Title: Love is Lost and Lonely
Rating: PG-13
Beta:The wonderful 17pansies
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: An overabundance of angst and some sneaky fluff?
Spoilers: None...I seem to be the only one completely ignoring Reichenbach right now...
Word Count: ~ 3900
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Summary: Sherlock is determined not to fall into the trap of actually caring for someone. Or at least his mind is. His traitorous heart and a certain Doctor seem to think otherwise and embark on an equally determined campaign to prove his assumptions wrong. Unfortunately for them, Sherlock hasn't quite figured out how to deal with this whole 'caring lark'.
General Notes: Still new to this fandom, and trying Sherlock's POV for the first time *surveys disaster zone* ...Comments are much appreciated!

Love is Lost and Lonely

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock Holmes knows this. There is no logic in emotion, in caring. To the rational mind it presents the greatest anomaly found in mankind, which, by virtue of existing, is already riddled with inaccuracies. Why care, if it only brings pain? It defies expectation. No level of cooperation achieved through caring makes up for a broken romance, a broken friendship, a broken heart. He learned this stark fact early enough to have lived most of his life without the burden of being weighed down by misplaced emotions and he has yet to regret it.

And then John Watson, the unassuming ex-army doctor, seemingly as normal, as pedestrian, as they come, had inserted himself in his life, slowly, sneakily moving through or around his carefully constructed barriers. He hadn't even noticed at first (a source of shame, still), or maybe he had pushed aside his observations in denial (even worse). It had taken several life-threatening situations before he consciously acknowledged it for the first time. Then the pool happened - and suddenly he found himself confronted with a truth as unwelcome as it was uncomfortable; for some unfathomable reason he had come to care for John. That night he had felt the crushing fear, so close to physical pain that even distracted as he was he made a mental note to research its applications later, the paralyzing expectation that something would happen to a person he apparently had developed feelings for.

Needless to say he hadn't liked it one bit and the passing of more than a year hasn't dulled his frustration with the entire conundrum. Nor has time done anything to dampen his newly-found arch nemesis known as feelings.

So far he has spent approximately one-thousand-nine-hundred-and-twenty-six hours thinking about this new problem – or the faintly-puzzling-and-mildly-aggravating-case-of-one-John-Watson, as he has come to privately call it (Mycroft does always insist that his talent for understatements paradoxically nearly reaches his proclivity for bold dramatics). Because somehow, rather inexplicably, as he has found, this man, who seems so perfectly normal on first sight, has proven himself not be that in the slightest. Oh, he makes a commendable effort to appear as dull as everyone else (and it seems to fool the yarders and his girlfriends well enough, impressionable and easily duped as they are), but Sherlock knows this to be untrue with the same surety that he knows that Argon is the eighteenth element on the periodic table, or that the tone range of an average violin reaches from the G3 to the C8. When examining where this knowledge comes from, however, things start to get tricky. There are, of course, the obvious answers, his dependency and craving of stressful (dangerous) situations and his ability to live in a flat with him for more than a week without either killing him or running away screaming, but they aren't enough. They are unusual, yes, but not to the point of uniqueness that would catch his eye so. Most of all, it isn't what makes John John to him. And he doesn't know what does. He doesn't understand his fascination, his own feelings on the matter (which is even worse than having them in the first place – why have something that can't be analyzed?). He doesn't understand why, from the moment he first set eyes on him, he has known that John is different. So he thinks, and ruminates, and broods, but at the end of one session has only got to the point of admitting to himself that he's going in mental circles. Repeatedly. (And it's definitely less amusing than it sounds.)

At this point his fascination with this case he cannot seem to solve is only matched by his frustration thereof.

A myriad of shards of broken light glint on the walls. Only the soothing sound of small waves lapping the sides of the pool breaks the absolute silence. Warm air moves, as if in a slight breeze.

It is the very picture of peace and tranquility. It is also, a lie.

