#insecure!sherlock

~

When he came back, nothing was the same.

He could accept that- things were always changing after all. But everything had changed, and that everything included John- the one constant in his life.

The one constant he’d trusted to always have in his life.

He’s not sure what he’d expected really; the punch, certainly (though a hug would have been preferable, if he was being honest), the tirade of furious swears, the yelling, the blame- all understandable (though the magnitude of John’s rage was slightly unexpected, he admits).

But he didn’t expect the petite blonde lady standing proudly beside John, placing a hand on his forearm to ease his anger (he did expect that John would still be angry nonetheless).

He didn’t expect John to turn and leave, with her in tow, never once looking back.

“I’ll talk to him.” She’d said, and he wants to tell her not to, because he wants to him talk to him. He wants him to take him back, because after all the years on the run, without a place to call home; after the endless wounds, the endless scars, after losing the better part of his spleen in Serbia, after all those years of missing John- all he wanted was to come home.

He didn’t expect John to have moved on.

He knows he didn’t, that he couldn’t have, because if he did, why was he feeling the stabbing pain, the suffocating hurt, the bitter taste of jealousy with a hint of betrayal so strongly as he watched forlornly after the disappearing cab, the gaping hole in his heart where John used to be aching because he was back and yet-

Nothing was the same anymore.

-

“Where’s John?” Sherlock hates how anxious he sounds; hates himself for peering around her (Mary) eagerly, and hates himself even more for how suffocated he feels when he sees no John.

“Um, he…”

“Ah, he’s still angry with me. I see.” He swallows down the bitter disappointment, stepping aside to allow her in- much as he wants to shut the door in her face now.

“Sorry.” She smiles faintly at him, brows furrowing apologetically. This is the worst thing of a genuinely nice person- he cannot bring himself to hate her, because she reminds him somewhat of John, and he could never hate John.

“No, don’t be. I admit it’s not… ideal, but it is reasonable, so I guess I should have expected it.”

“Sherlock…” Sherlock tries to ease her worries, something he’s never been good at, waving a hand to dismiss them as he half turns away, calling back behind him.

“Please, have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”

She casts a brief glance to the screen, freezing momentarily as she stares at the words- those three words dancing across the screen, hand trembling along with the tears that well up.

Two years.

She’s been with John for two years, during his lowest times, the depression so deep that sometimes she worried he was never going to climb out again. But he did with her help, every single time for those two years, and she never once complained about it.

While Sherlock was off tramping in God knows where, she was the one holding him together.

So why, why was he still more important than her?  

It wasn’t fair.

He’d already taken him away once, stole him away with him- the part of John that she never managed to revive; the part of John that knew how to truly love someone.

She wasn’t going to let him take him again.

“I forgive you, Sherlock. Whatever your reasons were, I forgive you. Of course I do, because…”

(Delete).

“I love you.”

(Delete).

“I’m sorry if this changes everything between us, just… that wasn’t my intention. But I can’t just remain friends, Sherlock.”

(1 New message).

She’s just managed to slide the phone back on the table when Sherlock steps out with a mug in each hand, fatigue blinding his mind to her sleight of hand. She smiles tightly at him as she accepts his offer, barely allowing him to settle before she starts to speak, determination steeling her voice.

“Listen, Sherlock, this is really hard for me to say. John… It took him awhile to get over your fall, but he did and he has a life now. I know this is hard for you too, I really do, but he can’t be with you anymore, Sherlock. He has a family now; you understand that, don’t you? He’s happy now.” She implores, eyes glittering earnestly, though there’s a strange hardness to them.

“…Oh.” Sherlock murmurs, stilling under her touch when she squeezes his hand (affectionately?). He’s not sure why, but it doesn’t feel right and he hates it, so he subtly moves his hand away, distracted as he is by her words.

He’s still mulling over her words, barely noticing when she presses his phone into his limp hand as she excuses herself, claiming something about another meeting with a friend- lies, that much was obvious- but he doesn’t bother to figure out why, because that wasn’t important; none of it was, if it wasn’t going to bring John back to him.

In hindsight, that should have been the only warning he’d needed, the alarm bells ringing about how wrong she felt.

Because why on earth, was she so insistent about the text?

But he didn’t, and as he felt his heart cease, burned out by the single text awaiting him, for once, he feels as if he really, finally understands.

Because winning the battle doesn’t equal winning the war.

He tries to ignore the voice at the back of his head, the one sounding suspiciously like Mycroft- the controlling, bossy lilt to it, completed with the fierce protectiveness of a (overbearing) brother- because he knows, he really does.

“Remember, brother mine. Caring is not an advantage.”

“Shut up.” He mutters darkly under his breath, rolling to face the back of the couch as if to shield himself from his own thoughts.

“I’m not… I won’t fall prey to sentiment.”

