And I just thought that you should know
That I'd been holding on while you'd been letting go
Can I be so bold
'Cause all this talking all to you's just getting old
Then it's not too late to say it right this time
'Cause I know I said I'm sorry
But that's not what I meant to say
What I really meant to say
With every little breath I take
I'm not the only one who makes mistakes
Just think of all the ones you made
Chris Daughtry – What I meant to say
~o~
Another near death experience. Another life risking case. After months that's what it had taken to get either of them to realise, one because he genuinely didn't know and the other because he was stubborn and refused to admit to harbouring such a weakness. Being outside, but tied to each individual through friendship it was easy to see what was happening between the pair. He may not have been a genius but even from early on he'd seen it between the pair. Just one chance meeting with the doctor in the company of the detective had made it obvious that the two were destined for great things together. Now Geoff Lestrade wasn't a man who believed in fate or destiny, how could you be in the job he had? It was said after all, if you believed in that kind of thing, that everyone had a destiny. But how could someone be destined to end up a pulped and bloody mess at the hands of a killer? No, in his job you couldn't afford to believe in such things. And yes it went against everything he'd thought, still did in fact but as ever Sherlock Holmes was the exception, watching the pair of them and being acquainted with each even he could tell that the pair were meant to be.
~o~
Sitting back in his chair Geoff Lestrade snorted. He'd just suffered his latest encounter with the pair and things certainly didn't look good. Geoff considered both men his friends but in that moment he'd never wanted to punch Sherlock Holmes more. After everything he and John had been through, Sherlock was treating John worse than ever and the doctor was beginning to feel the strain, now Geoff was under no impression that the doctor couldn't handle himself, he'd been in a war for God's sake, but catching the man's eyes not fifteen minutes before when he'd been leaving had had Geoff breaking for him. Those normally bright tawny eyes looked tired and the weak smile the man had offered when he'd entered the office hadn't even been the shadow of the usual smile, it barely reached his lips never mind his eyes. He was hurting. Geoff had had to fight back a wince of sympathy for him. Sherlock was managing something the army and the war hadn't. The DI knew better than to assume that Sherlock didn't know he was doing it and from the pained look in John's eyes he knew that John knew it too.
Checking the time Geoff stood from his seat, stretching the tension from his muscles. Technically there was another hour or so left of his shift before he clocked off but Sherlock, despite all his other faults at the moment, was still playing true to form and had solved the case. So as it stood there was only paper work to fill in and that could wait, he had more important places to be. Shrugging on his coat he clocked out waving a quick goodbye to the others, they knew better than to ask where he was headed this early, even they'd noticed the drastic change in the doctor's demeanour.
For a few weeks now this was how it played out, particularly after a big case when John and Sherlock had been into the office to hand over the information of the latest case and Sherlock had bragged about how clever he was, listing the reasons why before telling them anything useful; Geoff would leave early to meet John at the pub. It had happened for the first time almost two months ago. Lestrade had noticed how uncharacteristically down and angry the doctor had looked after one of the post case Sherlock gloating meetings, so he'd text John with a pub invitation, an invitation which had been pounced on by the doctor. So when he'd finished work Geoff had headed over to meet John. When he'd finally relaxed enough to enjoy it John had seemed happier and it had become a regular thing between the pair. It was the only time John could properly escape Sherlock and talk to someone who genuinely understood. After time these encounters became less about being in each other's company and sharing a few drinks to John opening up and spilling all about Sherlock's latest attempts to push him away. And though each time John denied that it was getting close every time Geoff walked into the pub and saw John in the corner booth, which had quickly become their booth, the man looked worse and this time was no different. The man sat huddled in the corner of the booth his tanned skin pale, huddling tight into the neck of his jacket against the soft chill that wafted into the room each time the door opened.
Shaking his head with a sigh Geoff moved over to the bar, sliding a fresh pint in front of John when he reached the table. It was a few moments before John reached out to close his fingers around the glass, lifting it to his lips and taking a deep drink. "I can't do it anymore, Geoff." The voice had been so small and broken that Geoff wasn't sure he'd heard it at all, much less from the man before him. John was a strong man, a soldier. But looking at him now none of that was visible; he just looked so small and tired. It was in the silence that followed that Geoff Lestrade realised two things. John Watson loved Sherlock, he'd laid himself bare, opening up to the man in a way that no one would ever have thought possible when it came to Sherlock Holmes, but there was so much more to it than that. John wasn't interested in men, never had been. But then there was Sherlock. It had taken a lot for John to open himself up to the idea of a relationship with a man and Sherlock had used that to hurt him, taken that vulnerability and used it to wound instead of protect the doctor. Probably the only person that would ever love Sherlock so unselfishly, probably the only person Sherlock would ever love. No one else was ever going to have that place in Sherlock's heart where John had forged and nestled himself.
