An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Additional Tags: Ficlet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Summary:
Fill for Tumblr's Sherlockkinkmeme Prompt#24: Sherlock and John have only recently gotten together and Sherlock is super insecure and thinks John will leave him it doesnât help that they havenât told people about them yet and they get in a fight and John goes out to calm down and Sherlock thinks it ended so when John comes back and apologizes Sherlock is shocked and John comforts him and tells him he loves him and isnât leaving etc.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Asexual insecure sherlock? Like he's insecure about being asexual? And doesn't know how to explain it or the name for it and John is just super supportive? (johnlock and BBC)
Sherlock and John have only recently gotten together and sherlock is super insecure and thinks John will leave him it doesnât help that they havenât told people about them yet and they get in a fight and John goes out to calm down and sherlock thinks it ended so when John comes back and apologises sherlock is shocked and John comforts him and tells him he loves him and isnât leaving etc
"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 heâd trusted to always have in his life.
He didnât expect John to have moved on.
He knows he didnât, that he couldnât 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."
~
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 heâd trusted to always have in his life.
Heâs not sure what heâd 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 Johnâs rage was slightly unexpected, he admits).
But he didnât 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 didnât expect John to turn and leave, with her in tow, never once looking back.
âIâll talk to him.â Sheâd 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 didnât expect John to have moved on.
He knows he didnât, that he couldnât 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.
-
âWhereâs John?â 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.
âUm, heâŠâ
âAh, heâs still angry with me. I see.â He swallows down the bitter disappointment, stepping aside to allow her in- much as he wants to shut the door in her face now.
âSorry.â 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.
âNo, donât be. I admit itâs not⊠ideal, but it is reasonable, so I guess I should have expected it.â
âSherlockâŠâ Sherlock tries to ease her worries, something heâs never been good at, waving a hand to dismiss them as he half turns away, calling back behind him.
âPlease, have a seat. Iâll make us some tea.â
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.
Sheâs 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? Â
It wasnât fair.
Heâd 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 wasnât going to let him take him again.
âI forgive you, Sherlock. Whatever your reasons were, I forgive you. Of course I do, becauseâŠâ
(Delete).
âI love you.â
(Delete).
âIâm sorry if this changes everything between us, just⊠that wasnât my intention. But I canât just remain friends, Sherlock.â
(1 New message).
Sheâs 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.
âListen, 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 canât be with you anymore, Sherlock. He has a family now; you understand that, donât you? Heâs happy now.â She implores, eyes glittering earnestly, though thereâs a strange hardness to them.
ââŠOh.â Sherlock murmurs, stilling under her touch when she squeezes his hand (affectionately?). Heâs not sure why, but it doesnât feel right and he hates it, so he subtly moves his hand away, distracted as he is by her words.
Heâs 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 doesnât bother to figure out why, because that wasnât important; none of it was, if it wasnât going to bring John back to him.
In hindsight, that should have been the only warning heâd needed, the alarm bells ringing about how wrong she felt.
Because why on earth, was she so insistent about the text?
But he didnât, 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 doesnât 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.
âRemember, brother mine. Caring is not an advantage.â
âShut up.â He mutters darkly under his breath, rolling to face the back of the couch as if to shield himself from his own thoughts.
âIâm not⊠I wonât fall prey to sentiment.â
He shoves it all to the back of his mind, especially the lone traitorous thought that heâs 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. Â
Idiot.
Youâve already fallen.
-
The transition back to solo work wasnât as hard as heâd 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 didnât mean any harm by it, but Sherlock thinks that doesnât excuse the idiotic ignorance of it.
âWhereâs John?â
âNot 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, Iâm trying toâŠâ Forget him. Heâs 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 heâd left.
But heâs 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 doesnât notice them until itâs too late.
Heâs 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 doesnât understand why heâs so tired, the energy slowly draining from him, though heâs only just woken up. But he does know he canât 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 canât think.
John would know.
John. Whereâs 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 couldnât 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 wouldnât pass out from the exhaustion, because he doesnât 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 wasnât with him, because John didnât want to associate with him anymore. John had his own life now, and he was happy, away from Sherlock. John⊠John is safe.
Thatâs all that matters.
Itâs 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 heâs seized by the welcoming darkness once more.
