Disclaimer: Not mine.
Warning: This is Sherlock/John slash. Don't like, don't read.
A/N: Hello~ As you can see, this is my new fan fiction for the Sherlock fandom. Ehehe...uhm /cough/ Anyway, I hope you guys like this story~ This idea just popped into my head (as usual, the plot bunnies didn't leave me alone for too long) and so I decided, why not? Exactly. So, I hope I wrote it well and they're in character-most of the time. Until next time! -Krystal
Say You'll Remember Me
[Say you'll see me again, even if it's just in your wildest dream – Wildest Dreams (Taylor Swift)]
Sherlock was everything that the blond-haired man never thought he would get.
The man's entire demeanour was new to the ex-army doctor. He was an enigma that John couldn't get enough of. A mystery that was waiting to be unravelled, an aura that had the sense of confidence in it every time he walked into the room and behind all those brave masks, emotions that were waiting to be deciphered, read through his eyes.
For a man who deemed he had divorced his feelings, John realised that the detective relied on his emotions more than he thought he did. A friendship between them was strong, undeniable, close and something that John never thought he would grasp on for too long. From the first time John met Sherlock, the detective had blown his mind away with his science of deduction.
It intrigued John right away.
And the more time they spent together, sharing a living space and handling cases together, the more of Sherlock did John got to see. Every little quirk of Sherlock, John had it memorised and catalogued in his mind, despite the detective never knowing about it.
Sherlock had a vast collection of faces; sometimes it even irked John because how could someone so smart be so cold at the same time? But he learned past those little faults. He learned that instead of changing the man, it was easier to just ease his way into the lifestyle and that should really say something about the state of his mental health—however, he refused to care about it.
Because Sherlock changed his life the minute he waltzed into John's life and if anyone ever thought that the ex-army doctor was going to run away just because of the horrible experiments in the kitchen, or because of the violin at one in the morning or even because of the mess in their living room, then they had another thing coming because John wasn't going anywhere.
Until Sherlock didn't want him anymore, he would not leave.
Their friendship meant a lot to him and he would be damned if he let anything happen to it, and Sherlock expressed the same notion, maybe not in words but through his gestures and body language. John didn't have the skill of deduction, but he was learning slowly and to be honest, he didn't need the skill to read Sherlock because John could read him like an open book.
The taller man might have thought that John was slow at those things, 'You see but you do not observe, John', but John did observe things. He had been to war, hadn't he? Precision and accuracy was in his blood, pumping through him like fire and he knew what he was looking for whenever he looked at someone. He knew when he was being valued despite being mocked.
Sherlock was a strange man. But what a wonderful man he was for he had changed John's lonely life into something bright and colourful with his mindless quirks and nuisance.
He was everything John wanted—no, slash that, needed, and it wasn't really a big surprise to John when he found himself adoring Sherlock, wanting him and finally loving him more than he should for a friend or a flatmate. It should however shock him that he had fallen for someone so easily. He had trust issues. He doubted every single person that ever got close to him but Sherlock was simply a whirlwind.
The detective swept him off of his feet.
But then, dread washed in him when he realised that there was no way Sherlock would ever want him the same way. Not ever. Not now, not even tomorrow, in fact not even when forever ended because this man he was in love with could very well be uninterested in anything that could slow his mind. And Sherlock had strongly motioned that romance was one of them.
What John hadn't stopped to think was that maybe, Sherlock cared about him in the same way. Maybe he should've talked to Sherlock about it, knew where he stood in the man's life but he never did. Not until when John got shot straight through his abdomen while trying to keep Sherlock away from the gun's aim.
They were chasing the killer down the streets of cold night London at that time. Before they knew it, they were shooting at each other, trying to scrape out alive when the killer aimed the gun at Sherlock while the taller man was distracted. John had to act fast and the first thing that crossed his mind was to push Sherlock away from the harm, even though he had a spare gun in his hand and he could've very well shot the killer with it.
He went down with searing pain travelling through his body until his mind went blank. Sherlock finally shot the killer to a crippling position and at the nick of time, Lestrade arrived at the scene with the police. Sherlock immediately crouched down to John and looked at him, his eyes were wide and his lips were in a tight straight line. John didn't want to see that look on Sherlock's face and he tried to move his arm to tell the taller man that he was alright, but the detective simply huffed out his breath coldly.
"Shut up, John," he said deadly quiet. He then looked at someone and frowned, his eyes flashed dangerously. "Where is the ambulance?"
John had to flinch at the volume and there was a pressure at where the bullet was lodged in him. John still remembered how Sherlock had pulled the scarf off from his neck and bunched it up before he pressed it against John's wound. He pressed it deeply, and his eyes kept still on the doctor's face, searching for any signs of distress.
Before long, the wailing sound of the sirens approached them and everything else went in a blur. The last thing he remembered was how Sherlock looked so tired and nervous—maybe even a little afraid, John dared to hope.
He was unconscious after that and when he woke up, the detective was at his bedside, sitting on a chair and had his eyes closed, his hands tied closely together and placed on his tummy. The blond-haired man didn't make any noise, but Sherlock opened his eyes anyway as if he sensed that John was awake.
When those icy grey-green eyes met his, John felt his heartbeat skip. Then he was huffing out his breath and the door to his room opened. The nurses walked in and so did a tall doctor, already attending to John.
After he was checked and concluded that he was going to be fine, they left the room, leaving the two friends alone. That was the time when John felt the temperature of the room dropping. The source was coming from his best friend, his flatmate, the man he was in love with, staring at him from his chair, unmoving.
"What?" John had asked as he raised his eyebrows, feigning innocence but something flashed in Sherlock's eyes and the blond-haired man had to keep himself from frowning.