He shoves it all to the back of his mind, especially the lone traitorous thought that he’s only lying to himself as he swings up onto his feet. He snatches his violin and bow from its case, fingers dancing furiously across the strings, drowning himself in a frantic tune in a bid to calm his mind.  

Idiot.

You’ve already fallen.

-

The transition back to solo work wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be- hurtful, yes, but not hard- he was used to working alone after those three years working undercover in various states after all.

He still wishes John was with him though.

And he really wishes that people would stop reminding him of the John-shaped absence by his side.

The case Lestrade called him for was ridiculously simple- homicide, but barely a four in fact, and he solves it within minutes. The hardest part was actually hearing the nonchalant question posed by the silver haired detective inspector; he didn’t mean any harm by it, but Sherlock thinks that doesn’t excuse the idiotic ignorance of it.

“Where’s John?”

“Not here. Really Lestrade, as blind as you are to the most obvious evidence usually, even you should be able to see that. Now be quiet, I’m trying to…” Forget him. He’s so startled by the seemingly random thought that he stiffens, Lestrade casting him a worried glance though wisely choosing not to comment, before he shakes head and stalks off.

It should have been easy, the answer practically given to him with how obvious the murderer was being, and he should have been back at Baker Street less than an hour after he’d left.

But he’s so distracted by his thoughts, so disturbed by his near slip of the tongue; by missing the steady treads of a companion, the solid warmth beside him that he doesn’t notice them until it’s too late.

He’s just turning around the corner when he hears the whishing of sliced air, sharp pain cracking through his skull.

He fades into dark nothingness.

-

Sherlock doesn’t understand why he’s so tired, the energy slowly draining from him, though he’s only just woken up. But he does know he can’t go back to sleep- knows that it was almost a miracle he even managed to wake up as it is- can feel the urgent warning in his bones, because… because… something.

He can’t think.

John would know.

John. Where’s John? Was he taken as well? John… John must be in danger. Must help John.

He slowly raises his head, limbs heavy as he tries to maneuver them from the tightly fastened bonds he was trapped under. He grunts in pain as the thick rope chafes against his skin (simultaneously numb and sensitive), jerking slightly when he feels the sting and the slipperiness of broken skin. It was useless- he couldn’t get out of them with the way they were tied, let alone with how exhausted he was getting just from the little attempt. And he had to be careful he wouldn’t pass out from the exhaustion, because he doesn’t think he will ever wake again if he does.

But John… John is in danger. No. Wait. John was angry… with him? Yes, with him.

He remembers now.

John wasn’t with him, because John didn’t want to associate with him anymore. John had his own life now, and he was happy, away from Sherlock. John… John is safe.

That’s all that matters.

It’s with this reassurance that he finally gives in, his transport too weak to support him anymore. He thinks he can hear John calling his name, just before he’s seized by the welcoming darkness once more.

He smiles.

“Sherlock!”

-

“Sherlock!”

John frantically sprints to the limp figure of the consulting detective, dropping to his knees with a loud thud as he cupped his face in his hands to gauge the severity of his condition, flinching from the frostiness he radiated.

God, he was so cold.

“Greg, I need someone in here, now!” Lestrade rushed in, a couple of paramedics tailing closely behind him with a stretcher on hand, paling at the sight of the seemingly moribund Sherlock.

“Is he-?”

“NO!” John yells, swiveling to shoot an agitated scowl at him, though his eyes soften as they took in his obviously anxious countenance.

“No, and he better not. But we need to get him to the hospital, stat.” He states, face pinched with grim concentration as he calls out orders to the two paramedics, securing Sherlock to the stretcher with their help. He starts for the stairs leading to the freezer room, pausing when he turns to check on their unsuccessful endeavor, brows furrowing in displeasure at the awkwardness with which they were carrying him down.

“This isn’t working.” He growls, marching over to undo the straps holding Sherlock down, heaving him into his arms bridal styled before hurrying down the steps and out into the awaiting ambulance.

He tries not to dwell on how comfortably the detective had fit in his arms, rubbing those slender fingers gently to encourage blood flow- or how he wished he could do this more often (though preferably, without any injuries or lapse in consciousness).

How did it all turn to shit so quickly?

He’d been at the clinic, almost dying of boredom from the long and empty shift, when Greg had called, asking him about Sherlock. Worried by the anxious tint to the inspector’s voice, he’d asked him to explain what this was about- after all, Sherlock had stopped corresponding with him after he’d confessed, so it didn’t make any sense why he should have any clue as to the younger male’s whereabouts. Turns out he hadn’t been home when Greg went to visit him, after he’d so abruptly left from the crime scene, and from what he could tell (he wasn’t as useless at his job as Sherlock often liked to insinuate), the consulting detective hadn’t even made it home since leaving the scene.

And that was hours ago.

So Greg, being the responsible person he was, rang John to check if Sherlock wasn’t with him.

