Who: John and Sherlock, and Owen What: Returning from the hospital Where: Their house When: Feb 16th, noonish Rating: High Status: Closed
After Owen brought them back home, he promised another visit that night. Owen was going to be on house call every night. Taking blood samples, and urine samples while slowly getting Sherlock off the morphine. He only agreed to let him stay home because of John. John knew how Sherlock would be if he was trapped in a hospital. It wouldn't be pretty. He didn't think Sherlock would want to be trapped anywhere, and talked down upon by doctors and nurses.
But the truth was, John was still hurt. He was furious. The demon hadn't been lying about his drug addiction, and once again, John was the last to find out about something. Even one of Sherlock's clients knew! He wondered just what else the demon had told the truth about. Everything? He'd been told demons lie, but when the truth was mixed in there, it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't.
But John wasn't about to tell Sherlock just how broken he felt. Rose had never gotten back to him, she was probably a lost cause. So much for being a normal person and trying to date. He'd let down his guard, and catered to Sherlock's needs. He kept him warm and safe that morning, and he'd felt they'd bonded in a different way. But no, never again, he promised himself.
He was nothing but a useless tin soldier who Sherlock had pity on. And it hurt.
Once inside the building, John moved to his bedroom and grabbed a bag and a few of his things. He threw a couple shirts, and a few pairs of pants into the bag. Underpants, and socks. As much as would fit. Sherlock had kicked him out, after all.
He was clearly full of rage, things were getting slammed around. The dresser was shaken violently, given that John only had one hand, and it was hard to operate like that. Once the bag was full, John threw it out into the living room. It landed on a chair with a soft thump, and next came John.
He slammed the bedroom door behind himself, and stared at the dark haired man standing in the living room. He had so many things he wanted to say to him. He hadn't spoken to him since the exorcism had taken place. He didn't know what to say.
Why are you so stupid? What's actually wrong with you? Do you really hate me that much?
So many things wanted to come out, but at the same time, all he wanted to do was swear at Sherlock and hit him again. He wanted to hit him until he felt better, which would be never. John stood quietly, staring at Sherlock, breathing heavily as he watched him. Did Sherlock actually feel guilty?
After a long drawn out silence, John finally spoke. It was almost a whisper.
"Why didn't you tell me." He started, pointing at the ground with his good hand.
"WHY?" He shouted, suddenly unable to control his anger.