"You were shot," was all Sherlock said. Then, silence greeted them and John had to hold himself back from saying that Sherlock was pointing out the obvious. Didn't the detective told him not to say obvious things on multiple occasions?
"Yes, I guess so," John said matter-of-factly. Sherlock then frowned. After a while, the silence got too uncomfortable and John broke the stillness with, "Did they get the killer?"
"Yes, yes they did," Sherlock said though his voice was static deadly even. "Good to know that Lestrade's men are still useful to some degree." Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock stood up. "You could've used the gun you had to shoot the killer down."
John had to gulp down the slight panic from showing on his face, so he did the only thing he was good at at times like these: denying everything until the said person believed him. "Yes, well, rush of adrenaline, Sherlock. He was about to shoot you."
"Perhaps," Sherlock said. "But that's not what this was, was it? No, it couldn't be. Did you really think I was that ignorant?"
John cringed at the words. "Ignorant? Never," he said honestly as he frowned. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"
"Wrong? No, John, nothing's wrong, just my blogger seemed to have found his way on a hospital bed because of his foolish actions," Sherlock said, more like bit out darkly. The ex-army doctor simply blinked a few times before he frowned deeper.
"Sherlock, it wasn't as if I wished to be here," he said as he tried to sit properly against the headboard. There was a dull ache at where he was shot and he was still tired from the painkillers. Sherlock, however, couldn't read the signs as he simply glared at the doctor. The iciness took John off guard.
"It is illogical, John," Sherlock said. "You could've used the bloody gun!"
"I told you I was trying to hurry!" John said back, astonished that Sherlock would actually take offense to this. Then, after a minute of staring at each other, something hit John painfully when he realised that maybe he had been an inconvenience to Sherlock at that time. The thought caused John's facial expression to shut down, his emotions bubbled in his heart and the hurt buried itself deep in his mind. Sherlock took a minute to scan him before he frowned.
"You're upset," he deduced and John looked at him. Sherlock's eyes widened after a second and the blond-haired man knew that Sherlock had caught on to what was happening. But the detective didn't say anything, instead, he had turned around and stalked out of the room, closing the door behind him as he left.
John remembered feeling as if someone had broken him into pieces that day.
When John had been discharged from the hospital, Sherlock had come to pick him up. The awkwardness was all that the blond-haired man could feel as they hailed a cab and head back to their home, his home, 221B Baker Street. Nobody said anything, and John certainly didn't try to make conversation with this quiet detective.
But he knew better than to trust the silence to last long. It never was quiet whenever Sherlock was around, so the awkward tense silence was broken when John and Sherlock entered the flat. The detective stomped upwards and John was left at the stairs, staring at the retreating back of his flatmate. Mrs Hudson had greeted him home and dotted on him until she had to run an errand and left him alone.
Then, it was just John and Sherlock. So, the ex-army doctor made his way to the living room, heading to his armchair and sat down. Sherlock was doing something in the kitchen and from the clattering noise from there, John assumed he must be busy with his experiments. The blond-haired man felt his heart sinking in his chest when he realised that maybe, this was it.
His life was going to be dull again and Sherlock was never going to colour it anymore. The detective was rejecting him non-verbally and this hurt more than he thought it would. John smiled sadly to himself because this was indeed what he expected from the detective. Sherlock was married to the Work. He would never ever—not in a million years feel the same way as John did.
He wouldn't do anything that much for John. It would be too emotional for him—sentiment, something that the detective resented and would continue to resent until his dying breath. John shuddered under his breath and leaned deeper into his armchair. Then he looked around the flat and noted that it was still messy, that at least hadn't changed.
He then saw his laptop on the table near the window. He carefully stood up and slowly walked to the table, minding of his closing wound. He still needed to take care of that so it wouldn't get a nasty infection. He huffed out a breath as he gently took hold of his laptop.
"You care."
John was startled at the quiet sentence. His heart started to beat hard against his chest and his eyes widened at the words. Suddenly, the flat was too quiet. He gripped harder on his laptop before he placed it back on the table and turned around. He leaned against the edge and crossed his arms against his chest when his blue eyes caught those calm grey-green ones, staring at him accusingly.
Sherlock was standing a few feet away from him, his hands at his sides firmly and his shoulders were squared. There was a mask placed neatly on his face and John knew that this could only get worse. When John only licked his lips and in no motion to answer the statement, Sherlock clicked his jaws tight and took a step forward.
"You care, John," he said quietly as his eyes trained on the doctor's face. "You care about me. For me."
John felt the slight wash of panic worming into him like a sneaky ninja. "Yes," he said finally after a long silence. He however kept his eyes on Sherlock as well. He didn't know why but he felt—resigned at this because, god, he loved this man. And even if he couldn't get anything out of this, he knew he couldn't bluff his way out of this, especially not to someone like Sherlock.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if John had done him some personal offence and in some way, he guessed he did. "It's sentiment, isn't it? You humans are all full of it," Sherlock snapped and John closed his eyes this time, unsure if he could take seeing the hatred or rejection on Sherlock's face right now. He quietly took in a deep breath. "Why would you care for me, John?"
He dropped his hands to his sides and pushed himself to straighten his stance. John opened his eyes before he steeled every nerve of courage he had in him and licked his lips. "What do you want me to say?" John asked back and Sherlock seemed to consider this before a smirk worked on his lips, taking another step forward.
"Nothing obvious," Sherlock said. "Why would you care for me, John? What makes you think I would care back? Sentiment is a liability. It is a disadvantage at most. It is—"
"I know," John said quietly, cutting Sherlock off. At each word, he felt as if a knife was lodging deeper into his heart. He then clenched his hands into a fist and took a step forward towards Sherlock. The detective slowly examined him and John knew he was being deduced, however, at this moment, he didn't think he could do this anymore.
Sherlock never would want him.