You stand, rooted to the spot, gaze fixed on the red dots dancing oh so innocently on the achingly familiar form of John. You know every detail of his appearance; have studied him time and time again. But you have never seen this look, the horribly pale, hopeless look, which is trespassing on his face right now. Dimly you feel that he shouldn't be allowed to have such a new look without you agreeing to it first (which you wouldn't).

In the background your mind is busy calculating escape chances, looking for any way they could get out of this mess mostly intact, preferably unharmed.

The other one is talking. You aren't really listening. All your attention is divided between watching John and questing along the lines of possible futures.

No shot rings out. No bullet flies.

You watch, mind suddenly blank, as John falls, eyes wide open – lifeless. You see all the details as you always do and for the first time you wish you didn't. The shocking red of blood against the clean blue tiles glares at him accusatory. You wish you didn't know that there is already a pint and a half on the ground (too much, too much, too much). You wish you didn't see that John isn't breathing anymore. You wish you could turn everything off, to just stop – but the white nose at the fringes of your consciousness, and the burning in your chest aren't enough. Never enough.

You cannot turn your gaze away from his slack face, and remember bitterly that your wishes never come true.

His crazy laughter echoes of the tiles. You don't even care.

Sherlock wakes with a name on his lips. He wishes he hadn't (this is only one more of the things he can't figure out). Detachedly, almost clinically, he surveys his elevated heartbeat, the sweat on his face, the blotches of heat on his cheeks. Pathetic. These dreams always force him closer to being just another abhorrently emotional human and as much as he rails against it, he has yet to completely master his body when it happens. He hopes it is just a matter of time and practice, but a year and three months seem determined to prove him wrong.

Mouth drawn into a tight line as his mind returns to pondering his new (old) problem, he abandons his bed to move downstairs. The sofa is usually a good place for thinking (usually implying that the theory works as long as he's working on a case, and then proceeds to woefully fail him whenever it comes to the-faintly-puzzling-and-mildly-aggravating-case-of-one-John-Watson).

Barely a few minutes have passed when shuffling steps on the stairs herald John's entrance. One look at him and Sherlock knows that he has come for the same reason he has (dark bags under eyes, slightly haunted look on his face, nearly imperceptible but present limp).

He stops for a moment, obviously not having expected to see Sherlock there, then just shrugs and moves to his armchair.

"Bad dream?" he asks neutrally.

Sherlock has long ago observed that John never says 'nightmare', possibly a side effect of too many therapy sessions trying to deal with the subject. He doesn't reply, keeping his eyes fixed on a particularly interesting dark stain on the ceiling, but John interprets his silence correctly anyway.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No," he answers flatly.

John mulls that over for a second. "Tea?"

Sherlock grunts. Again John correctly notices the implied affirmative. He really has come to know Sherlock's idiosyncrasies to a (slightly) impressive degree. Of course it also helps that making tea is one of John's basic coping mechanism. Keeping his mind off things by going through a series of mechanical motions (how dull). It would never work for Sherlock, obviously, but normal people he has observed tended to hang on to familiar procedures in times of stress.

As he sets down the two steaming mugs on the footstool, John asks, voice unusually careful, "Would you answer one question, though, Sherlock?"

"I just did."

He isn't looking at John, but he's still aware of his exaggerated eye roll. It's practically audible. It is also the first stage of John's dealing-with-an-annoying/frustrating/childish/unreasonable-Sherlock-routine. The second stage usually consists of flat out ignoring whatever he'd just said and ploughing on.

"For how long have you had these dreams?"

Not quite what he expected. Sherlock turns to look at John, whose face is studiously blank, but of course still an open book to him. Slight twitch of his eyelids says that he thinks he already knows the answer. Small tension lines around the corners of his mouth suggest moderate anxiety. For a second he considers lying, but no, he doesn't do that and keeping quiet would only alert John that this might be a sore spot. That leaves only the truth, as telling as it is.