He smiles.
âSherlock!â
-
âSherlock!â
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.
âGreg, I need someone in here, now!â 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.
âIs he-?â
âNO!â John yells, swiveling to shoot an agitated scowl at him, though his eyes soften as they took in his obviously anxious countenance.
âNo, and he better not. But we need to get him to the hospital, stat.â 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.
âThis isnât working.â 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?
Heâd 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 inspectorâs voice, heâd asked him to explain what this was about- after all, Sherlock had stopped corresponding with him after heâd confessed, so it didnât make any sense why he should have any clue as to the younger maleâs whereabouts. Turns out he hadnât been home when Greg went to visit him, after heâd so abruptly left from the crime scene, and from what he could tell (he wasnât as useless at his job as Sherlock often liked to insinuate), the consulting detective hadnât 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 wasnât 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), Â 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 Sherlockâs hand as if heâd slip through his fingers if he didnât hold on tightly enough.
He doesnât think he could survive Sherlockâs death a second time.
I missed you⊠Iâm still missing youâŠ
-
When he finally regain consciousness, eyelids fluttering rapidly to reveal a sliver of silver orbs, itâs to complete whiteness, and he panics momentarily because he canât 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 heâd get to hear again. Â
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.
âHe canât be with you anymore, Sherlock. He has a family now, you understand that, donât you? Heâs happy now.â
Without you.
He jerks back, arm dropping heavily to his lap with the disapproval of Maryâs eyes burned into his mind.
This doesnât belong to him anymore.
John doesnât belong to him.
Not anymore.
He gently tucks the arm thrown haphazardly across his knees under the ex-captainâs 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 heâs 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 isnât 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.
âGoodbye, John Watson.â
If my sacrifice could bring you the happiness you wanted, then it would be my honour to do so.
-
Itâs 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 Johnâd 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 heâd missed when he was gone, this was probably what hit him the most.
Iâm still missing you.
Heâs 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.
âNot now.â
âWhy shouldnât I-â 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.
âMyc.â
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.
âPlease.â
If the nickname heâd used to call his brother by, back when they were children and heâd 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, heâd 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 werenât so tired, maybe he would have loathed himself for it; but now, heâs just too tired to care anymore. Â
He wishes he could go back to those days, when all he needed to do was go running into Mycroftâs arms, the naĂŻve belief that big brother could fix anything. He wishes it was only all so simple now. And maybe it is, maybe heâs missing something that Mycroft would know- heâd always been better with emotions after all- but he doesnât want to get his hopes up anymore, because he never knew that disappointment could hurt so much.
Heâs so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses the feather light touch- hesitant, and so uncharacteristically Mycroft that he canât 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.
âOkay, Sher.â
-
Despite the way they acted around each other, the belief Sherlock had that heâd 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 heâd 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 didnât 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 heâd 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 heâd loved him.
Heâd 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 hadnât 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 wasnât about to break that promise now. Â
âHello? Mycroft?â
âDoctor Watson.â
âTo 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-â
âJohn.â
âNo, 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? Thatâs fine too- well itâs not really, but I promise I wonât show up, if he would just come back to the hospital? Please? Itâs not worth putting his life at risk for- I mean I can understand that he doesnât want to see me again, because he must have been disgusted that I confessed to him-â
âJohn, 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 youâll find yourself sorely mistaken. There must have been some serious misunderstanding between the two of you.â
âWhat- What do you mean?â
âSherlock is back at Baker Street; I would strongly advise you to pay him a visit.â
âIâm on my way.â
âVery well. Oh and John?â 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.
âMake him happy.â
He could only hope for the best after all.
This is for you, brother mine, I hope youâll find your happiness.
-
He doesnât realize how dependent heâd gotten on John; not till the air heâs breathing in is getting thinner and thinner till heâs struggling to breathe anymore, and an absolutely ridiculous thought flutters unbidden across his mind. Itâs so ridiculous heâs almost ashamed of calling himself a genius consulting detective- heâs worse than those imbeciles at the Yard if heâs even considering this, and yet, he canât help but believe itâs the truth.
I need the air you breathe.
He thinks heâs 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 heâd still wanted to say, so much he should have said when he had the chance, and now he thinks that maybe he wonât ever get to do it.