One thing led to another, that phone call followed by Mycroft contacting him about his idiot of a brother being snatched off the streets, again, and by a rather amateur gang, no less (though John can hear the carefully concealed concern),  so would he be so kind as to go fetch him?

Oh, and did he mention that Sherlock was being kept in a freezer room?

Which was how John ended up here in the back of an ambulance, sirens blaring wildly to the pounding of his heart, gripping on to Sherlock’s hand as if he’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tightly enough.

He doesn’t think he could survive Sherlock’s death a second time.

I missed you… I’m still missing you…

-

When he finally regain consciousness, eyelids fluttering rapidly to reveal a sliver of silver orbs, it’s to complete whiteness, and he panics momentarily because he can’t move his legs. Then the rest of his senses start to kick in, and he realizes that he can feel the weight on his legs; can hear the muffled snores- something he never thought he’d get to hear again.  

He knows who it belongs to without looking.

Sherlock smiles softly, reaching out to the slumped figure of his doctor, the sudden urge to run his fingers through those golden, sunlight filtered locks seizing him.

“He can’t be with you anymore, Sherlock. He has a family now, you understand that, don’t you? He’s happy now.”

Without you.

He jerks back, arm dropping heavily to his lap with the disapproval of Mary’s eyes burned into his mind.

This doesn’t belong to him anymore.

John doesn’t belong to him.

Not anymore.

He gently tucks the arm thrown haphazardly across his knees under the ex-captain’s bowed head, fingers lingering on the familiar warmth of tanned skin as he silently drinks in the slumbering form of the perfection that is John Watson- the man he’s grown to love, with a heart that had known nothing of love, and yet he now knows that would bleed for him.

Would die for him (already did once, in fact)- and it was all worth it.

Because a life without John Watson isn’t a life worth living at all.

Leaning down to lightly press a chaste kiss to the finely peppered blonde locks, he closes his eyes briefly to imprint this moment forever into his mind palace, whispered words floating melancholically in the air before he slips out from beneath the covers- a lonely figure walking away into the dead of the night.

“Goodbye, John Watson.”

If my sacrifice could bring you the happiness you wanted, then it would be my honour to do so.

-

It’s not long after he manages to make his way home, wheezing lightly from the effort of ascending those seventeen steps, that Mycroft shows up in his living room (of course he does, that fat interfering git). Sherlock ignores him in favour of shuffling slowly to make himself a cup of tea, a pang of wistfulness rolling through his stomach.

He misses the way John’d used to make tea for them, misses the fond exasperation when Sherlock demands it from him (though he makes it anyway, like Sherlock knew he would), misses… misses John.

Of all things he’d missed when he was gone, this was probably what hit him the most.

I’m still missing you.

He’s not in the mood for tea anymore.

When Mycroft clears his throat, he sluggishly makes his way out, sinking into a tight ball on the couch with a resigned sigh, the knobs of his spine glaring tauntingly at his brother.

“Not now.”

“Why shouldn’t I-” Sherlock can hear the ridicule in his voice, the scornful sneer laced with disappointment at his early (and unauthorized) discharge from the hospital, where John was no doubt either angrily, or worriedly (probably both) looking for him.

“Myc.”

He can hear Mycroft tense from the rustling of fabric, can imagine the shock on his face as he silently studied his younger brother, concern littering the otherwise stoic mask he would be wearing.

“Please.”

If the nickname he’d used to call his brother by, back when they were children and he’d loved him, looked up to him like he held the world in his hands, was not enough to convince him, the plead would- once upon a time, he’d sworn to himself that he would never, never allow this vulnerability in front of Mycroft; not after he had gone off to college, despite his tears and pleas, despite the fact he still needed him.

He thinks that if he weren’t so tired, maybe he would have loathed himself for it; but now, he’s just too tired to care anymore.  

He wishes he could go back to those days, when all he needed to do was go running into Mycroft’s arms, the naïve belief that big brother could fix anything. He wishes it was only all so simple now. And maybe it is, maybe he’s missing something that Mycroft would know- he’d always been better with emotions after all- but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up anymore, because he never knew that disappointment could hurt so much.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses the feather light touch- hesitant, and so uncharacteristically Mycroft that he can’t bring himself to scoff at the gesture- gentle fingers combing through his locks. He leans into it, uncurling marginally to reach a timid arm back, tugging weakly at the hem of his newly laundered suit as Mycroft stands to leave.

Thank you.

“Okay, Sher.”

-

Despite the way they acted around each other, the belief Sherlock had that he’d abandoned him back when he left to college (something he deeply regretted, not having known that his baby brother was feeling that way); despite the belief that he was no longer the same big brother as before he’d left, Mycroft did care for Sherlock. He did change, the way young boys grow into adults, but through it all, he never once stopped caring for his little brother- never stopped loving him.

