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The pause became a silence, drawing itself out between us. I could feel John's eyes burning into my own, pride being the only thing that kept our eyes linked.
He was furious. I had never seen him in such as rage as he was now. And it was justified. I had completely misjudged the situation. People had died.
That is important to him. And so I endeavour to make it important to me.
"John-" I begin in a placating tone, before he cuts across me in a hissing rant.
"I think what's worst is that we see the relatives, the friends, you go barely a week without a funeral notice dropping through our door, and yet you never say a word! You never answer them, never apologise for not going, never send flowers or condolences or-or-anything! I know that you have things to do Sherlock, important things, but surely you could take five minutes to think of other people for once? "
I looked levelly at John. How little he knew. Part of me wanted to tell him. To explain why I could never go to the funerals. Can never come face to face with the living incarnation of the dead.
A small part of me wanted to shout back at him that I couldn't send flowers, because what do you put when you're the reason that they're dead? What do you say when you come face to face with grieving widows, widowers, parents, children, friends, knowing full well that it's something you failed to do, you failed to observe, that is the reason why their hearts are torn in two. What do you write when you know you could have prevented the death that you are commemorating?
"My most sincere condolences, to you whom I failed"?
Ridiculous.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?"
I'd broken eye contact finally. Head hung, chin against my chest, I couldn't look at him. Couldn't bare to have him judge me for something I just couldn't talk about.
"Sherlock, are you crying?"
Of course not, that would be-
Oh.
I saw the damp patch on my shirt and touched a finger to my cheek. I stared at the shining tear clinging there.
Oh.
Oh.
More started to follow and I felt John's arm slide around my shoulders.
"I'm sorry for having a go."
I said nothing. My brain gave me nothing. The warm, comforting weight of John's arm was too much. I stood quickly and made my way out of the room, not stopping until I was crumpled with my back against my bedroom door.
It was dark, and raining when I finally decided to leave my room. Opening the door led to John tumbling onto my feet. He had clearly mirrored my stance on the other side of my door, and it's unexpected opening meant that I was looking down into his open, and currently shocked, face.
"I'm sorry." He said.
"I'm not." I said.
"I know," he replied, smiling and taking the hand I'd proffered and pulling himself up, "that's okay."
I could feel the corners of my lips being tugged in response to his warm features.
John understood. I didn't need to speak, to explain anything. I let go of his warm hand, and retreated back into my room.
John never bothered me about the funerals again. But the mourners started getting handwritten apologies signed John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.