It was the truth and a fact he must believe in.
But he had to get this out of his chest first. So, he did, with a heave of breath. "I care for you, Sherlock, because I find you special. You make my life—interesting. Goddamnit, did you know how lonely I was before you came along? You're insufferable, a prat and you make me want to deck you in the head with the nearest thing I can find, but—you're brilliant, you say things that no one else had thought of, you make my head spin."
A smile played on John's lips as he sighed. "And you're an idiot too because you're so ignorant to basic Human instincts and emotions. You're too invested in your Work when you're working and you tend to be in your own world, but Sherlock, I've seen your world and I—I liked it. It amazes me that someone like you could be alive, much less accept me into your life. I'm never bored with you. You're my friend, my best friend, and I—cherish that."
John took another feeble step as he scanned Sherlock's face. But the detective didn't slip anything past his cool mask. "I cherish you."
Then, the mask broke and Sherlock's eyes—they softened. John had to take a step back at the sudden look on the detective's face. Sherlock stood there as he stared at the shorter man before he took a few steps forward. "Sentiment had always been a disadvantage for me. I despised emotions and normalcy. I go days without food, I play the violin in godawful hours, I explode things, make a mess in the kitchen, shoot the walls if I'm bored, and I, John, do not care."
John looked away, feeling as if someone had stomped his heart over and over. It felt heavy in his chest and before he could muster up the courage to walk away from the scene, he felt a sudden brush of soft fingers against his cheeks. John glanced up to the taller man, his eyes widened when he realised how close they were. Sherlock was evading his personal space and the fingers traced cautiously against his cheeks as if they were testing the waters.
The blond-haired man's heart leaped out of his chest and his cheeks reddened from the closeness. He placed his hands on the edge of the table before he gripped it tight. He was breathing raggedly, he knew that as Sherlock gave him a grin, breaking it out of his face like a child-like glee.
"But it seems that for you, I do care, somewhere," Sherlock said. "And I have wondered for quite some time as to why I've taken a liking for you when I find you completely normal. But you were never boring, you were never—like the rest of them. You, John, probably might be the only exception to this concept of mine. You've tangled in my Work since the first day we met, you've—stuck."
John felt the hope in him rising and he wondered briefly if Sherlock was getting at where he thought they were heading. "Sherlock?" he questioned quietly as he stared into the taller man's eyes. "What are you trying to say?"
"You love me," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "You're in love with me. It all makes sense now. It's clarity all over again and I love it when it makes sense. But the question is now, do I share your sentiment?"
John felt something in him steeling for the words. "Do you?" he asked. "Sherlock, if you don't," he amended. "It—I wouldn't mind. I like being your friend. You know that, I would do anything for you—"
"But that wouldn't be enough, would it?" Sherlock asked. His eyes were a calm wave of emotions and John was having a certain moment of panic here. Then, the fingers carefully arranged themselves on John's cheek before he huffed out a breath. "You are truly obtuse if you haven't deduced that indeed, I share the same sentiment."
John's eyes widened at the words. "Sherlock—"
"If not I would've left you to die, would've kicked you out of this flat, I wouldn't have risked everything to keep you safe," Sherlock said cutting John's sentence off. Then, John saw a soft smile working on Sherlock's face and that, at that moment, it made the detective look the most human. And to think, John had made him like that. He felt his heart blooming with the hope and joy, his face reddened and he smiled.
It was a wide smile, filled with everything he had wanted to convey to the man for so long. "Not everyone has your ability, Sherlock. Sometimes, people like me, need to hear it."
"Sometimes, people like you, should learn that skill to ease my job," Sherlock huffed out but John was too far gone to care about the remark. Instead, he laughed, a happy glee worked in his heart. For a while, Sherlock just watched him before he started to laugh as well.
"We're idiots, aren't we?" John asked as he said between the laughs. Sherlock grinned widely before he quirked his eyebrows in a manner.
"Perhaps."
Everything went on smoothly after that. John had never felt more alive than he was now. Their relationship was something new to the both of them, but the essence of what they had didn't change. They still went on cases together, Sherlock still played the violin at wrong times of the day, there was still a jar full of eyes in the refrigerator and John still found his privacy being snatched away from right under his nose—though willingly this time.
It was perfect, John thought. Their cases were their dates, the days and nights that didn't have anything major on, they would just watch crap tele. John then would just blog while Sherlock went on with his experiments. What changed however was that they kissed. Not always, but occasionally that it was enough to warm John from within.
They slept in the same bed, and John didn't know how much he had missed having someone next to him like this, just sharing their body warmth with, until he started sleeping next to Sherlock. It was as if the blond-haired man was floating in air. It was—a beautiful feeling.
It was everything he wanted and so much more.
He cherished every moment in his heart and every time he woke up, he would count to ten in his head just in case he was still dreaming. But each time he was proven wrong, because no, he wasn't dreaming and this was indeed real.
A year had passed into two years since they began this thing between them, and it was still a lovely thing for the blond-haired man. It—made him happy. However, John refused to let anyone know about this though and Sherlock never said anything either. Only Mrs Hudson found out when she walked on in them while they were snogging like teenagers on the sofa and Mycroft, because John was pretty sure there was no way he could hide anything from this man. But otherwise, John had made sure they never slipped anything for others to know.
And then—it all stopped too abruptly one day.
At that moment, John swore his worst bad luck on the person who had said that everything good must have an end one way or other, because—it was true.
It was so absolutely heart-breaking fucking true.
John just finished his last shift of the day from the nearby clinic he worked for. Chasing down criminals for free wasn't really paying the bills and the rent, so he got a job. He was paid well to pay the rent and the fact he still had enough to get pretty much whatever necessity he needed, he was alright working for the clinic.