The other thing that Geoff realised with a flush of pain and anger was that Sherlock had successfully managed the one thing that the war hadn't. Sherlock Holmes had broken John Watson.
~o~
It was several hours later that John returned to the flat, mustering a small smile for Mrs Hudson who was on the way out. With a small sympathetic smile she rested a hand on John's arm and squeezed gently. That small action of comfort almost made John cry; the old lady and the DI had been John's lifelines through this whole thing. As Geoff took John to the pub for a pint, Mrs Hudson took John into her flat for a cuppa. They were both the reason he'd lasted this long.
Taking the stairs slowly John entered the flat, pausing at the door. Sherlock was spread over the whole length of the sofa surrounded by books and papers, leaning over the coffee table which was crowded with various, precarious looking containers and beakers filled with questionable looking substances, John's laptop open at his feet. The magazines and other papers that had been on the coffee table this morning had been swept aside, littering the floor in what, once, might have been a pile. In his excitement at whatever reaction was currently taking place on the wood of the coffee table, Sherlock had obviously, and uncaringly, knocked them over. For one ironic moment John could empathize with the magazines, he'd once been a sturdy tower and he'd been knocked and pushed, his structure weakening under Sherlock's influence and as was inevitable he'd fallen and broken. Had everyone seen that coming? Had each knocked comment and tiny shove alerted them to the crumbling, cave in that John was heading for as plainly as he had seen the magazines do on numerous occasions?
Sherlock barely looked up as John entered, not even a hello, never mind one of the more intimate greetings they'd shared when they'd first started out. "Not even worth a hello now. That feels great." John sighed moving into the kitchen and throwing the scarf over his chair as he passed, Sherlock's spare scarf, he'd taken to wearing it recently because it smelt of Sherlock and it let John, somehow, feel close to him.
Sherlock sighed impatiently, not taking his eyes from his experiment. "Are you really going to sulk over the lack of greeting? Honestly John that is so," he paused, waving a hand thoughtfully in the air between them. "Primary school. Can't you see I'm busy?" There was an impatient edge to his words, one that had been slipping into his tone more often when he spoke to the doctor.
Maybe it was the tone, maybe it was the words, or maybe it was the unconcerned air that Sherlock had delivered them with, like he really didn't care. John didn't know, but he finally snapped, slamming the mugs he'd been filling down onto the side. Splashes of boiling water leapt from the mugs and rained down onto John's hands but John paid them no heed, the stinging pain was absorbed by the greater pain that was already knotted in his chest, fuelling his anger as he stomped back into the living room. "Busy? Should I apologize for being such an inconvenience?" Still Sherlock didn't look up, only a frown of what John assumed to be annoyance flickered across his expression and that probably hurt more than if Sherlock had punched him. "Answer me something." Moving across the room John stood on the opposite side of the coffee table to Sherlock, he wanted nothing more than to kick the coffee table aside so he could be sure of Sherlock's attention but was more than aware of the chemicals sitting at his knees and, God help him, even now he didn't want to hurt the stupid man. It had nothing to do with the fact he needed the small buffing, protection of the table between them. "Do you even care? About me?" He clarified. "Did you ever? Do you," the next question tripped him up and he paused, swallowing as the words caught in his throat. "Did you ever love me?"
Finally Sherlock looked up. But his expression didn't offer comfort or reassurance; it was blank except for a frown of confusion. "Is that what this is about?" John held back a wince at that, what hurt most about it was the genuine confusion that was colouring Sherlock's tone and expression. "Answer the question, did you ever love me? I need to know Sherlock, I need to hear you say it." Holding his breath John waited for Sherlock to reply, to tell him he was being stupid, that of course he loved him and that he'd been an idiot for making John feel that way. But nothing came. Just that same frown playing at his face before it slid away, about the same time the colour drained from John's face as he felt his heart break.
