Stay With Me

A/n: written for challenge 3 of letswritesherlock, and based on the song Stay by Happiness Hurts. Listen to it, it's a beautiful song, and it gave me inspiration to write this fanfic. At the moment, it's only one chapter, but if you guys like it, I would be very happy to continue it. Maybe even make it a Johnlock fic?
Anyways, I hope you enjoy it xxx

Disclaimer: I do not own these amazing characters. They belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, and the idea, to Sir Arthur Conon Doyle.

Glancing up at the large, dark framed window, I realised with a terrible pang that I wasn't going home today.

I stood silently there on the pavement outside, feeling the bitter wind harsh on my face, ruffling my hair, and the cold air slowly seep through the layers of my clothes, to deep into my rigid muscles. I had my head craned slightly, posture such that braced me against the cold, watching the scene unfold before my eyes.

At first, I could see nothing wrong. At first it was insanely comforting, seeing the welcoming redish- gold glow lighting up the window like a beacon. Just through the condensing glass, there was the familiar outline of my chair; the music stand, quivering slightly on its delicate leg as the weight of the occupant shifted around restlessly.
And then the glow was blocked out slightly, and there was John. John at the window with his familiar figure. The lean torso and short arms. His colours, as warm and as welcoming as the light, brighten up my eyes. The sandy colour of his short, military cut hair, the slight flush of delicate pink against his slightly tan cheeks, the cable knit jumper, the colour of iron, that somehow always looked good on him. I knew that if I was closer to him, if I walked that little distance and came close, I would see the colour of his eyes. So dark blue, like the depth of the sea. Deep and understanding, with a twinkle that never went out.

I loved those eyes. There were emotions and thoughts and feelings raging through those eyes.
At first a genuine smile, one that only John could bring, lit my face, and the thought of being in the warm, with John, had never been so welcoming. This was the day, that I had finally worked up the courage to tell him. I wanted to tell him how I felt, though it was strange and confusing and really, I didn't know how to feel. Whatever those feelings were, they seemed real. Those small moments, when his navy eyes pierced mine, and held them there, and it was almost tangible. My heart would kick up a notch, and I found it so difficult to breathe. It was always me who looked away, unable to continue watching his expressive face.

Today, I had been going to tell him. I started my way up the path.

But a flicker of movement caught my eye, and I paused again.

The shadows had changed; more light had been blocked out. Johns figure had moved.
A next to him, I saw another figure. Unfamiliar. Female.

She was pretty, I suppose. Long blond hair drawn into a pony tail, pink cheeks, a long scarlet dress, to her knees. And she and John were standing together.

I was suddenly glad that I was outside in the frigid air, and the pouring rain, so that I couldn't see the look of adoration on John's as she leaned in close. So I didn't hear their rapid breathing as their fingers touched. So I didn't have to feel so much the intense, burning pain that was currently eating me away and hurting my chest. The cold was better than the internal pain.

But I could see the smile on John's face. That beautiful smile that I so rarely saw lighting him up so effortlessly right there. For a moment, he is like an angel in my eyes, trapped in a halo of golden light with that huge, beautiful smile dancing on his face.

The smile is not aimed at me. It's aimed at the blonde woman with the scarlet dress. She is the winner of that smile. I hoped and prayed that she cherished this moment as I would do, had John ever looked at me like that. I hoped that she knew just how lucky she was to have that smiling, beautiful man look at her with adoration in those deep blue eyes, and place a soft, capable hand on hers. She was so lucky, and I hoped she knew.

I closed my eyes to block out the sight of them together. It hurt, and the darkness healed. Darkness showed me ignorance. I could pretend it wasn't real. I could pretend that I was somewhere else entirely. I did not need to picture John's amazing smile, or his blue eyes and cable knit jumper. My John didn't need me. Not anymore. Not when he was with the pretty woman, who probably had no idea how lucky she was.

Did he think about me? As he leaned in close and teased her lips with his own?