He wonders why heâs 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.
âSherlock, are you home?â Heâs so tired that he doesnât 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.
âSherlock!â Itâs 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.
âJ-John?â 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 Sherlockâs blue tinted lips, propping him up hurriedly when heâs violently shaken by another coughing fit.
âSherlock, I think you have pneumonia, I need to get you to the hospital.â 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.
âJohnâŠâ
âYes, Sherlock?â
âI-I⊠Love youâŠâ
He smiles, first in relief, then in comfort to Johnâs panic stricken face, hand going limp as he relaxes into the welcoming darkness amidst Johnâs 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. Heâs 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 heâd thought.
But SherlockâŠ
He glances up wearily, watching the rise and fall of that tube clad chest. He doesnât think heâs 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 theyâd created away with him, leaving nothing but hateful silence for John. He remembers the first night, when heâd gone back and broke down in Sherlockâs 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 hadnât been back since⊠well since yesterday, really.
John sighs again, reaching out to take Sherlockâs hand in his, rubbing a thumb soothingly over his knuckles.
Where did it all go so wrong?
Heâd 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 heâd waited, and waited, and Sherlock didnât, and he just didnât 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 heâd 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.
âSherlock?â He murmurs gently, running a hand through mussed curls comfortingly when he groans in reply, forehead scrunching in discomfort.
âSherlock, love, can you hear me?â He continues in a low voice, fingers still threading through those silky locks as his head tilts towards him, as if seeking his voice.
âItâs John, can you open your eyes for me? Please?â 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 heâd thought heâd lost them- staring blearily back at him.
âHey love.â
â...Hi.â The croaked word surprises him, and itâs 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.
âGod I love you.â
âW-What?â Heâs confused by the suddenly breathless question, the dropped jaw, stunned look the brunette was wearing as he stared back with widened eyes.
âWhat? Oh. But⊠You said- why are you looking so surprised, itâs not like you didnât know. I texted you.â 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.
âLook, Sherlock, youâre still sick, you should get more rest. We can continue later on.â John frowned worriedly over him with pursed lips as he paused once or twice while rattling coughs shook his frame.
 âPlease John, I may not be good with feelings, John, but that text was the farthest thing from a confession I have seen.â Sherlock rasped with a roll of his eyes, waving a hand weakly in dismissal over his concerns.
âWhat part of âI love youâ doesnât 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.â John says exasperatedly, rolling his eyes at the younger maleâs confusion. He could really be that bad with feelings, could he?
âBut the text I received clearly stated that you did not wish to remain friends with me.â
âYeah, I said that, but after the rest. I mean, I wasnât sure that you returned my feelings, but I just⊠I couldnât stay just friends with you and not more.â
âWha- But Mary- I thought...â The bed ridden consulting detective stuttered, turning his head away to avoid his doctorâs eyes and taking a deep breath as he voiced his earnest (and possibly also most painful) belief.
âYou were happy without me.â
âWhat? Sherlock, I was absolutely miserable without you, I canât believe you would think-â 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 Sherlockâs cheek in his palm, thumb sweeping across marbled cheekbones as he gently brings those gorgeous eyes back to him.
âThereâs 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 sheâs a great woman, donât 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 didnât seem right anymore. It wasnât fair to her, or to you, and so I broke up with her. And I would have done the same, even if you hadnât come back.â
âBut Mary said-⊠Oh God.â Heâd been such an idiot. There had been so many hints, so many signs that Mary was hiding something- that she didnât feel right. And yet, heâd still readily believed her.
Idiot.
âSherlock? What did Mary say to you?â John questioned softly, heart sinking as the realization of what (probably) happened dawned upon him.
âShe said⊠that you couldnât be with me anymore because you had a family now⊠that you were happy without me.â 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 werenât.
âJohn⊠the texts, I didnât- she handed me my phone, telling me to read my texts. She- She must have deleted them.â John swore under his breath, sighing as he takes Sherlockâs other hand in his, pressing a chaste kiss to them both.