And when he saw him lying there on that couch, curled into himself as if to shield himself from the cruelty of the world around him, Mycroft didn’t see Sherlock- that infuriatingly annoying consulting detective brother of his. He saw William, his baby brother- the one who wanted (not needed, wanted) his protection, often seeking comfort and safety in his arms when he’d done something not so good (not bad, never bad). He saw the brother who looked at him with wide sparkling eyes, forever curious and eager to learn; the brother who believed he could fetch the moon from the skies for him if he wished; the brother who loved him just as much as he’d loved him.

He’d made a promise to himself all those years back, when he returned to find Sherlock closed off and aloof, and through thorough research, discovered that it was because he hadn’t been around to help Sherlock; to protect him from the cutting taunts of those imbeciles at school. He told himself that never again, would he leave his brother the way he did- alone and defenseless; not without finding him that happiness he deserved.

He wasn’t about to break that promise now.  

“Hello? Mycroft?”

“Doctor Watson.”

“To what do I owe the favour of you calling me? Wait, let me guess. Is this about Sherlock? Because I cannot even begin to tell you how utterly-”

“John.”

“No, shut up. How utterly pissed off I am right now that he- that idiotic genius that he is, disappeared on me at the hospital, AFTER BEING ADMITTED FOR SEVERE HYPOTHERMIA. I mean, does he not want to see me so much? That’s fine too- well it’s not really, but I promise I won’t show up, if he would just come back to the hospital? Please? It’s not worth putting his life at risk for- I mean I can understand that he doesn’t want to see me again, because he must have been disgusted that I confessed to him-”

“John, I can assure you that is most absolutely not the case. If you are serious in claiming that you think my brother is disgusted by your feelings for him, I think you’ll find yourself sorely mistaken. There must have been some serious misunderstanding between the two of you.”

“What- What do you mean?”

“Sherlock is back at Baker Street; I would strongly advise you to pay him a visit.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Very well. Oh and John?” Mycroft pauses uncertainly, umbrella tapping hesitantly on cobbled pavement as he considers what he was about to say, wondering if it was truly the best course of action to take.

“Make him happy.”

He could only hope for the best after all.

This is for you, brother mine, I hope you’ll find your happiness.

-

He doesn’t realize how dependent he’d gotten on John; not till the air he’s breathing in is getting thinner and thinner till he’s struggling to breathe anymore, and an absolutely ridiculous thought flutters unbidden across his mind. It’s so ridiculous he’s almost ashamed of calling himself a genius consulting detective- he’s worse than those imbeciles at the Yard if he’s even considering this, and yet, he can’t help but believe it’s the truth.

I need the air you breathe.

He thinks he’s drowning.

In their (his) own living room.

He wonders how long he has left; wonders if it will be enough to send John one last text, because there was so much he’d still wanted to say, so much he should have said when he had the chance, and now he thinks that maybe he won’t ever get to do it.

He wonders why he’s surprised, because he never expected that he would be able to live without John, really, not when his heart has learnt to beat and can actually, actually be stopped now.

He wishes he told John all that- that his heart was beating for him.

“Sherlock, are you home?” He’s so tired that he doesn’t notice the footsteps coming up the stairs- those familiar, dearly missed treadfalls, subconsciously avoiding the creaky thirteenth step as its owner poked his head through the door hesitantly.

“Sherlock!” It’s not till he feels the warm, wonderfully calloused hand gripping his tightly, that he focuses enough and manages to roll his head towards the alarmed doctor.

When did John get here?

Huh.

Seems like the heavens were kind enough to give him this one last wish.

“J-John?” He whispers, voice cracking through disuse and the chilled shudders wracking his wiry frame. John hums distractedly, one cool palm pressed against his forehead as he frowns worriedly at Sherlock’s blue tinted lips, propping him up hurriedly when he’s violently shaken by another coughing fit.

“Sherlock, I think you have pneumonia, I need to get you to the hospital.” He rushes out urgently, standing to fetch his phone from his pocket. Sherlock clutches at his arm blindly, pulling John back down to lean over him so that he could finally tell him that he needed to.

“John…”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I-I… Love you…”

He smiles, first in relief, then in comfort to John’s panic stricken face, hand going limp as he relaxes into the welcoming darkness amidst John’s frantic cries.

He can finally rest now.

-

John sighs, burying his face into his palms, elbows pressed against his knees as he sinks into an adjacent hospital chair. He’s so tired; tired of all the time spent missing Sherlock when he was gone, followed by all the time spent trying to forget him, failing miserably, and still missing him when he was back but John just had to go ruin it with his confession.

Or so he’d thought.

But Sherlock…

He glances up wearily, watching the rise and fall of that tube clad chest. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so still before, so quiet, so frail. He remembers wishing for this once, just for a little bit of quiet, back when they were still living together and Sherlock had been driving him insane with his whines of boredom.