He was however, tired, from the long shift and all he wanted to do was crawl into his bed and sleep. Reaching the top of the stairs, he walked to the kitchen first and headed to the kettle. He turned it on and took in a deep breath. Just then, he heard hushed whispers coming from the living room and for the first time since he walked into his flat, he was alert and wide awake.
The tiredness was pushed out of his mind when he looked at the kitchen table and noticed Sherlock's experiment was still on. But the man himself was nowhere to be found and John furrowed his eyebrows because that was completely unusual for the detective. He, then, proceeded to walk to the living room.
"Hey, Sherlock, where—"
But he stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes landed on—her. Sherlock glanced at John before he looked back at her—and really, John didn't think it was possible to hate her even more after all these years.
"Irene Adler," Sherlock drawled out though his voice was flat. "What do you want?"
John knew who this Irene Adler was. They met, years ago, when she decided to come out of nowhere and try to get Sherlock in a mess. It didn't end well for her, so, she escaped and managed to avoid getting sentenced for her traitorous ways. But that was all fine and dandy because what really irked John was how easy she got under Sherlock's skin.
The detective might not ever want to admit it but she boggled his mind. She—intrigued him. And John didn't think he would ever see her again because next to her, he was—uninteresting. However, he was with Sherlock now, wasn't he? So, he didn't doubt him, he didn't doubt his partner as he simply glanced at Irene and blinked.
She was in her black dress, fit tightly around her body giving the structure in the correct places as she gave Sherlock a saucy wink. Then, she glanced at John and smiled, though it was sarcastic at the edges. "Just wanted to see you, dear," she said with a dramatic huff of breath.
Sherlock simply continued to stare her down, his eyes were like laser and his jaw was clicked tight. John glanced at his lover and noticed the tenseness on his shoulders. He knew Sherlock was irritated now with her presence. "You're wasting your time," Sherlock said. "You're still wanted here."
"Ah, but you won't let anyone get to me, will you, Sherlock?" she asked as she quirked her lips up even further, as if daring the man to say otherwise. "Not after how you helped me escape before. I'm pretty sure you didn't go through all that trouble to help me escape only for you to send me back to them, did you?"
Her voice was innocent, and mocking but John read her body language and he knew, she was being flirtatious as well. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, his irritated demeanour was working past its limits. John had to take in what she said before he looked at Sherlock. He helped her escape? It didn't make sense since she was declared dead by Mycroft that day.
Then, something panged in his chest because—he didn't know about this. He didn't know that Sherlock helped her escape. He remembered how the detective was spaced out for the past few days, even up to ignoring John. Now, it all made sense. He played the part to fool the blond-haired man that he was mourning after her, but really, he saved her.
He saved Irene Adler, the woman who tried to sabotage him.
"Oh dear, John didn't know you saved me?" she asked mockingly and John had to look at her. "Poor thing, after all this time. That certainly tells you about some things, doesn't it?"
"Irene," Sherlock called her out sharply. "Get out."
Irene smirked but she did as what she was told. Moving her hips to the left and to the right, she looked at John one last time before she said, "I'll be back, Sherlock. We'll see then if you're still 'uninterested'."
The silence washed in immediately after she left and John had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down because, what in the world just happened? He looked up to Sherlock and he was about to open his mouth when the detective simply walked past him to his experiment in the kitchen. The blond-haired man felt stumped, as if he didn't know what was going on and in some ways, he didn't.
So, he walked back to the kitchen and this time, he didn't talk to Sherlock, he simply made his tea, went to the living room and sat on his armchair. In fact, that night when they went to bed, slash that, only John had ended up in bed. Sherlock didn't join him and for a while, John thought that Sherlock would be there in the morning and closed his eyes to sleep.
In the morning, Sherlock still wasn't there.
And that somehow sets off a different path for them both after that.
After two weeks, John saw Irene again, this time, he was walking out of their bedroom and padding down the stairs to get to the living room. She was there, sitting on Sherlock's armchair, with a smug smile on her face. John had to stop at the doorway as he simply couldn't help but to stare at her. "What are you doing here?' he asked her, though he couldn't help but to sound bitter at that.
He trusted Sherlock, he really did.
It was Irene Adler, The Woman he didn't trust, because he knew, she was Sherlock's first love. He was sure of it, right? She sighed dramatically before she said, "I'm here to see Sherlock."
"He's sleeping," John said automatically because yes, he was asleep. He had been up the whole night about a case before he finally cracked it and John had to drag him to bed so that the detective could finally get the amount of rest he needed.
"Ah, yes," she said with a drawl and her lips curled up menacingly. "In your bed, I presume?"
"None of your business," John said and before he could open his mouth to ask her to leave, Sherlock had appeared behind him.
"Irene, I told you not to bother me," he said deeply as he walked past John to stand in front of her, his sleeping robe covering the pyjamas he wore. "It's quite obnoxious if you keep on persisting."
She eyed him for a while before she glanced at John. Then, she looked at Sherlock and said, "You could do better," she said. John tensed at what she was implying and he zeroed in on her. "Someone better, smarter, someone of your—capabilities. Someone like you."
Sherlock remained quiet instead, he was deducing her, John knew that silence like the back of his hand. "What do you want? No, need, perhaps."
"Oh, darling, you know what I need," she purred as she got up and smiled. Then, she walked up to Sherlock and leaned in close to his personal space. Sherlock continued to stare her, and went still when she brought her lips and pressed close against his. John had to take a sharp breath at what was happening but he couldn't stop it. Not when Sherlock himself seemed to have frozen at where he stood once Irene left them, not before winking at John.
The ex-army doctor didn't look at Sherlock but instead, he looked at where Irene had stood moments ago. Something worked in his heart and his mind whirled from questions, ranging from 'Why did you save her?' to 'Why didn't you push her away?'. Then, he realised, Sherlock didn't correct her when she told him he could do better.
