John pauses on the stairs, tilting his head and listening for a moment. Was that.. a gunshot? He shakes his head, bemused, and forces his legs to start moving again, even though it's the last thing he wants to do, even though he would be happier if time just froze and he could stand on those stairs forever, because he does not want to go up into that flat with that man whose eyes will instantly burn through him and see everything he's been trying to hide. But go he does. “Hello, John.” Another shot. The gun hasn’t helped with the frenzy going on inside him. Sherlock’s face however is the same sort of cool pool that it usually is, he’s in his robe, fallen back like it’s any caseless day. But the silence that has fallen on the room kills him, because he doesn’t even have to turn around to know that John is still standing in that door way. So the anticipation of what will happen when he sees the expression of his doctor holds him in a sort of lock. He looks... bored. Like it's any other day. Like he hadn't been turning John's world upside down via text. He's just sitting there, not even bothering to look at him, and John can't help the tightening feeling in his chest that asks: Was it just a distraction to Sherlock? He can't bring himself to step into the room, frozen by Sherlock's apparent indifference. He shuffles his feet, adjusts the bag. "Erm. Hi." ”Yes, well, preliminaries.” He jumps off his seat, still attempting not to turn around and look John in the eyes. Because if he sees, well then, there was no point in attempting to hide anything, the fear, the wreck, the emotions he felt for Watson. His Watson. He strides over to the kitchen table, picking up the two coffees, ready to turn on his heels. Ready? Hah, ready was relative.