He also remembers regretting that so, so much when the detective fell, taking the life they’d created away with him, leaving nothing but hateful silence for John. He remembers the first night, when he’d gone back and broke down in Sherlock’s chair, holding his scarf preciously in his hand, because what was he to do without his life?

He moved out the very next day and hadn’t been back since… well since yesterday, really.

John sighs again, reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand in his, rubbing a thumb soothingly over his knuckles.

Where did it all go so wrong?

He’d wanted Sherlock to come back; begged for a miracle at his tomb, for him to just be alive, because he knew that if anyone could pull one on death, it would be his genius of a consulting detective. But he’d waited, and waited, and Sherlock didn’t, and he just didn’t know what to believe anymore, so he tried to move on with Mary- though deep down, he always knew that Sherlock would never cease to be the sole owner of his heart; and perhaps, Sherlock was his heart.

And then Sherlock came back.

And he was happy; he really was. Amongst the hurt and the anger that he’d lied to him, made him grieve, there was also that overwhelming joy, that overwhelming hope and love because Sherlock was alive. He remembers thinking, heart almost stopping multiple times during their adventures together as he watches the crazy nutter get stabbed or clubbed, that the younger male would one day be the death of him.

He just never realized what an honour it would be, to be able to care for him and get scared for him, to be able to feel for Sherlock, at least he would still be alive and with him.

The ex- army doctor startles when he feels the tiny squeeze to his hand, jerking upright to eagerly await the glimpse of silvery blue eyes.

“Sherlock?” He murmurs gently, running a hand through mussed curls comfortingly when he groans in reply, forehead scrunching in discomfort.

“Sherlock, love, can you hear me?” He continues in a low voice, fingers still threading through those silky locks as his head tilts towards him, as if seeking his voice.

“It’s John, can you open your eyes for me? Please?” His voice breaks on the plea, breath shuddering out in a heavy relieved exhale as eyelids flutter slowly before lifting to reveal those eyes- the ones he never knew were so beautiful till he’d thought he’d lost them- staring blearily back at him.

“Hey love.”

“...Hi.” The croaked word surprises him, and it’s so absurd considering their current situation that he just bursts in peals of high pitched giggles, his laughs slowly tapering off to a fond smile when he glances back down to see Sherlock watching him with an equally tender smile.

“God I love you.”

“W-What?” He’s confused by the suddenly breathless question, the dropped jaw, stunned look the brunette was wearing as he stared back with widened eyes.

“What? Oh. But… You said- why are you looking so surprised, it’s not like you didn’t know. I texted you.” John asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously at him. Maybe Mycroft was right, when he said that there was a misunderstanding between them- of course he was.

“Look, Sherlock, you’re still sick, you should get more rest. We can continue later on.” John frowned worriedly over him with pursed lips as he paused once or twice while rattling coughs shook his frame.

  “Please John, I may not be good with feelings, John, but that text was the farthest thing from a confession I have seen.” Sherlock rasped with a roll of his eyes, waving a hand weakly in dismissal over his concerns.

“What part of ‘I love you’ doesn’t sound like one to you? Because I tried to find the least mis-understandable way of telling you that, and I was pretty sure I found it when I told you that I forgive you, and I forgive you because I love you.” John says exasperatedly, rolling his eyes at the younger male’s confusion. He could really be that bad with feelings, could he?

“But the text I received clearly stated that you did not wish to remain friends with me.”

“Yeah, I said that, but after the rest. I mean, I wasn’t sure that you returned my feelings, but I just… I couldn’t stay just friends with you and not more.”

“Wha- But Mary- I thought...” The bed ridden consulting detective stuttered, turning his head away to avoid his doctor’s eyes and taking a deep breath as he voiced his earnest (and possibly also most painful) belief.

“You were happy without me.”

“What? Sherlock, I was absolutely miserable without you, I can’t believe you would think-” John breaks off with a slight hitch to his voice, as shaking his head with a sad smile. He slides his hand down to cup Sherlock’s cheek in his palm, thumb sweeping across marbled cheekbones as he gently brings those gorgeous eyes back to him.

“There’s no one who could ever be like you, Sherlock. Mary was far, far too different from who I really wanted- and just to be doubly clear, I do mean you- and she’s a great woman, don’t get me wrong, but she was never going to be able to replace you. And when I realized that- realized that I was trying to fit her into the Sherlock-shaped hole in my heart and life… it just didn’t seem right anymore. It wasn’t fair to her, or to you, and so I broke up with her. And I would have done the same, even if you hadn’t come back.”

“But Mary said-… Oh God.” He’d been such an idiot. There had been so many hints, so many signs that Mary was hiding something- that she didn’t feel right. And yet, he’d still readily believed her.

Idiot.

“Sherlock? What did Mary say to you?” John questioned softly, heart sinking as the realization of what (probably) happened dawned upon him.

