Together is What We Have, Together Protects Us
"John."
John looked up from his laptop to find Sherlock's tentative gaze fixed on him. The doctor raised an eyebrow at this. Hesitant was not a word he would use to describe Sherlock Holmes; uncertainty was not in his repertoire. He nearly had a nervous breakdown once for experiencing doubt. And yet the look in the detective's eyes seemed to reflect just that: inner conflict, indecision, doubt. This made John a bit uneasy, and his reply held a puzzled tone.
"What is it Sherlock?"
From his perch in the chair opposite the doctor Sherlock asked a rather unexpected question.
"Did you… Did you miss me when I… erm… died?"
John's jaw and heart dropped simultaneously. What kind of a question is that?!
"Of course I did, you bloody git! What gave you the idea that I didn't? My weeping and whining at your headstone? My moping about the flat for weeks? My slow descent into near depression? My PTSD relapse, complete with the return of my psychosomatic limp? Sherlock Holmes you are an idiot, you know that? You are my best friend; of course I missed you."
Again the indecision invaded the detective's face, and he dropped his eyes. This time it was a bit different, though. This time it looked more like he didn't know how he felt about that.
"What now? You had better not be thinking about doing that to me again, mate. If you die again I might bloody well come with you."
Sherlock's gaze flicked back up and latched onto John. The doctor and the detective locked eyes, and what John found there surprised him. For a moment Sherlock looked… raw. The weight of the new information seemed to have sunk in and left him exposed. Then he buried the sentiment like always. Sherlock's familiar mask of indifference came sliding over the pain in his eyes, and his gaze shifted about the room while he leaned back in his chair. But John didn't dare let it go. His stare didn't budge from the detective.
"Sherlock, what are you thinking?" John nudged; his tone gentle but firm. Sherlock opened his mouth but no sound came out. He huffed in frustration and pursed his lips. John shut his laptop and set it aside.
"Sherlock, surely after all this time you know you don't have to hide from me."
"I have never hidden from you," he replied defensively.
"You've always hidden. From me, and from everyone else. You don't hide as much from me as you do from the rest of the world, and that courtesy is not wasted on me. But I am perfectly aware that there are still things you keep from me."
There was a pause filled by silence, and an understanding blossomed from it. Sherlock's understanding, and John's. The detective accepted that his flat mate, his friend… that was such a lovely word for him to be able to use. He accepted that his friend knew him, read him, put up with him, and understood him better than anyone in the world. He accepted that if anyone deserved his trust it was John. John who was brave and strong. John who was warm, friendly, and resilient. John who was reliable, patient, and steady. John who was stupid and stubborn and believed in heroes. Yes, it was this man above all who deserved his trust, because John accepted him. John loved him.
"You are safe here, Sherlock. At home, in the flat, with me. You're safe."
The doctor realized that whatever Sherlock was about to say, whatever he had hidden from him; revealing it wouldn't be easy. He realized that his friend… oh to call Sherlock Holmes his friend; it was a rare luxury afforded only to a select few, and he was one of them. He realized that his friend had spent his whole life trying to prove- no, proving that he was cleverer than everyone else because he didn't know how else to prove himself. Over the years the detective had grown an ego and some self-confidence. But no one, except his best friend, realized that it was mostly a mask and easily broken. He had grown up being told that sentiment was a hindrance, and was by no means worth seeking. He had learned to only trust himself and that solitude protected him. People only caused pain in the end and so caring was not an advantage. And yet the detective had not been satisfied with that. Sherlock had tried so hard to find someone that was worthy of his sentiment. And John was who he'd gotten. The detective didn't seem to mind though, John realized. For some reason Sherlock had chosen him. Sherlock loved him.
"I'm safe, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."
The detective still wouldn't look at him.
"Whatever it is I promise you're still stuck with me," John smiled warmly.
"Why, John?"
"Why what?"
Sherlock brought his eyes back to the doctor's face and held them there. The mask fell away.
"Why aren't you going anywhere? Why after all I put you through, after everything I've done to you, everything you've done for me, all the late nights and near death situations and cleaning up after me in more ways than one; why after I tricked you into thinking I was dead for three years are we still in this flat together solving cases and catching killers like nothing ever happened? After everything I've done, it's only logical for you to move on with your life and leave me here alone in this flat to solve murders until I die or am murdered myself. So why, John? Why are you still here?"
The doctor took a long moment to process all of this. He took a deep breath.
"Sherlock when I first met you I thought you were brilliant, but an insufferable know-it-all. You still are. But you've changed. I've changed. On that first case you asked me if I wanted to see more trouble. I said yes. Your brother told me when we first met that I wasn't haunted by the war I missed it. At first I was not inclined to believe him. Now I see he was right. I need it, Sherlock. I need you. You are my trouble. I'd be- I was terribly bored and unhappy without you. The real question is; why did you ask me to come with you in the first place?"
The detective remained silent. John sighed with the corners of his mouth pulled up and shook his head.
"I like this, Sherlock. What we have, this arrangement. I enjoy the thrill of the chase, and your brilliance and certainty in your deductions, even though you do get cocky sometimes. I enjoy coming home after we've solved a case and sitting here in comfortable silence because we're too tired to say anything but too worked up to sleep. I enjoy your company Sherlock. I like you. I like us. That's all there is to it."
Sherlock betrayed nothing. For several long moments John could see the wheels turning in his head. Then he betrayed everything:
"Why?"
John's heart hit his feet. The question may have seemed innocent enough to most people, but the doctor knew exactly what Sherlock meant. Why? Why do you like me? What logical reason do you have to enjoy my company? The detective had searched his mind and could not come up with a single reason why John would want to stay with him, to like him.
"Sherlock," the doctor said quietly, "after all this time, do you still think that you're completely unlovable?"
His eyes said it all. John stood suddenly and gestured wildly as he nearly shouted:
"How many times have I told you how brilliant you are, hmm? How many times have you solved a case, caught a killer no one else could have? How many lives have you saved? How many times, despite your brother's insistence otherwise, have you proved sentiment can be useful? And how many people have you proved wrong? Wrong about a victim, wrong about a killer, wrong about me, wrong about you? What is it going to take, Sherlock? What is it going to take for you to realize that even without all of that you are worth something? You are clever, Sherlock but you are so much more than that. Perhaps if you stopped hiding behind your brain you'd realize that you… you… that I… Sherlock I…"
"I… love you too, John." Sherlock smiled. A genuine smile that touched his eyes and brightened his face. The words felt odd on his tongue but he knew that they were the right ones. When John finally shut his gaping mouth and smiled back he knew he had gotten his point across. John sank slowly back into his chair.
"I know," the doctor replied. "I know."
No more words were required.
A/N: This was written as an epilogue to a story I am currently (at the time of early 2014) working on. After reading over it again I realized how little relevance it had to the story and that it seemed sort of tacked on without explanation. So I've decided it works much better as a stand-alone piece. I hope you agree and I really hope you love it! Please review and let me know what you think!