Sherlock may look as though nothing has just happened, but inside he's a turmoil of confused and racing thoughts. He's ignoring his lingering erection as though the possibility of going to his room to take care of it wasn't one he'd considered, because it wasn't. More often than not he just ignores this particular bodily urge, but even if that wasn't his norm, he would still be ignoring it now. He'd been so certain that he was right, so sure that what he noticed in John had been interest that the jarring assertion that he was wrong, that John didn't in fact want him, it hurt and left him disinterested in it entirely. His body was a different story, but it was easy enough to control that now. Still, he's careful in how he sits so as not to let on that ignoring it hasn't quite worked yet.
By the time John is cleaning up the coffee, Sherlock's settled down to lay on his side on the sofa, facing away from the room. He's upset with himself for being wrong, for missing something, and his posture is tense, even though he's reclining. He wants to retreat into himself and explore what he'd overlooked, but John is everywhere. He can hear him moving around the room, clinking bits of broken mug together as he cleans up the floor... Sherlock doesn't say anything, but at great length, he does allow himself a sigh, as though he's really quite put out by John now.
If Sherlock had any insight into what he was feeling, he'd know he was ashamed of himself and his mistake and wanted to be alone, but too stubborn to actually leave.
The tension stayed with them over the rest of the day and into the next. Very few words were said between them, but at least the issue that remained unspoken was occupying all of Sherlock's attention and energy, distracting him from the lack of a case. By the following evening, he had exhausted the possibilities and felt prepared to confront John with his conclusions to find out which of the possibilities were true. This evening, he's in pajamas and a robe and laying more comfortably on the sofa, on his back, eyes closed as he considers everything. Senseless as to whether or not John was actually there, but assuming he was, he calls out, "John."
no subject
By the time John is cleaning up the coffee, Sherlock's settled down to lay on his side on the sofa, facing away from the room. He's upset with himself for being wrong, for missing something, and his posture is tense, even though he's reclining. He wants to retreat into himself and explore what he'd overlooked, but John is everywhere. He can hear him moving around the room, clinking bits of broken mug together as he cleans up the floor... Sherlock doesn't say anything, but at great length, he does allow himself a sigh, as though he's really quite put out by John now.
If Sherlock had any insight into what he was feeling, he'd know he was ashamed of himself and his mistake and wanted to be alone, but too stubborn to actually leave.
The tension stayed with them over the rest of the day and into the next. Very few words were said between them, but at least the issue that remained unspoken was occupying all of Sherlock's attention and energy, distracting him from the lack of a case. By the following evening, he had exhausted the possibilities and felt prepared to confront John with his conclusions to find out which of the possibilities were true. This evening, he's in pajamas and a robe and laying more comfortably on the sofa, on his back, eyes closed as he considers everything. Senseless as to whether or not John was actually there, but assuming he was, he calls out, "John."