," just before turning around and fleeing with whatever dignity he could muster. He could feel the eyes of the gathered police officers on his back, though he doubted Sherlock had bothered to pay any attention to his exit.

Fresh air and a quick meal at the nearest restaurant he could find helped John gather his thoughts. He reminded himself that Sherlock was quite possibly the most socially inept person he had ever met, except when being socially adept would help coax someone into revealing information or otherwise helping with his work. Sherlock probably didn't mean that he didn't need John in general; he just meant that he wasn't needed in this particular case, which was exactly what John himself thought. Still, the way he'd so strongly insisted that he didn't need John, as though he wanted to make clear something else – something deeper – as well, was… troubling.

As he stepped out of the restaurant, he was struck by a wave of indecision. Should he go back to the crime scene or just go home? He hadn't told Sherlock that he'd be returning, and it would be extremely embarrassing to go back only to find that Sherlock had left without him, especially considering what had just happened. He could just imagine the pitying looks that he would get, reminiscent of how Sally Donovan had looked at him when Sherlock abandoned him on that first case – when he'd first been drawn into this insane, ridiculous, wonderful lifestyle – except so much more cutting, because John should know how Sherlock is by now. It would only underscore the fact that John was so completely unnecessary and absolutely everyone knew it, even him.

John's sense of self-worth had taken enough of a battering for one day, and it was only just past noon. He hailed a cab to return to Baker Street.

The skies were murky and gray.

It looked like rain.

A/N :: I think this'll be finished up in one or two more chapters. Reviews may or may not help me update faster, but it can't hurt, right? Hint, hint. =)