Despite keeping his face blank Sherlock's heart sped up. You didn't have to have his level of intellect to know where this was going. John's face was breaking him inside, that part of his mind that had been screaming at him for two months was yelling again, louder than ever, screaming at him to do something, say something. 'Yes! God yes you love him! You always have! Tell him!' But he couldn't, his throat was tight, blocking any words from escaping, his body mutinied too, muscles locking in place to keep him from moving. He knew what he'd been doing for the past months had been hurting the doctor but he never realised things had gotten this bad. How could one feeling do all this? One stupid emotion and it had ruined everything. This was why Sherlock generally shied away from such emotions. Closed himself off and shut down. Because he didn't know how to deal with them, he couldn't lay them out and analyse them, work out theories and conclusions. The only things he knew for certain was that they terrified him and they hurt. Hurt almost as much as John's voice when he spoke again, the words shaking, trembling with pain, betrayal and hurt. "You can't say it can you?" Swallowing hard John turned away from Sherlock.
"Remember that first case we did together?" It was after a long silence that John spoke again, his voice quiet and calm, enough so that it chilled Sherlock and made him shiver, a tight feeling of nausea twisting his stomach. There was a grim acceptance in John's tone, broken, painful acceptance and Sherlock's body flooded with pain. "You said I was stupid. You were right, as always. I was stupid to believe that you cared for me, stupid enough to think that if I gave you time you'd maybe open up to me a little and I was stupid to think that you'd change even a little to make this work." Now John turned to face Sherlock. The look in those tawny depths made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat.
"You're a sociopath. And sociopaths by definition can't understand emotion, you never told me you loved me because you never did." Sherlock blinked slowly, holding back a wince. That had hurt, John's words had cut him deep. And again his mind was screaming at him again. 'Tell him! You never said the words because you were scared, not because you don't feel it!' A humourless laugh slipped past John's lips as he ran his hands over his face scrubbing away the tears he refused to let fall. He was a soldier for Christ's sake, he could deal with this. But even soldiers hurt, his mind offered unhelpfully. John snapped over come with anger, letting that take him instead of the pain. Anger he could deal with. "You never even cared about me! You just played along so that I wouldn't leave you. But guess what Sherlock? You've pushed me away anyway." The anger had quickly dispersed by the end, dipping into that same pain filled tone, and he paused for only a moment before he turned for the door, heading straight down the stairs and out of the flat.
And even as the sound of the door slamming closed met with the sound of his heart breaking Sherlock still couldn't move. Frozen in place to deal with a pain that he didn't know how to relate to. There was so much that had gone unsaid but Sherlock couldn't move to chase after John, just watched as the only man he'd ever loved, the only man that had ever been able to make Sherlock a better man, walked from their flat and possibly his life. For once in his life Sherlock didn't know what to do. How could he fix things? They'd come so far together and he knew he couldn't let it end this way. He'd never stop loving the doctor and it had taken this for him to realise. He had to tell him, John had to know.
~o~
The weather was bitter outside. It took John a long time to realise just how much. The burning in his fingers and cheeks had been over shadowed by the pain in his heart. Had he really just walked out on Sherlock? Had he over reacted? Could they come back from this? His mind was that busy bouncing around these same painful thoughts that he wasn't sure how long he'd been walking, he just knew it had been a long time, it had been growing steadily darker around him, matching his mood.
A scuffle from an alley to his left drew John's attention and he paused in the mouth, peering down into the gloom. Two shapes were visible, one propping the other up, arm slung around the waist of the smaller shadow. The supporting person turned to face John when the movement caught his attention. "Help! Please, he's been mugged. He needs a doctor, he's bleeding. Call an ambulance!" The panic in the guys voice spurred John into action, kicking any trepidation he was feeling about the situation to the side as he jogged down the alley. "I'm a doctor." He informed both men as he skidded to a stop in the gravel, phone already in hand and '999' already dialled. Two things registered simultaneously in John's mind and he realised all too late that this was a trap. There was a sharp prick at the back of his neck and the 'injured' guy reached out to grab John's wrist in a tight grip. The phone was dropped in the struggle, John's military instincts kicked in and he lashed out defensively even as the drugs dragged a haze into the corners of his vision. The last thing he was aware of was his elbow connecting with flesh and the accompanying crack of bone. He was filled with a grim satisfaction at the knowledge that he'd broken one man's nose as the blackness swallowed him, with the accompanying soft patter of blood on concrete and he was gone.