Stupid idea, why would he? I had never given him any reason to do so. I'd made it clear months ago how I wasn't interested, but that was when I'd first met him. John had always been oblivious to such obvious things. And if he were to glance out of the window now, he wouldn't understand why I stood, muscles aching and trembling with the cold, with my eyes tightly shut against the golden glow. He would feel sad probably, that I was there about to ruin his date, and the beautiful smile would disappear in a flash.

I never got to see that smile. Not really. Yet that woman got it so very easily.

My heart sank another few metres, and I felt utterly miserable, and completely out of control of my emotions. I couldn't let them run rampant like this. Especially not in front of John.

I turned around, opened my eyes again to the dark street opposite. The windows of the opposite house were dark and cold, just how I felt inside. Glancing at the reflective glass, I glimpse my own reflection. Tall and abnormally skinny, pale skin, dark unruly hair, not a scrap of colour, high cheekbones and a long coat swamping my body. Nothing like the woman up in my flat. Not that I had ever been competition. Not that I'd ever really shown him how I felt before.

I headed slowly back down the street, wondering where I could stay. Where I would be out of the cold.

Tonight was going to be a long night without John.

(several hours later)

Sunlight. Burning my face. I was hot, too hot. Suffocating sheets, tucked tightly around my body. I felt like I was restrained.

There is a soft lull of voices in the background and I'm suddenly incredibly disorientated. What happened last night? Where did I go? Where was I now?
I turn to try and make myself more comfortable, and to assess the firmness of the bed I was in (I had no recollection of getting to a bed at all). It was firm and shapeless. Not my own bed obviously. Take a deep breath. Strong smell of disinfectant and medicine.

Conclusion: hospital.
I was in hospital?

I become aware that the soft voices have ceased, and the silence is heavy.
Then:
"Sherlock?"

John. It is John's voice that I head in my ears. That soft, gentle tone that I know so well. I know every note he can make, every noise and breath and speech pattern. The sound of it fills me with a completely imagined warmth, that somehow feels nice. So much better than the physical sunlight on my face. I want to smile and let my happiness bleed, so that people could see, so that John would see. But I can't. So I don't.

Instead, I open my eyes.

At first everything is fuzzy, and I squint violently, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. Sterile white hospital beds, machines and square windows. The bed next to me is clean and empty. There is a doctor close by.

"Sherlock?" John's beautiful voice again, washing more warmth through me. Like an antidote. My personal antidote to pain and hurt and confusion. I register how urgent he is now. He wants me to respond. I slowly turn my head, and my searching eyes finally, finally, finds his face.

Dark blue eyes, deep and meaningful and full to burst with emotion. They glistened, I gazed with awe, and tried to describe the complexity of the colour in my mind. Nothing came to mind except how much my heart had started racing. Surely he could hear it pounding against my ribs as he was so close?

"Oh Christ Sherlock," his face, so pale and tight, crumbles instantly as he breathes a sigh of relief. The lines smooth out and his joy that I was okay fills his eyes to the brim. I find it hard to breathe, and hate myself for it.

"Are you okay? Sherlock? Speak to me," he says it urgently again, holding my gaze sharply. I swallow.

"John," I say. John. The most important word in the universe to me. I love the taste of the word on my lips, the way my mouth forms the word, the way he responds when I say it.

"I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here, I'm here," warm soft fingers reach for my hand, and my muscles tense involuntarily. Touch. Such a powerful sense. I can feel his smooth skin, and the calloused fingers, so gentle, so careful. This touch seems to burn. I don't want him to let go, but I don't say anything. I stay limp and let him touch, "I'm here," he whispers again.

I wonder how I got in this situation. What happened?

"What happened?" I echoed my thoughts carefully.

"You didn't come home last night, you nutter, they found you collapsed on the street corner," for a moment anger and regret burns in his oh so expressive face, "why didn't you come home?"

How could I tell John the real reason? The pretty blonde woman, the winner of John's smile, John's warm, so so soft touch, John's lips...

I blinked.