"About a year and three months," he answers, resignedly, but deliberately nonchalant.

John flinches nearly imperceptibly. "Ah."

At least he doesn't seem to feel the need to mention his conclusion out loud this time. And for once Sherlock is sure that John really has come to the right conclusion because even though he isn't the world's only consulting detective, he isn't as stupid as most of the rest of the population. Especially when it comes to matters closely pertaining to him as well, which the incident at the pool undoubtedly does.

A tense silence ensues.

"Well," John quietly says finally, "I'm here."

"Of course you are. Where else would you be?"

John sighs. "That's not what I meant and you know it, Sherlock."

Yes, he does. Of course he does. The problem is rather that that simple, mundane statement loosened something in him, something almost like a rush of warmth. Which it definitely shouldn't have. He's slipping farther down the slippery slope of emotions every day, helpless to stop it. Sherlock detests being helpless almost more than he does incompetent professionals, which is to say a bloody lot. If the thought of maybe just giving in to this flummoxing development crosses his mind, he quickly deletes it afterward.

John is speaking again. "Well, I'm going back to bed. Try and catch a wink of sleep before my shift tomorrow morning."

Sherlock nods, an acknowledging grunt already forming in his throat. What comes out instead is, "Good night."

John stops in his tracks and stares at him, wide-eyed. It would have been comical if Sherlock hadn't been as surprised. He hates surprising himself involuntarily even more than he detests being helpless (where incompetent professionals rank with this one he hasn't determined yet).

"Good night, Sherlock," John returns warmly once he's recovered from the shock of Sherlock being civil, the suspiciously happy glow on his face making something inside him twist and flip flop. He ruthlessly squashes the feeling.

John heads upstairs, leaving him alone with his increasingly troubled thoughts.

Lestrade calls Sherlock in for a case the next afternoon. A robbery that ended in murder. Normally he wouldn't have bothered, but he craves the distraction a real case can bring him, interesting or not. John tagging along as usual, Sherlock sweeps down on the crime scene – small apartment, lower London – with gusto. He doesn't mention that he notices John's unusually unwavering scrutiny - alerting him to the fact wouldn't stop him from worrying after all, even though it is slightly irritating, seeing as he's definitely not behaving any differently just because of a pesky dream the night before.

The victim – a man, early sixties he estimates – is laying face-up on the almost suspiciously clean floor. No outwardly clear cause of death. An examination of the man's slack mouth reveals no new data, except for the faintest whiff of medicinal smell (hours old). Poisoned, then. Not really the usual robber style, a suicide is much more probable.

Sherlock casts his gaze about; broken window (no sign of wetness on the sill), undisturbed furniture (no sign of a struggle anywhere), dust on the shelves…except for a clean spot on the dresser – something has been recently moved. Moving over, he carefully picks up the object in question, a garishly pink (and obviously ineffective considering its owner is lying dead on the floor lucky pig). A slip of white in the spot behind it catches his eye. He tugs the crumpled note out of its hiding spot and smooths it. The elegant swirl of ink simply reads:

I am alone.

Sherlock stares at the simplistic message, something in his chest squeezing near painfully. A momentary vision flashes through his mind; himself a few decades older, alone (having long ago driven everyone out of his life) and abandoned (they still could've stayed). A year and a half ago this image wouldn't have fazed him in the slightest, indeed it would have been his wished fate. Now…now something (he very clearly does not think of John) has changed, if he likes it or not.

He suddenly becomes aware of the yarders' curious stares and John's more quizzically worried one. Shaking his head slightly in a rather ineffective try to banish the image and the emotions it creates from his mind, he surreptitiously stuffs the slip of paper into his coat pocket.

"Suicide," he announces loudly, turning to Lestrade. "Some kind of pill."

