The world's only consulting detective could be cruel. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes his frustration at the stupidity of the people around him would reach a breaking point and he would just lash out. Most people left. Some endured him simply because he served a purpose. There was, however, one person who would always stay. One person who never left the Great Sherlock Holmes.
His Doctor, his John. He couldn't really call him his, though. That was still a little ways down the road. John Watson always stayed. He understood, tolerated and accepted.
There was one person who would never leave the side of Sherlock Holmes. But what the detective couldn't know. Couldn't even dare to hope, was that, John Watson understood, of course. He never tolerated and accepted though, he only loved. Of the first fact Sherlock was aware, never of the second.
John didn't want to lose his friend by asking for too much. So he laboured on, convincing himself that hanging onto some small part of Sherlock was better than losing all of him.
He remained completely and irrevocably convinced of that fact. Until he saw Sherlock's head hit the pavement. Until he saw him fall. The moment he realised he would never see him again. That exact moment was the moment he realised that he should have told him. He spent the next three years regretting that. He also discovered what true regret felt like. A physical, breathing parasite that followed him. Always draining him, never offering reprieve.
And then he came back.
Sherlock was never intentionally cruel to John Watson. He was the one person Sherlock always excused. John was the one who stayed. And Sherlock hoped, against all odds that he always would. He never imagined being the one leaving. So when he was forced to, it nearly broke him. The only thing that kept him hanging on was the thought of the- albeit dim- light at the end of the tunnel. Maybe he could return, maybe John would understand. He waited. He went away and came back. Seeing John broken, nearly snapped Sherlock's gently constructed web of support keeping his mind together. Nearly.
And then the day arrived. Mycroft called, almost three years to the day. It was safe. He knew, after seeing John at the grave, that he would be forgiven. Before that he had not been so sure. There was always the nagging doubt, what if he believed me. What if he thought I was a fake. What if he never forgave me.
For three years John grieved, he was angry. He tried to beg. He did not believe it at first. A deeply buried part of him still didn't. He could not, and felt he never would, understand a world in which Sherlock wasn't. A world in which they weren't breathing the same air. Yes, he cried and raged and bargained and denied. But he never accepted.
He tried to move on, he even married a girl, he loved her, but not like he loved Sherlock. He knew. She didn't, at first. As the months grew and time passed she realised. She realised in the moments he thought she wasn't looking. The moments he stared at a scarf in a way he hadn't even looked at her on their wedding day. She knew. And she left because of it.
He came home one night to an almost engulfing emptiness. He noticed the small things first. Her favourite coffee mug missing- she never drank tea. A picture of them, shining in its absence. He found her side of the closet empty, except for a note: "Sorry I couldn't be him, I would have done anything for you. That was the one thing I couldn't."
Sherlock saw Mary leave, a suitcase in hand. He didn't quite understand why he felt relieved at the sight. He saw John return home. He thought he saw his heart break. Again. Then he felt the guilt clawing through him, reprimanding him for his earlier relief.
John's heart didn't break that night. Somehow he always knew. None other would fit him, only Sherlock. So he never accepted.
Which is why, the day Sherlock Holmes walked through the door of 221B, John finally saw all the pieces fall into place. He had been waiting.