"I was busy," I tell him, my voice sounding indignant and sharp. Busy getting painfully hit by powerful emotions and a freezing wind.

"I don't care Sherlock, when it's cold like that, you come home, or I will drag your skinny ass home anyway," the anger subsided for moment, and his features softened, "you could have died Sherlock... It was so cold last night..." He closes his eyes at the thought, as if it gave him pain to think about my death. But surely the pretty woman should cause this reaction, not me. Not his irritating, proud, arrogant flat mate who plays violin at three in the morning.

John always mentioned that, but he never mentioned the music I played.
The music I played at three in the morning was my own composition, and it was for him. It always had been for him. Like a silent, unknown gift that is unrecognised. Despite this, I had grown fond of the piece, almost as though a part of John lived in the music I had created for him. The melody reminded me of John's complexity. The warmth and kindness and solid earthlyness, that was John. The piece was the only time I ever poured my heart out. Which was why three in the morning was the ideal time to play.

"But I'm not dead," I said finally. It was obvious wasn't it? What was the point in thinking about something that could have (but didn't) happen?

"Why didn't you just come home damn it, " John looks angry again; his fingers squeeze my hand, and suddenly I find it hard to breathe.

I look away, to the window. It hasn't been cleaned for three- no, four, days, and the cleaner was a short woman of about thirty. Strange, I was completely doing this on auto pilot.

"You were busy too," I said finally, so quietly, I wasn't sure if John had heard.

The sudden flicker of astonishment in his wide eyes confirmed it, and I wondered why I had said that. Stupid. Unnecessary. I'd already given him an answer.

"Since when did you start caring about how busy I am?" He said quietly, eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

I sigh. I don't want to be part of this conversation. I want to close my eyes and settle into the soft bed sheets and pretend that I needed sleep. That way John would leave, and probably find his lady friend. Again. And smile at her like that. Again.

It was strange to think about how John was so, completely blinkered when it came to me. How could he not know how much I cared when he was busy? How much I cared, in general?

How could he not know just how deeply in love with him I was?

It had, admittedly, taken me a long time to come to terms with this idea, but I knew the signs. I wondered if I was so used to putting on a persona for the outside world, that I was subconsciously hiding these feelings, even from John, the one person who could read me, to an extent, and know what I was feeling, most of the time.

And yet, even now, I was far too afraid to drop the act. I remembered vaguely that I had decided to tell him last night, before the female got involved. Now it was impossible.

It took a moment for John to realise that I wasn't going to answer, so instead of pressing the matter, he squeezed my hand again, more tightly than before, sending jolts of warming electricity through my body. I was suddenly incredibly thankful that I wasn't hooked up to an ECG. A rapid increase in heart rate would have looked suspicious.

"You were saying things," John said finally, after what seemed like an age of silence, "in your sleep, you were saying things,"

I glanced up at him. His expressive face was soft, yet careful. He was unsure, bewildered. My heart plummeted. What had I said?

Out loud, I said nothing, just watched his face, scanned his beautiful navy eyes, waited for him to enlarge, or perhaps, not say anything at all.
As it happens, John looked down, to the white bed sheets with their tightly tucked in corners. He took a deep breath.

"Listen Sherlock," he began, fiddling with his hands, "I need-," he sighed impatiently, "I want to-,"

Broken sentences, broken words- John was nervous.

"I need to ask you something," he said finally.

Ask me something? Ask me what? Somehow, I didn't want to know.

"John, whatever I said in my sleep, I was just sleeping," I said blandly, keeping my face blank and expressionless.

John blinked quickly, "I know that,"

"I'm sure you're girlfriend wants to see you," I said, over the top of him, "don't bother with me,"

"Sherlock!" He said, looking highly flustered, and irritated at my butting in.

"You want to see her yes?" I gabble on, suddenly fuelled by John's anger, "I can see by your nervous fingers and the impatient tapping of your right foot. That and you keep glancing at your watch. You're due to meet her-,"

"You said you loved me," he blurted loudly, interrupting my monologue. Shock white washes my mind completely blank, and I can't do anything but stare. He is staring right back, a light dusting of pink flowering in his cheeks.

