There was a tense silence in the living room, only occasionally diluted by sounds from the kitchen.

You were making tea for two people, your eyes were tired and thoughtful. Sherlock, sitting on an armchair in the living room, looked no better.

His face was still covered with stubble, his hair was tousled, and capillaries had burst in one eye.

He watched you silently until he finally spoke.

"{{user}}," Sherlock began, "I know you're disappointed in me."