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For people living alone together, John’s noticed, they say each other’s names quite a bit. Even when there’s nobody else they could be talking to, even in the middle of a conversation between just them, it’s always peppered with “Sherlocks” and “Johns.” To get attention, make a point. They use names like punctuation.
“John, you’ve been cleaning again. I had those papers exactly where I wanted them!”
“In the fireplace, Sherlock?”
“Yes, in the fireplace! I have a system!”
Mrs. Hudson’s seldom named this way. Mycroft is, occasionally, though Sherlock makes it into an insult. Lestrade almost never. It’s a them thing, it seems, this ping-ponging of names back and forth. Sherlock. John. Sherlock. John.
“No, Sherlock, I’m not holding that still for you. I’ve had my hands inside abdominal cavities and I would not touch that, whatever it is.”
“Oh get over here, John. I’ve got you gloves and it’s only a second.”
When John comes back to Baker Street to get his things after the funeral he stands a few minutes in the middle of the flat, staring at nothing.
“Sherlock,” he says.
Quiet. An imbalance of “Sherlocks” to “Johns.” It feels like throwing a ball in the air and waiting forever for it to come down. Bad slapstick.
John goes upstairs to his room to start packing boxes.