"You said you loved me in your sleep," he said, so softly now, I could hardly hear him.

Silence falls, and I don't know what to say to him. How could I say anything when my sub consciousness had completely betrayed me? John knew now. John knew everything, and he looked so bewildered and, slightly flattered, and I felt like my entire world was collapsing. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to know.
"Is that true Sherlock?" He asked. His voice is trembling slightly now. I can only guess that he is frightened. He doesn't want his arrogant flat mate to be in love with him. It would cause problems. John would leave.

John would leave me.

I suddenly felt as though I had been doused in ice. John couldn't leave. He couldn't.

"I was just sleeping John," I said, making sure my face was unreadable, "that's all,"

John leant in close, sending my heart thrilling inside of me. I found it difficult to breathe.
Curse this man. Curse him for making me feel things.

"Tell me the truth, please," he sighed, looking nervous, frightened, yet so desperate to know, to understand. I'd told him my deepest secret whilst I was sleeping and I had no idea how to combat it. Where feelings were concerned, I wasn't sure whether my acting was good enough. The nerves inside my stomach kept on building and building and I felt sick.

"You wouldn't have said something if you didn't think it, it doesn't happen," John said, breathing quick. Increased nervousness, "so please Sherlock," he took a deep breath, "do you love me?"

Yes John, yes. I love you. I love your smile and your face and your eyes, I love your laugh and your breathing and your voice. I love the way you make tea in the mornings and the way you always look out for me, even when I don't ask you to. I love everything about you John Watson. Even your name and the way you walk and how you put up with me every day. I love you so much and I just can't. Say. Anything.
Because you can never love me back.

"Really John," I try to sound exasperated, my face blank. I can feel my emotion bubbling through, my desire to touch John's face so so strong. I can't say no to him. The lie would be too much. So hard to say. I can't say no when I really, truly am so very very much. Not that I ever thought I would ever be in this position. And now I'm in it, I can't imagine my life before him. Before John, I had no where to run to. Where can I run when there's nothing to run for? Nothing to hold on to? John gave me that meaning. John gave me that life. I could never find the words to say.

"Sherlock," John groaned.

I close my eyes and pretend that I don't care. That John is just another ordinary human being. The painful thing is that he's not.

I feel the warmth of his fingers withdraw from my own cold hand, and my eyes open wide, John is moving away, shoulders slumped: defeated.

"No," I whisper, so softly, I'm not sure that he heard. There's the patter of the beginnings of rainfall on the large windows, the sound filling the silence. Drop, drop, drop. The thrumming steadily gets louder and more violent as the rain gets heavier.

And yet, by some miracle, John hears me, and he turns. There's an expression on his face, and I can't read it (emotions- not really my forte) but immediately, I'm nervous again. I can't exactly remember why I had cried out like that.

"What is it?" John is worried again. Perhaps he thinks I'm in pain (I'm not- not in that way anyway). But I can't let him walk away, as much as my throat seems to swell up and my heart starts to beat so very violently, I can't let him walk away.

"Stay," I mumble, eyes trailing his face. There. That word seemed to sum up everything that I felt. It was as if the word was a conductor for my emotions, showing them through with such perfection. That was what I wanted. I wanted him to stay. Stay with me.
There was confusion set into those beautiful blue eyes, and yet he smiled lightly too. For a moment, I felt a little bit of hope burning inside me.

Stay John. Please stay with me.

"Goodbye Sherlock," he said quietly, "I will be back soon,"

He turned his back on me and left the room, and I felt as though my entire world was shutting down as I watched his retreating back. There was an emptiness inside me that was large and gaping- a black hole where my heart should have been. I watched him walk away, and I was alone again. Alone, listening to the sounds of the pouring rain outside.

A/n: let me know what you think? A review or two would really make my day.
Also: dilemma- to continue or not to continue? Let me know xxx.