âIâm sorry she did that, love, and that I had a part in this whole misunderstanding of ours. And Iâm sorry I didnât come to talk to you sooner, that I let her have the chance of coming between us, and Iâm so, so sorry that I hurt you in the process. You have to believe that I wasnât trying to- I would never intentionally hurt you. I mean, I-â
âJohn? Shut up and kiss me.â 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 Sherlockâs side.
"Sherlock watches how the ex-army captainâs 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 heâll 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. "
Sherlock watches how the ex-army captainâs 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 heâll 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- itâs 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. Itâs a look that still gets him every single time, heart aching when he remembers the days he couldnât 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 wasnât such a freak- that there was nothing wrong with him, and that one day, one day heâd 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. Â
Greg thinks he can almost hear the fluttering of the consulting detectiveâs 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 hasnât 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 Johnâs eyes light up as they land on him, the way his smile brightens, widens even more when heâs 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 seeâŠ
Because the inspector can, and what he sees, is that John loves Sherlock, just as much as Sherlock loves John. Â
-
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 itâs not till he feels a tender kiss gingerly pressed to his cheek, accompanied by a husky goodnight as he drifts off, that he realizes itâs only a dream, because this canât be real, not when John doesnât love him back- he just doesnât.
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 canât help but be angry- not with John, no, never with John- but with himself. Because he shouldnât be disappointed, he just shouldnât, not when this was all heâd 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 doesnât stop; doesnât turn back even when he knows heâll 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 doesnât want to cry, doesnât want to hurt anymore.
But they come anyways- the tears- but heâs 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 heâs 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 heâs 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.
âWhyâŠâ are you upset?
But thatâs all he manages, darkness abruptly overwhelming him as he crumples forward- into Johnâs surprised arms. Â
ââŠSherlock!â Â
-
Hot. Itâs 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 canât move- not while he canât 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 thatâs there is just nothingness, and the panic is escalating when he realizes that he doesnât remember his whereabouts, or how he ended up in this place. He canât breathe; the heat is burning, scorching his flesh, but still he canât move, and no one can save him- and heâs too young, he doesnât want to die yet- he canât die.
Not when he hasnât 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 heâs missing something important, knows that heâs forgotten something that should never be forgotten.
Him... who...?
But try as he might, the heat is distracting, and he canât think, canât remember who he needs, and-
âSherlock...â
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 doesnât 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.
-
âJohnâŠâ
âSherlock? Sherlock, love, can you open your eyes for me?â 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.
âJohn?â 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 himâ heâd never thought heâd 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.
âOh Thank God, I was just about to bring you in if you still didnât wake up. How are you feeling?â
âIâm fine.â He automatically replies, even though he doesnât feel fine- not that heâd ever admit that- pushing himself up to a sitting position on trembling arms.
âOnly you could get a fever of over forty one degrees and still say youâre fine. I swear, I almost had a heart attack when you collapsed on me. Youâve got to stop doing this, Sherlock.â 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.
âIâm fine, John, if youâre just going to stand there and smother me with your worrying and nagging, I suggest you take your leave now.â
âOh donât worry, Sherlock. That was the end of me being nice. This is the part I start yelling.â Sherlock groans, looking like a petulant child as he slumps with a dark scowl, flinging an arm dramatically over his eyes. Â
âJohn-â
âNo, I donât care, youâre 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 youâre sick, is absolutely beyond me. Honestly, I leave you alone in bed for like half an hour tops, and next thing I know, THEREâS NO SHERLOCK HOLMES IN BED.â John throws his hands up in exasperation, glaring at the shocked detective.
âW-What?â 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.
âWhat do you mean what? Are you trying to deny that you disappeared on me? Because I know what I saw, Iâm not an idiot, contrary to your beliefs.â
âNo, not that. Your last sentence. Say it again.â 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.
âUh, I leave you alone in bed for half an hour and you disappeared on me?â He finally ventures, carefully, uncertain as to how the words would be taken. He doesnât 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. Â
âYou left me alone in bed?â Johnâs starting to get worried now, frowning apprehensively at Sherlock, now sitting upright in bed, back straightened with tension and blinking uncomprehendingly at him.
âI just said that, yea. Sherlock, are you sure youâre alright?â
âFor half an hour?â
âWell, more like twenty minutes but yea, I had to run and grab some medication from Tescoâs, since you used them all up in some experiment of yours- Iâm still angry with you for that, by the way.â 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 couldnât 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 doesnât 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 wouldnât be with me, why would he, heâs not gay- Â
âYou left me alone in bed for twenty minutes?â 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, itâs 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.