She could be the better one. That was what she was implying and it—stroke John like a hot whip when Sherlock didn't deny her. He knew that his lover never enjoyed romance as how it was, it was one of the disadvantages of dating someone like Sherlock—but couldn't he have even said that John was what he wanted?
"John," Sherlock called him out from his daydream, from his mulling thoughts. John looked at him distractedly. "Tea."
Everything seemed to slow down around John and then sudden wash of anger and irritation spiked through him. He clenched his jaw and furrowed his eyebrows. The taller man however had already moved about the living room and went to his laptop before he opened it up, mumbling about wanting a new case to solve already. But John simply just stared at him for a few seconds and looked away in anger.
He did the tea and somehow, he bloody didn't care if it tasted like shit because that was how he felt. Sherlock simply raised his eyebrows when he tasted it but John didn't give him time to comment. "I'm going to work."
With that, he turned around and stalked back upstairs. Once the door closed, John slumped against the door and blinked a few times. Irene Adler was a touchy subject to the both of them and to think she reappeared in their lives after so long was—unpleasant to say the least. What more, Sherlock seemed to have been entranced with her—he would eventually, his mind pestered on him about it.
He shook his head and went to take a shower before he changed into his clothes. He never doubted of his lover despite them having their moments of misunderstandings, so he wasn't going to start now. But something in him told him he should start to doubt, because this was Irene Adler they were talking about.
This was The Woman.
This was Sherlock's The Woman.
To think he was with John instead of her was the oddest thing that had ever happened in the world and John hadn't realised how odd it was until Irene walked back into their lives like she had the right.
He didn't see Sherlock when he came downstairs, ready to go to work.
He just sighed and decided he would see him after work, maybe by then, he would be less irritated, or hurt, about all of this.
This was Sherlock, after all.
Sherlock started to disappear at certain intervals of the day after that. Sometimes it would be in the early morning when John would wake up to an empty bed, sometimes it would be during dinner time when Sherlock would get up and leave, howling out that he had an errand to run to, sometimes, it was just random times of the day.
John didn't know where he went. He tried to coax it out from him, on more than one occasion but he never really did get a definite answer. Sherlock would simply distract him or he would say that it wasn't anything for John to worry about. He believed Sherlock, so he didn't question him anymore.
But John could only be patient for so long when he woke up on their bed—alone once more. He blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the haziness as he strained to see what woke him up. Then, he heard the front door closed and John was up and out of his bed before you can count to three.
He padded down the stairs and caught Sherlock walking into the living room. He was dressed up, as usual, and it seemed he had just come back from wherever he had gone to. John remembered he didn't leave Sherlock lazing on the sofa looking like that. Sherlock must had changed after the doctor had fell asleep and since he had a long shift today, he had just blacked out the minute his head touched the pillows.
"Sherlock?" he asked and the detective turned around to look at him.
"John," he said. "Good, you're awake. I would like some tea please." He then proceeded to grab something from his desk.
"Where did you go?" The question was out before John could think about it and Sherlock simply hummed out a response.
"Nowhere important," he said as if he didn't care that John was worried as hell to where his lover kept on disappearing to. It was three in the morning and the blond-haired man knew the time because he had looked at it before he left the room. Sherlock went out and came back at three in the morning because of nothing important and at nowhere important?
John clenched his jaw as he took a few steps forward. "It's three in the morning, Sherlock," John said exasperated. "You came back at three in the bloody morning when you should've been asleep."
"John," Sherlock huffed out before he turned around to look at the shorter man. "You know sleep is for the mundane."
"No, sleep is a necessity so you could function better," John said. Sherlock simply looked amused for a second.
"Be there in a second after the tea, if you'd be so kind," Sherlock dismissed him after that and really, John was beginning to get anxious with his lover's on going dismissal to this subject.
"If it was nowhere important, you wouldn't be out until three in the morning, Sherlock," John provoked the subject once more. Sherlock then, went tense, as he glanced at John and raised his eyebrows.
He scanned John for a second before he said, "You think I'm in trouble."
"Well," John said as he shrugged, faking nonchalance. "You kept on disappearing to hours off to somewhere I don't know and you come back sneakily—what was I supposed to think?"
"It's nothing important, John," Sherlock said as he looked at John carefully. "It's nothing important. I assure you."
The blond-haired man wanted to catch him out on his own lie—but he couldn't. Not when the detective looked at him so sincerely. He cursed himself for this and simply nodded curtly. "Right," John said as he sighed and walked to the kitchen.
He made the bloody tea and walked into their room before he crawled to the bed.
When Sherlock joined him, he simply continued to sleep on the other side. He knew Sherlock knew he was faking it—but—he wasn't in the mood to talk now.
Sherlock was hiding something from him.
And John somehow had a nudge that it was something to do with The Woman.
The anxiousness of where Sherlock kept on disappearing had finally worn John out. It wasn't supposed to be like this, he reminded himself as he walked solemnly to his flat. They were supposed to do this together, they were supposed to be in whatever it was that Sherlock got himself into, together. That was how they worked—that was how they were supposed to be.
But no, Sherlock had to run off on his own god knows doing what. It wasn't a pleasant feeling for John when his lover wouldn't even open his mouth, wouldn't answer him and simply tried to deflect the conversation to something else. It nagged at the back of his mind that Sherlock had been acting secretive ever since Irene Adler had walked back into their lives.
He huffed out his breath before he stopped walking and just let the cold London breeze caress his face. He was exhausted all of a sudden, and he didn't know what to do. He knew that it would be a hard job keeping up with the detective but not once had he felt like he had to do it. But right now, what was this burden hogging his shoulders?