“She said… that you couldn’t be with me anymore because you had a family now… that you were happy without me.” Sherlock muttered blankly, the dull ache in his heart over those words replaced by the anger that his foolishness and the frustration over the time they lost- all that time they could have been, but weren’t.

“John… the texts, I didn’t- she handed me my phone, telling me to read my texts. She- She must have deleted them.” John swore under his breath, sighing as he takes Sherlock’s other hand in his, pressing a chaste kiss to them both.

“I’m sorry she did that, love, and that I had a part in this whole misunderstanding of ours. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to talk to you sooner, that I let her have the chance of coming between us, and I’m so, so sorry that I hurt you in the process. You have to believe that I wasn’t trying to- I would never intentionally hurt you. I mean, I-”

“John? Shut up and kiss me.” And John laughs, grinning right back at Sherlock as he leans forward to meet him, those cupid bows moving against his in a whispered declaration of love.

Finally, he thinks, things were going to fall back into place, with him right by Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock watches how the ex-army captain’s blue clad eyes sparkle as he speaks on the phone, the easy, bright smile decorating those lips as he throws his head back in laughter at something she (Jane, or Jeanette, or Jenny or something equally inane) says.

And he falls even deeper.

And he wonders if he’ll ever stop.

Loving him.

Wanting him.

He wonders if he will forever dream, for the one day-that maybe... someday…  he would finally see him; that he would finally love him.

-

Greg Lestrade pursed his lips, taking a distracted sip of his cold coffee as he stares at Sherlock and John in thought. He can see the obvious affection the younger male has for John, just from the way his eyes immediately drift to him when he walks in, and the small, sad look that he wears when he thinks that no one is looking- it’s a look Greg knows far too well, having seen it many times back when Sherlock was still a teenager, suffering from loneliness of the ostracisation his intellect brought. It’s a look that still gets him every single time, heart aching when he remembers the days he couldn’t do anything but try to be there for his drug addled charge, running gentle fingers through ruffled curls as he quietly sobs and asks why him.

He remembers telling Sherlock back then- the day the genius comes home with tears streaming down his cheeks because his so-called boyfriend had dumped him with accusations that it was his fault anyway because if only he wasn’t such a freak- that there was nothing wrong with him, and that one day, one day he’d find someone who could accept him as he was.

He almost wishes he could take it back now, because Sherlock did find that someone in John, and was hurting all the more for it.  

Greg thinks he can almost hear the fluttering of the consulting detective’s heart- the heart everyone believes to be non-existent- when the blonde slides up to him with a wide grin. And when Sherlock nonchalantly agrees that they are done and could leave soon because John has a date, even though the case hasn’t been solved, he finally understands just how much Sherlock really loves John.

But he also knows that Sherlock has never believed his love to be reciprocated.

He wishes that Sherlock could see- not just look, but to actually see- the way John’s eyes light up as they land on him, the way his smile brightens, widens even more when he’s around; the way he cuddles up close to Sherlock when he sits by him- bodies pressed together from shoulders to toes.

If only he could see…

Because the inspector can, and what he sees, is that John loves Sherlock, just as much as Sherlock loves John.  

-

Sherlock stirs from his flu induced sleep when he hears the door of his room squeak in the fog of his mind, groggily blinking at his uninvited guest. Bleary eyes register his intruder as John when he leans over him and whispers his name, a fond but worried smile on his lips as he slides a cool palm beneath his bangs. He reaches out and pulls John down beneath the covers with him, burying his head into the warm jumper clad chest, just as he always wished he could do, inhaling that comforting scent as he lets out a quiet hum of bliss.

And he thinks that this must be another dream, because it feels like heaven with John in his arms- unreal, beautiful, perfect- because why would John come to him in the middle of the night?

But it’s not till he feels a tender kiss gingerly pressed to his cheek, accompanied by a husky goodnight as he drifts off, that he realizes it’s only a dream, because this can’t be real, not when John doesn’t love him back- he just doesn’t.

When Sherlock next awakens, to dull grey clouds, the smell of freshly brewed rain, and no John by his side, he feels a strange tug of disappointment at his heart. And he can’t help but be angry- not with John, no, never with John- but with himself. Because he shouldn’t be disappointed, he just shouldn’t, not when this was all he’d expected, and he hates himself- his pathetic, vulnerable self- because it hurt more than he thought it should.

He tries not to dwell on it as he storms out into typical London weather, the constant shower of icy rain prickling against tender skin. His clothes are rapidly getting soaked through, but he doesn’t stop; doesn’t turn back even when he knows he’ll have to account to a very irate John later.

The crystal droplets relentlessly slap down on him, bruising, but the sharp bites are numbing, and Sherlock is grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to hurt anymore.

But they come anyways- the tears- but he’s too tired; just too sick and tired of all this longing and loving and despair, that he just breaks down, lets the tears fall freely as he’s getting drenched.

