First: John fell hard for Sherlock (in love)
When it began, John had been denying it. From himself, mostly, because he knew it was impossible. He tried to make others see how impossible it was with his protests, but all that did was to make them think even more that it was true and they were to be.
When the world for him ended, John was staring at the body in front of him and trying not to cry out at the cruelty of the world.
It began on the first week. John found Sarah to stop it, to make it go away. Sarah was a distraction, but she didn't last long. Neither did the following women.
At some point he decided to give up. Or at several points but then he found a woman who probablymaybepossibly could make it disappear.
Never did.
Sherlock was the only constant thing in his life (along with criminals, Scotland Yard and kidnappings) and his heart fell for Sherlock too soon, not even giving any chances for others. Married to my work was why he never said anything.
(Sometimes he thought Sherlock knew, how could the brilliantamazing man not know something that everyone else saw so clearly even when he tried his best not to show it? Sometimes he thought Sherlock had no idea, maybe because he was too close to see inside him as well as anyone he didn't know at all.)
When Sherlock jumped, John's heart jumped into his throat, trying to escape through his mouth. He didn't want to see this, didn't want to know, because his heart would break into thousands of pieces if it didn't manage to run away.
When John fell, the only thing he could think of was pleasedon'tbedead and he got up as soon as he could, running, running towards Sherlock and when he saw the man lying there, dead, his heart broke into so many pieces he was sure no one could fix it (except Sherlock would be able but he was dead and that was too much for his brain).
John was in love. He accepted that (really accepted) a week before Sherlock would jump (but of course he didn't know this, nor did Sherlock).
He was wondering how to go about it, knowing telling Sherlock wasn't really an option. (The other man would only laugh at him, he thought, wouldn't take him seriously.)
In the end, he didn't do anything, he just lived as he'd always lived, following Sherlock, listening to people stating as an obvious fact that they must be dating, writing his blog (trying to avoid you are so amazing so brilliantbecause he was afraid he would continue I'm in love with you please tell me you feel the same).
The first months were the most horrible. John's heart kept breaking into pieces, smaller and smaller, until he was sure he didn't have a heart anymore (but that's absurd, John, everyone has a heart and it doesn't breakhis mind provided and he thanked it I know but you know what I mean).
He kept going to work, meeting people. Talking with Harry.
But life was colourless, because he'd fallen too hard.
At some point of their acquaintance come friendship, John had realised that Sherlock liked being close to people. But most people ignored him or moved away. He made an effort not to (even though something in him was sayingyou like this don't deny it you really do and he tried his best not to listen) and suddenly they were watching movies together on the couch, Sherlock's head on his lap, shouting at the obvious plot.
Something in John had decided this was all good.
(One of his relationships ended because the woman kept seeing glimpses of their life at home and thought she was taken for a fool, used to make Sherlock jealous.)
After six months, John is no more.
He's alive and he moves, goes where he's expected and does what people wait from him. Says the things that are expected from him.
But he doesn't feel anymore. He doesn't believe in world where one man can ruin another so completely and make him die. He doesn't want to live in one, either, but Mycroft keeps an eye on him and so does Molly and Greg and Mrs. Hudson, that ending that life isn't really an option.
(He takes the gun out once a week, on Monday morning, points it at his head and whispers just one more week and maybe then he'll be back or I'll be dead.)
Sometimes, when they were solving cases somewhere else than London, they got a room with two beds. And sometimes, they were given a room with one bed. They took one look at it, then at each other, shrugged and left for the chase. When they came back, they were too tired to care and fell on the bed.
It was quite nice.
(John sometimes woke up into Sherlock's limbs and thought he could get used to it.)
One-year anniversary of Sherlock's fall and John is drinking. He's on his second pint, thinking how useless he is to world and how he misses Sherlock and his deductions. Everything.
He's deep in thoughts when he realises that someone has sat down at his table.
"Hello, John."
Colours seem to flood back to world and feelings into John when he punches Sherlock.
Once, John had nearly kissed Sherlock. It'd been Bill's birthday and John had been drinking a bit more than he'd meant to. Sherlock had been up with an experiment (John didn't dare to ask what it was) when he came in and he'd looked delicious.
Sherlock had walked to him, took one look at him, and told him drinking wasn't useful. John had huffed and taken his coat off, tumbled on the floor and cursed. Sherlock had rolled his eyes smiling and helped John up.
And John had almost kissed him before he'd started moving, helping him to his room.
"To bed with you," Sherlock had said. "Try not to vomit."
John had stared after him and wondered what was wrong with him. (Nothing insisted the voice inside him.)
Angry or not, John was happy that Sherlock had come back. Brought everything back to him. He listened to the taller man explain why he'd done what he'd done and he'd just called him an idiot multiple times (and this was only on the way to Baker Street, Sherlock murmuring in his ear and John trying not to shiver).
When the door closed behind them, John closed his eyes only for a moment before listening to what his heart was saying (his mending heart, the one that would be whole soon again) and turned to face Sherlock.
John took Sherlock by surprise with the kiss.
(Do it do it do it do it his heart kept saying, over and over again as the pieces collided and combined. You will regret it if you don't and you will break me again.)