The taller man had always been the quiet type, only dramatic when he thought that John would react. But there were times when he was quiet, just himself and that was one of the times that John loved the most. However, right now, it seemed like those moments were slipping past his fingers.
He was just tired.
He shook those thoughts away from his mind and he was about to take another step forward when he caught someone getting out of the cab. He clinched his jaw as he realised who it was. She simply stood at the pavement before she tilted her head and glanced at the blond-haired man. Her smile was sharp and straight as he mentally tried to find any excuse for him to turn around and leave.
But he had none. He cursed himself for his lack of quick thinking and walked cautiously to her. "John," she called out as he raised his eyebrows at her though he didn't return her smile. He simply sighed and nodded at her before he started to walk past her to get to the door. "It's impolite to ignore a lady, you know."
"Sherlock's not here," he said even though he didn't know if the detective was at home or not. He wasn't around nowadays anyways, his mind muttered bitterly. He was about to open the door when she chuckled and in this cold silent night, it felt like a razor blade scratching the blackboard.
"No, he's on his way back after meeting me," she said. John immediately stopped in his tracks. His mind reeled in her words and his heart throbbed once heavily against his chest. The silence was John's reply for a second before he turned around to face her.
He knew that she was baiting him into some sort of fight from the way her smile turned into a smirk. But he was tired and he was trying his best not to sound like one of those lovers who couldn't trust their partners, and Sherlock's easy dismissal on this subject was getting to him. He continued to stare at her for a second before she took a few steps forward, her ruby lips stretched wider.
"Where did you think he went every time he disappears?" she asked as if she was mocking John's lack of observation. "He comes to me."
He could blame it on the weather. He could blame it on his tiredness. Heck, he could even blame it on the fact that he hadn't slept well for these past few days. But he couldn't blame anything but himself when he felt the trickles of doubt started to emerge from within his mind as he schooled his face into a calm mask.
"I see," he said dryly. "If you're done, you should leave." He was about to turn around and walk inside when she sighed loudly.
"Dear, John," she said. "If only you knew how much better he could do than stay with you. He's a genius, he's interested in things that boggles his mind. I boggle him. Don't you think he fits well with another enigma? John, you're holding him back."
John immediately turned around to give her back some of his own dose of words, but by the time he looked at the pavement, she was no longer there, as if she had disappeared. John looked to his left and to his right but found the road to be empty. The London night never felt colder than that day. His heart started to throb harder against his chest as her words settled deep in his mind.
Just then, another cab stopped right in front of their flat. John glanced at the yellow vehicle when the door opened and Sherlock came out, his curly hair bounced slightly as he gracefully stood at the pavement and slammed the cab door shut. The night sky caused Sherlock to look even more magnificent under the streetlights. It made John realise how special this man in front of him was.
"John," Sherlock said as he strode towards him. "You just arrived."
"Yeah," John said slowly before he looked away. Without uttering another word, he opened the flat door and walked in, Sherlock behind him. Irene's words rung through his head and he knew it was for the best if he didn't believe her. But Sherlock had been disappearing more often than he liked and that woman knew where he went. She was confident that Sherlock had gone to her.
But Sherlock didn't seem like someone to redirect his attention on someone else just because the other person was much more fascinating. Well, maybe. The blond-haired man mulled on this thought for a while as he hung his coat absent-mindedly and padded up the stairs to get to the living room. He was craving for some tea and what could be a better time than now?
He walked to the kitchen after he placed his doctor bag on his armchair, already rummaging through the cupboard to pull out tea bags and placed the kettle on the stove. A few seconds of silence made John even more agitated about what Irene Adler had said before Sherlock graced his presence.
John knew he was standing there, at the entrance of the kitchen, just—deducing him. In any other day, the shorter man would've been amused or even fascinated with Sherlock's deductions, but not right now. At this moment, he wanted to simply throw something out of the flat in frustration. There were so many questions he needed answer to and the more blank spaces there were in his head, the more restless he became.
God, who was this person he was turning into?
"John," Sherlock called out to him. The doctor simply hummed out a response as he kept his eyes glued on the kettle while playing with the box of tea bags. "John."
"What?" John asked as he glanced at the taller man. He kept his tone neutral and his body gesture normal, but he knew the detective could see through his act. He was never a good actor like the taller man was anyway.
"You're upset."
He growled under his breath before he took in a deep breath. He clenched on the box of tea bags he had in his hand for a fraction of a second before he placed them on the counter and turned around. He leaned against the counter before he met those grey-green eyes calmly. "I'm not," he lied smoothly though it wasn't working when Sherlock simply quirked his eyebrows at him in a mocking manner.
'Are you really going to do this, John?' was the look Sherlock was portraying and John had this huge itch to punch him in the face for that. He was tired, frustrated, irritated and most probably doubting himself and Sherlock decided this was a good time for a confrontation?
"I'm tired, Sherlock," he said slowly under his breath before he looked away, suddenly taking interest on the floor.
"You mock me by lying, John," Sherlock said. "You're as obvious as an open book."
"Well, ain't that nice," John said lowly. "Bet that sucks the fun right out of things, doesn't it?"
"It does," Sherlock said. "No fun deducing something when it's bare to be read by everyone."
"Well, find something else, something better to deduce then!" John snapped as he turned around and went back to toy with the box of tea bags. Tense silence washed in and the ex-army doctor slapped himself mentally a few times for this outburst. This wasn't just embarrassing but it spoke volumes of John's insecurity at the moment.
"John," Sherlock said. John could feel him closer now before he felt a hand on his shoulder, tugging him around to look at the taller man. The blond-haired man didn't refuse the silent request and turned around, already noticing the narrowed look Sherlock was giving him. "She spoke to you."