When he finally decides to return to their flat, his lips are already turning blue, teeth chattering as he shivers uncontrollably. He fumbles with his keys, cursing when they slipped through his unresponsive fingers. The door flies open at the commotion, just as he bends down to pick them up, and he’s met with a very flustered John, blue eyes dancing in anxiety and relief as they land on him.

Head swimming as he straightens, Sherlock tries to focus on the worried male in front of him, lips forming incoherent words as he attempts to string appropriate words together through the mush his brain is reduced to.

“Why…” are you upset?

But that’s all he manages, darkness abruptly overwhelming him as he crumples forward- into John’s surprised arms.  

“…Sherlock!”  

-

Hot. It’s so hot... He tries to move away from the suffocating heat, to move somewhere safer, but all he sees is the leering darkness, and he can’t move- not while he can’t see, but the heat was moving closer, and the fear that gnaws at him is spinning his mind out of a calm control, into a panicked state.

He tries to peer through the darkness, but everything that’s there is just nothingness, and the panic is escalating when he realizes that he doesn’t remember his whereabouts, or how he ended up in this place. He can’t breathe; the heat is burning, scorching his flesh, but still he can’t move, and no one can save him- and he’s too young, he doesn’t want to die yet- he can’t die.

Not when he hasn’t confessed; not when he needs to tell him that he loves him.

He scrunches his nose in confusion, irritation prickling his mind because he knows he’s missing something important, knows that he’s forgotten something that should never be forgotten.

Him... who...?

But try as he might, the heat is distracting, and he can’t think, can’t remember who he needs, and- “Sherlock...”

He hears the voice- faint, but it comes again, and a face flashes through his tortured mind. He feels enlightened, as if a great burden has been lifted from his chest, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as the air steadily starts to trickle in. The heat doesn’t hurt as much anymore, replaced by comforting warmth, and he feels safe.

Because now, he knows where he has to go- who he has to return to.

-

“John…”

“Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you open your eyes for me?” Even through the haze in his head, he knows that he knows that combination of smells; of honey and milk shampoo, of tea, of home, and more importantly, he knows those hands- the one that is currently grasping his, tightly squeezing, and the other that is running soothingly through his hair as if trying to gently rouse him.

“John?” He squints through the sudden light invading his senses as his eyes flicker open, relaxing when his vision clears enough for him to make out the weary figure of his flatmate. John breathes in relief, smiling at him when he sees the sharp focus on him– he’d never thought he’d miss that scrutinizing so much, not till he was faced with days of scrunched, shut eyes in fevered dreams at worst and glassy, uncomprehending  eyes at best.

“Oh Thank God, I was just about to bring you in if you still didn’t wake up. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” He automatically replies, even though he doesn’t feel fine- not that he’d ever admit that- pushing himself up to a sitting position on trembling arms.

“Only you could get a fever of over forty one degrees and still say you’re fine. I swear, I almost had a heart attack when you collapsed on me. You’ve got to stop doing this, Sherlock.” John sighs as Sherlock sniffs disdainfully, eyes crinkling in worry as he reaches up to slide a cool palm beneath the bed of riotous curls.

“I’m fine, John, if you’re just going to stand there and smother me with your worrying and nagging, I suggest you take your leave now.”

“Oh don’t worry, Sherlock. That was the end of me being nice. This is the part I start yelling.” Sherlock groans, looking like a petulant child as he slumps with a dark scowl, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes.  

“John-”

“No, I don’t care, you’re listening to me. You know, for a genius as brilliant as yourself, you can be such an idiot at times. Why you would think it was a good idea to leave the flat at all, let alone into the pouring rain, when you’re sick, is absolutely beyond me. Honestly, I leave you alone in bed for like half an hour tops, and next thing I know, THERE’S NO SHERLOCK HOLMES IN BED.” John throws his hands up in exasperation, glaring at the shocked detective.

“W-What?” Sherlock stutters, arm falling from his face as he gapes at John, mind whirling with the implications of what he just heard. John lifts a sardonic eyebrow, peering suspiciously at him, as if trying to gauge some deeper, underlying meaning behind his question.

“What do you mean what? Are you trying to deny that you disappeared on me? Because I know what I saw, I’m not an idiot, contrary to your beliefs.”

“No, not that. Your last sentence. Say it again.” Brows furrowed at the urgency and light hint of desperation underlying those words, John pauses, arms lowering in confusion as he stares at the detective worriedly.

“Uh, I leave you alone in bed for half an hour and you disappeared on me?” He finally ventures, carefully, uncertain as to how the words would be taken. He doesn’t know how else they could be taken, simple words as they were- or at least, he thinks they are simple, but who knows what goes through that great mind of his.  

“You left me alone in bed?” John’s starting to get worried now, frowning apprehensively at Sherlock, now sitting upright in bed, back straightened with tension and blinking uncomprehendingly at him.

