Oneword: Walls

The walls of 221B Baker street could tell stories, even to those not as gifted at reading details as its world-renowned resident. The bullet-hole-riddled yellow spray paint smiley face was, of course, the most distinguishing feature, a playful reminder of a successful case and the ensuing  boredom. Alongside the remaining ash from the explosion next door, and the few scattered drops of blood flung about from a harpoon, the smiley face almost seemed to be hiding the secrets of its owner.

John Watson sighed as he ran a hand over this scar in the floral-printed paper. When he'd first moved in, there had been plenty of walls between him and his flatmate. And to be sure, there were still a few remaining. Sherlock did not easily volunteer information about himself, only others. But as the two grew closer, John could begin to see the walls coming down, one by one. Sherlock's giddy laugh of excitement, his smile at a compliment, or his concern for John and Mrs. Hudson when they were placed in danger, each one felt like a secret view into the humanity of this man who tried so hard to be something else.

This was why it had hurt so much, when in those fleeting last moments, Sherlock had tried putting all those walls up again. John guessed it was supposed to be a barrier from the pain that would come from losing a best friend and an amazing genius… But it was too late. John had already seen behind those protective walls, and knew better than to believe that anything else but the man he'd gotten to know lay behind them.