It wasn't a question. It was a fact. John leaned against the counter heavily once more before he looked away. "Yeah," John said. He didn't bother asking Sherlock how he knew, but her words dragged into his mind like a screaming banshee. It—actually made him wince.
"What did she tell you?" Sherlock asked.
"The same old shit she splutters out," John said with a feeble shrug. The hand on his shoulder tightens though, as if a warning for John to not lie. The shorter man felt irritated at that order before he roughly pushed the hand off of him. Sherlock's jaw clicked tight at the sudden resentment and narrowed his eyes even more.
"John, she told you something—ah, she told about where I went during my disappearances," Sherlock said, the frown disappeared as he quirked his lips and sounded smug more than anything else. John bit his bottom lip from really punching Sherlock in the face and pushed the taller man roughly away from his personal space.
"Alright, okay? She told me that you went to her every time you disappeared," John said as he frowned deep. "You didn't even tell me!"
"Because it is not important," Sherlock continued immediately. "And frankly, none of your business."
John felt like someone had slapped him across the face. Sherlock did have a sharp mouth, especially when he wanted to get a point across and the person he was talking to, got on his nerves. Right at this moment though, it was John he was getting irritated with. The irritation mixed with the anger and disbelief, because how could this be none of his business?
They were together and Sherlock never disappeared like this before, minus the one time where he—jumped out of a rooftop. John was worried for him and it was clear that it only agitated the detective. "The fuck was that supposed to mean, Sherlock?" he asked offended. "Of course it's my bloody business where you disappear to! We're best friends, we're in this together—I was worried."
"Oh, good, feelings," Sherlock sneered, suddenly he looked—frustrated as he looked down on John. "I didn't go around galloping my way into trouble, John. I didn't think I had to come running to you every time I needed to do something."
"What?" John asked, slightly stunned at the accusation. "I didn't mean it like that! I was worried, Sherlock. You kept on disappearing and you knew the last time you disappeared—you…"
"I jumped out of a rooftop to keep you safe," Sherlock stressed out. "I'm not a child, John. I know what I'm doing and I certainly do not need your doubts and insecurities being inflicted on me at the moment. It's distracting and annoying."
John clenched his fingers tightly into a ball. This was—becoming into an argument. Sherlock was becoming defensive, he knew it. But he was being too casual and rude about it, something that he never experienced personally being aimed before, not until now. He frowned deep and the anger and hurt mixed heavily in his mind. "Fuck you, Sherlock," he spat out as he pushed past the taller man and stalked out of the kitchen.
"John, oh what?" he asked as he walked out of the kitchen following John. "Are you going to throw one of your childish tantrums again? Slam the door? Yell at me? I told you, John, I told you before we began this—whatever this is—that I would be difficult at some times. You eagerly jumped into this boat, didn't you?"
"Whatever this is?" John asked indecorously and growled. "Is that what we're doing all this fucking time? What the hell is wrong with you? You told me you loved me back, you told me we're together and now suddenly, we're doing 'whatever this is'? Fine, forget that, but our friendship? I was worried, thought you were in some kind of trouble because I'm sorry if worrying about my best friend and lover was such a bad thing to you, alright?"
Sherlock clicked his jaw tight and John knew that whatever that was going to happen now wasn't just from the spur of the moment, it was something that they hadn't touched yet. This issue floated in the room and suddenly, it was being addressed to it. "You do not have to be jealous of her, John," Sherlock said before he huffed out his breath. "It is unnecessary."
John quietened down for a minute before he opened his mouth and said, "Sometimes, I don't know where I stand with you."
Sherlock's eyes widened for a second before something like confusion flashed in those orbs. "What do you mean you don't know where you—oh, emotional reassurance. You want that. You want me to tell you that I chose you over her. That I would not be with anyone else but you—you want romance."
"And is it so bad if I asked just a little of that from you?" John asked, as if he was broken from this. "She's The Woman. She's the only one who had ever boggled your mind. She told me you could do better—that I'm holding you back. That you were a genius and needed someone much more interesting than me to hold you down. And then you kept on disappearing, you shut down for days after you come back and suddenly, she tells me you went to her. What the hell was I supposed to think?"
"You are indeed obtuse, aren't you, John?" Sherlock asked menacingly. "You obtuse man. How empty must it feel to be so stupid? Why I even keep you around, I wonder."
"Maybe I'm just not right to be kept around then," John said before he could take it back and within seconds, Sherlock pushed past him and stormed down the stairs. The front door slammed closed and the blond-haired man flinched.
The words floated in his mind for a second before he felt numb from inside. His heart ached heavily at what just happened. The words exchanged in between them were harsh and John felt regret washing into his heart. Irene Adler had once again successfully come in between them. He wondered briefly as he mulled over Sherlock's musing.
Why he kept John around, he wondered. He was too stupid compared to the genius, he was emotionally needy and sometimes, he pleaded guilty for wanting something a bit more than just this. But he was happy and now, it felt like the happy ending he tasted died around him. His heart broke when he looked around the apartment and wondered if this was it.
Maybe Sherlock was going to tell him to move out, going to tell him that he couldn't do this anymore that John was dragging him down. He closed his eyes momentarily when he felt something wet prickling at the edge of his eyes. His mind was growing blank and he was having a hard time breathing.
The next day when John was about to leave for work, he spotted Sherlock playing his violin, his back against John and staring out of the window. The blond-haired man simply walked past him and out of the flat, his mind already reeling in what had happened.
The only thought that occurred to his mind was;
They had broken up.
Sherlock hadn't come back to bed yesterday and John didn't expect him to either. There was just this air of resignation now and John knew that they were done. It hurt him though to know that Sherlock hadn't once thought of them as together—that this thing they had between them was nothing but a 'whatever it was' in the taller man's mind.