The Detective Inspector frowns. "How can you be so sure? We thought-"

"Never mind what your bunch of incompetent analysts says!" Sherlock snaps. "He's been dead for several hours, the burglars didn't break in earlier than an hour ago - no traces of rain on the windowsill. Also, if you sweep under the couch, you'll find the bottle they came from. Even the imbeciles on your forensics team should be able to manage that."

Without waiting for a reply he sweeps out of the room, leaving a room full of either baffled or insulted policemen behind. No need to concern himself with the clean-up that would undoubtedly follow. He heaves a sigh – disappointingly easy the whole thing. Barely two minutes of distraction.

He is near painfully aware of John's gaze still burning into his back.

Sherlock hardly notices the wailing sirens, or the paramedic fussing over the (clearly superficial) slash on his ribs. His mind is curiously blank. It isn't shock, per say (not that it stopped them from foisting one of those hideous orange blankets on him), he can still think, calculate, deduce, but it feels remote, somehow. Or maybe this is just his version of shock, he wouldn't know. Whenever he looks at John, lying still and pale on the stretcher next to him (blow to back of head, seven point five minutes ago, at the very least a severe concussion), his trail of thought derails into nothingness – nothingness with maybe just a hint of panic. He finds that he doesn't know what he would do if John died (except find - and personally kill - the person responsible, obviously). Unbidden the memory of blue water and the smell of chlorine invade his mind.

He hadn't known then, either.

Somehow – as much to his surprise as anyone else's – he ends up in John's room, even after he was pronounced to be making a full recovery. It is entirely irrational to even be there, after all it wasn't as if John would notice his presence, yet he couldn't make himself move.

Sherlock jumped slightly as the door banged open to reveal a frazzled Lestrade, and quickly let go of John's hand (he hadn't even really noticed taking it in the first place – worrying).

"How is he?" Lestrade asks, nodding towards John.

Sherlock shrugs. "They say he'll make a full recovery."

The DI heaves a sigh of relief (and just for a second Sherlock envies him the obviousness with which he can allow himself to do that), then focuses his gaze on him. "And how about you?"

Sherlock looks at him askance. Why would he ask him that? "Me? I'm fine, of course."

Judging by the entirely unconvinced look on his face, Lestrade doesn't believe him. Curious. It even seems to be a (remote) possibility that Sherlock is missing something here.

Lestrade coughs, slightly awkwardly. "He's a good man."

His eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. Yes, definitely missing something.

In light of having absolutely no idea how to respond to that, Sherlock settles on a noncommittal grunt.

"Quite special, too," Lestrade continues, and now he's looking at Sherlock pleadingly, even though he is the one to have started this entire insane conversation. "You're lucky to have him."

That brings him up short. Oh. Oh. Lestrade thought they were lovers or some other such nonsense. He refuses to deduce the slight pang that goes through him at the thought.

"I do not have him, Lestrade, and neither do I need him. John Watson is his own man."

Lestrade is really perfecting his unconvinced look, now. "Riiight."

"Oh never you mind!" Sherlock snaps, giving in to the sudden urge to leave this conversation very far, as far as possible in fact, behind him.

He gets as far as the hospital lobby before he stops, curses, and turns back. He figures bleakly that it's probably too late now to ask God, pagan goddesses, or faeries just why he cannot seem to manage to walk away from John for long.

If the Nile is the river of denial he's already knee deep in it, has spotted the shore, and then waded back into deeper waters again in calculated panic.

Sherlock is in the middle of Paganini's Caprice No. 24 when John returns from his outing at the pub. He doesn't pay him any particular mind, concentrated as he is on the difficult notes.

A mistake if there ever was one.

"Sherlock."

Something in John's tone of voice makes him pause, the bow still poised over the strings. There's an edge of steel to his usually mellow voice, a determination normally only found in life or death situations. A quick review of the flat and the events of the last two days rule the latter out, so he focuses his attention on John instead. Rigid bearing indicating elevated stress levels, shadows under his eyes (not lack of sleep…worry?), anticipation in his eyes (most curious). Sherlock notes that his left hand is perfectly steady.