“I just said that, yea. Sherlock, are you sure you’re alright?”

“For half an hour?”

“Well, more like twenty minutes but yea, I had to run and grab some medication from Tesco’s, since you used them all up in some experiment of yours- I’m still angry with you for that, by the way.” Sherlock tuned out the rest of what John was saying, mind still drawing blanks as he tried to process what it all meant- it felt important, it was important, but he just couldn’t quite figure it out yet.

He left me, alone, in bed for twenty minutes. Was he with me before that? How long was he with me before that? Does that mean… But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he was with me. He could have just been routinely checking in on me. And even if he was, he was probably not with me- of course not, John wouldn’t be with me, why would he, he’s not gay-  

“You left me alone in bed for twenty minutes?” Sherlock winces as the words fell unbidden from his lips anyways, cursing inwardly at the disbelief and hope tinting those words- and Good Lord, he was repeating himself- was he always so obvious when it came to John?

God, it’s no wonder that crimes of passion were so ridiculously easy to solve, if love was going to turn people into such bumbling idiots.

And worse still, he knew better than to even attempt to blame this on being sick- this, this was all John.

“…You’re repeating yourself, Sherlock. God, how hard did you burn your brain? Maybe we should go to the hospital.”

“No! No, I’m fine, John, promise. I just- I thought- you weren’t there when I woke up.”

“Yea, I just told you, I had to…” John says slowly, trailing off as he took in the vulnerability in the way the brunette held himself, the barely hidden hurt in those gorgeous eyes as he looked away from the scrutiny, throat bobbing in a hard swallow before he gave the smallest of nods in acknowledgement.

No… that’s not right. It’s…

“Oh,” John breathes out, stunned with the realization dawning on him.

That wasn’t simply acknowledgement- it was embarrassment; it was shame.

“You thought… that it wasn’t real.”

“It? What do you mean?”

“Me. And you… in bed.” John flushes, deep crimson rapidly climbing his neck when the detective’s eyes widen in shock, jaw dropping comically.

“No, no that’s not what I meant. Oh God, that came out wrong. Not that I wouldn’t- I’m not trying to suggest- I mean, I know you’re not interested and-” He rambles hurriedly, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him because Dear Lord, he was an idiot and he was going to ruin everything and-

“But I am!”

“… What?” He can’t help but blink in surprise when the exclamation stops him short, cutting across his panicked thoughts, and he thinks he must have fainted, or something, because he swears he just heard Sherlock say that he was interested.

In a romantic (sexual?) relationship with John.  

“I am. Interested, that is.” But there it was again, and disbelieving as he is, maybe he’s not dreaming after all, because he’s not that desperate to try and force dreamlock to confess that he was interested twice, and in hindsight, Sherlock did drag him into bed after all.

Huh.

“But you’re… you said you were married to your work.”

“Yes, well. I changed my mind.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffing in indignation when John lifts a sceptical eyebrow at him.  

“Oh, come off it, John. Don’t tell me I’m not allowed to change my mind.”

“I do admit that even I personally never thought I would ever find someone… People are so unbearably dull after all, but you, John. You are the most singularly interesting person I have ever met, and I find myself constantly surprised by you. I think I can safely say that I have never been or will be more interested in someone in my life.” He continues in a much quieter voice when John continues to stare at him, eyes flickering down to the ground so he wouldn’t have to see his reaction. He doesn’t think it could be anything good anyway, even though taking John’s words into consideration, it really could be- was more likely than not, in fact- but he doesn’t dare to hope.

“But- But you’re Sherlock Holmes, Mr ‘sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side’! I didn’t think… You said you were a high functioning sociopath.”

“Something you know not to be entirely true, John.” Sherlock says, and the words must have come out much softer than he’d intended, further gentled with the small and exceptionally fond smile he doesn’t realize he has on, because John smiles back, and it’s every bit as tender and just so John that Sherlock falls in love all over again.

Dear God, I love him.

He can only stare at John helplessly, forcing down the desperate whimper that wants to escape (even just the idea of him whimpering is absolutely unacceptable), because no one has ever looked at Sherlock the way John has, and the thought of being without John- of a life without John, he thinks, cannot and will not be a life at all.

“…I do, don’t I.”

And Sherlock is looking at him with so much emotion, so much suppressed hope, that his breath catches in his throat and John doesn’t even stand a chance, the words slipping out before he gets a chance to think about it.

“I love you.” Sherlock freezes, muscle tensing as his face starts to shut down, and John curses inwardly, almost apologizing and taking it back; almost regrets saying it because it’s just too much, too fast.

But then Sherlock practically pounces on him, lips pressed firmly against his, and he definitely doesn’t regret it- not when Sherlock is returning the sentiment, whispering it frantically against his skin with every chaste kiss he places.

Oh what the hell, he thinks, as long as he has Sherlock.