ââŠYouâre repeating yourself, Sherlock. God, how hard did you burn your brain? Maybe we should go to the hospital.â
âNo! No, Iâm fine, John, promise. I just- I thought- you werenât there when I woke up.â
âYea, I just told you, I had toâŠâ 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⊠thatâs not right. ItâsâŠ
âOh,â John breathes out, stunned with the realization dawning on him.
That wasnât simply acknowledgement- it was embarrassment; it was shame.
âYou thought⊠that it wasnât real.â
âIt? What do you mean?â
âMe. And you⊠in bed.â John flushes, deep crimson rapidly climbing his neck when the detectiveâs eyes widen in shock, jaw dropping comically.
âNo, no thatâs not what I meant. Oh God, that came out wrong. Not that I wouldnât- Iâm not trying to suggest- I mean, I know youâre not interested and-â 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-
âBut I am!â
â⊠What?â He canât 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. Â
âI am. Interested, that is.â But there it was again, and disbelieving as he is, maybe heâs not dreaming after all, because heâs 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.
âBut youâre⊠you said you were married to your work.â
âYes, well. I changed my mind.â Sherlock rolls his eyes, huffing in indignation when John lifts a sceptical eyebrow at him. Â
âOh, come off it, John. Donât tell me Iâm not allowed to change my mind.â
âI 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.â He continues in a much quieter voice when John continues to stare at him, eyes flickering down to the ground so he wouldnât have to see his reaction. He doesnât think it could be anything good anyway, even though taking Johnâs words into consideration, it really could be- was more likely than not, in fact- but he doesnât dare to hope.
âBut- But youâre Sherlock Holmes, Mr âsentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing sideâ! I didnât think⊠You said you were a high functioning sociopath.â
âSomething you know not to be entirely true, John.â Sherlock says, and the words must have come out much softer than heâd intended, further gentled with the small and exceptionally fond smile he doesnât realize he has on, because John smiles back, and itâs 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.
ââŠI do, donât I.â
And Sherlock is looking at him with so much emotion, so much suppressed hope, that his breath catches in his throat and John doesnât even stand a chance, the words slipping out before he gets a chance to think about it.
âI love you.â 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 itâs just too much, too fast.
But then Sherlock practically pounces on him, lips pressed firmly against his, and he definitely doesnât 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.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Sherlock yawned and stretched out his arms, the weak rays of light creeping in under the curtain dragging him into wakefulness. He reached out a hand and froze as it landed amongst cold sheets. His sleepy smile vanished. "M-Mycroft?" he called out softly. The next 23 seconds were the worst of Sherlock's life. Then his brother's head appeared around the bedroom door, closely followed by the rest of him. He was carrying a tea tray and looking rather pleased with himself. His expression fell at the look of fear in Sherlock's eyes, now fading but still clearly visible. "Oh, Sherlock," he whispered, putting down the tray and hurrying to wrap his younger brother in a tight embrace. "It's okay," he murmured, pressing small kisses into his hair, "It's okay." Sherlock nuzzled closer into his brother's robe, inhaling deeply. Mycroft was here, he was fine, he hadn't left, or been kidnapped, or hurt... And he still loved Sherlock. That was important. "I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered softly into his brother's skin. Mycroft squeezed him tighter in response. "I will always be here, Sherlock," he promised. His little brother looked up at him with a watery smile, and Mycroft bowed his head to place a gentle kiss on those quivering lips. "I do love you, you know," he murmured fondly.
Idk if you're still taking requests, but can you do a picture for dumpling47's fic "His Worst Critic"? I would love to see some insecure!Sherlock on here.
Sorry, requests are closed at the moment. I don't know when they'll be open again, once I've done my second giveaway request I think I'm going to take a break from them for a while but they will be  open again eventually. Before the end of the summer almost definitely.
Depending on how I'm feeling about it, I may open them very briefly in a week or two. So, keep your eyes peeled.Â
However, I did have a request for some 'insecure Sherlock' a while back which is here. I hope that satisfies for the time being.