"Put down the violin."

The utterly commanding tone takes Sherlock by surprise. What surprised him even more is the fact that his hand gives an unconscious twitch to do just that. If he were in one of the crappy TV shows John insists on torturing him with this would probably be the point at which he would say, "Good Lord!".

They stare at each other for a long second, then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers the violin and gently places it on the couch. The next thing he knows he's backed up against the mantelpiece, John looming over him (which shouldn't be possible seeing as he's more than a head shorter than Sherlock) in a rather dramatic fashion which would have done him Sherlock justice on a good day.

"John?" he asks, voice admirably steady despite his traitorous drumming heartbeat.

John doesn't answer. Instead he kisses him. Or maybe that is an answer? For once in his life Sherlock is confused, and the steadily deepening kiss seems to suck all his deductive skill out of him. Despite the complaining thought somewhere in the back of his mind that he really doesn't like surprises, he finds that he offers no resistance. In fact he all but physically feels the already tattered barriers of his resistance to the whole subject waver, let out a last defeated groan, and crumble. Years of conviction, completely erased by the entirely novel feeling of John's lips on his.

And then John does something with his tongue that makes tingling heat rush down his spine and he stops thinking entirely.

When they finally come up for air, John gasps, "So what do you make of that?"

"You are…attracted to me," Sherlock replies, trying to get his breathing under control again. His lips twitch at John's incredulous snort.

"Right. Anything else?"

Sherlock focuses his entire gaze on John's face. "Why now?"

"Uh," John starts, looking slightly discomfited (much to his relief, about time some things went back to normal). "Well, in short, I got tired of waiting for you to act."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in unspoken question. John sighs.

"You know, usually it goes like this: two people are attracted to each other, one of them asks the other out, end of story. Of course things are never normal with you so it went more like: we're attracted to each other, I wait for more than a year for our resident idiot genius to stop pretending nothing's happening, and finally lose my patience. Hence, this."

The heat pooling in Sherlock's belly is, for a time, eclipsed by his irritation. How could he have missed this? How could he not have seen? The answer is as simple as it is aggravating; he had seen, but not observed. He had been so caught up in his own problem that he had failed to further analyse John's behaviour. He had walked into the oldest trap in the book, he. Never theorize before you have sufficient data.

Would it have changed anything? Probably not, but that doesn't make his failure to follow his own maxims any less bitter.

Giving himself a firm mental prod, he returns his attention to John, assessing. "But why today? Why now? You waited for more than a year, there has to be some other reason – you only drank one beer, so no alcoholic influence on your actions…"

His eyes alight on a slip of paper slightly sticking out of John's coat pocket. "Ah! You met someone at the bar, someone you knew before, presumably from your time in the army."

John nods, his face tight. "Bill Murray. He saved my life in Afghanistan, he was the one to get that bullet out of me in the middle of enemy fire." Seeing Sherlock's frown, he explains flatly "He has cancer. They found it too late to do anything about it. He'll be dead before the year is out."

Ah. "I see. It reminded you of how short life really can be," Sherlock murmured, finally understanding. "A common motivator."

"Do you really?" John asks quietly, his stare as intense as Sherlock has ever seen it.

He thinks about it for an entire two seconds. "I'm…not sure," he admits, grudgingly. Admitting to not knowing something is definitely not at the top of the list of his favourite activities (never mind that most of the things that are would probably disgust/frighten/disturb most people).

"You don't buy into this whole 'caring lark'."

It's a statement, not a question. Sherlock answers anyway. "I don't."

"What happens now then?"

He sees the tiny lines of stress around John's eyes, the veiled hope in his blue gaze, the dread and fear lurking below the surface, the love that goes even deeper. He sees it all. Maybe, it's time to stop fighting.

"That," he says gently, "entirely depends if you believe the mind to be stronger - or the heart."

He leans down to kiss him.

"We are not a couple."

"Yes you are.". . .