He began to wonder if all these years, the taller detective was just acting about how he felt with John. Was he afraid that the doctor would leave him if he told John he hadn't felt the same way? He didn't know and he didn't think he wanted to find out, so he left for work.
He spent the whole day holed up in his world, patients kept coming and he was thankful for once for the long shift. By the time he went back home, Sherlock wasn't anywhere to be seen and John heaved out a sigh in relief as he trotted back to his old bedroom before he had to share a room with Sherlock. He closed the door and slumped face first on the bed.
The next few days went on in that familiar fashion until John felt like he wasn't welcomed anymore. Sherlock had been cold towards him, he didn't even bother to turn to look at John whenever he walked into the room. Irene Adler seemed to have disappeared again and John cursed her with every fibre he had in his body for this mess she caused.
But then again, he blamed himself too because, it was his fault for letting her get to him. He knew he couldn't live like this. His heart cracked a little more every time Sherlock didn't even bother with him, as if he was done with John. Done with this. He was being dismissed so easily and well, he felt unwelcomed.
So, he did the only thing he thought of.
He moved out.
He found a cheap rent somewhere closer to his clinic, where he worked but still secluded from the busy roads of London. He found the place to his liking and immediately rented it. What left was the moving and he decided to do it when Sherlock wasn't at home. He knew he was being a coward and Mrs Hudson simply looked at him pitifully.
Before he left, he simply told Mrs Hudson not to let Sherlock know where he went. "Dear, John," she said with a slight huff. "He'll come around, you know that."
John wished he could believe her. He simply shook his head before he said, "I don't think he will this time, Mrs Hudson."
With that, he pecked Mrs Hudson on her right cheek and left. His heart felt empty and it felt wrong to do this, but he didn't want to live in a space where he was deemed unwanted. He was useless nowadays as well, especially with how he heard that Sherlock had taken up another case without him this time.
It should really tell a lot about their current predicament, shouldn't it? So why should he stay?
He promised himself before that he wouldn't leave until Sherlock pushed him out himself.
This was the time to leave.
It took a few days before the loneliness really got to him. Every time he came home from work, he was setting foot into an empty flat, no mess, no experiments, no goddamn violin in awful hours of the day, just no—Sherlock. It was lonely, as lonely as it could get for John. He was back to pre-Sherlock all over again.
He should be really scared on how much he had come to depend on the detective but at right of this moment, he didn't really find it in him to care. He wondered briefly as he tossed and turned on his bed, how Sherlock was coping up with this. Was he as restless as John was now?
Did he regret this too?
Did he regret them?
John closed his eyes for a moment as a cold shudder ripped through his body. It was a dark thought to think about at this time of the night. For a second, he almost grabbed his phone and texted Sherlock. Almost, then he recalled how bloody cold Sherlock was and squished those thoughts.
Though, he couldn't deny that he missed that man. He missed Sherlock's quick thoughts and witty character. It what made John's life so much more meaningful. He sighed as he glanced at the windows in his bedroom and noticed how dim the moon seemed tonight.
It was as if it understood how lonely John felt at the moment.
Two weeks passed by and John still hadn't heard anything from Sherlock. He grimaced when he realised maybe the detective was relieved to have John out of his hair. That didn't sound so well at all in his mind and it certainly didn't make John feel any better. His heart still thumped loudly against his chest whenever he thought he spotted those familiar curls in the crowd.
He was still in love with Sherlock.
Of course he was, how couldn't he? He was just slightly perturbed or offended that Sherlock would ever think of John that way—as a nuisance. He had made sure he kept his way from entering the familiar Baker Street road and kept himself from the crowd.
His whole head was a mess. He rubbed his eyes as he leaned against his chair and looked around his office. There wasn't any patient at the moment, so he took the time to relax a bit. But his mind kept on reeling back to Sherlock and what happened to them. He knew he did something wrong too, and he should apologise for it, but whenever he tried, Sherlock showed him the cold shoulder.
So, what else was he supposed to do but leave?
His fingers felt numb slightly as he sighed loudly. His heart ached and he wanted nothing more but to go back in time and take back what he said if he could. He glanced the ceiling and counted until ten in his head. Just then, the door to his office was knocked and for a second, he was about to tell whoever it was to go away when Mary, a nurse working in this clinic, walked in with a smile on her lips.
She was a nice friend too, John remembered. She liked him before and they went on a date or two and John really thought she was good enough to make him forget about Sherlock years ago. But she slowly decided to just become friends with him because, she said there was no way she could compete with Sherlock. However, if John never met Sherlock, he was sure he would end up marrying Mary, because she fit his personality unlike anybody else could besides Sherlock.
Mary raised her eyebrows before she said, "You've been looking down lately, John."
The doctor flinched at the words and shifted in his seat. "Really?" he asked as he tried to smile at her. "I don't feel down though."
"You're lying," Mary said as she walked up to him and sat at the patient's seat. "You know I can tell if something's wrong with you. We've been friends for almost three years, John."
John went silent for a second before he looked away from her and shrugged. "Nothing that couldn't be solved," he said finally. Mary simply continued to stare at him before she shook her head.
"Is this about Sherlock?"
The ex-army doctor immediately looked back at her and chuckled, feigning lightness. "What? No."
"John," she said.
"Mary, really, it's nothing to do with—"
"Really now?" Mary asked as she cut him off.
"Really," John said firmly. Well, as firm as he could from the way he was feeling. But her stares were deep and John couldn't hide it anymore. "No."
"John," she started but John simply shook his head.
"It's fine," he said as he leaned deeper into his seat and looked away. "He's just being Sherlock."
Some parts of John agreed with that statement, because Sherlock was just being his dramatic self and John had just taken it as an offence. But another part of him told him that Sherlock shouldn't have acted that way because it was also out of norms for the detective. He never seemed so angry before, especially towards John and really, the detective had no right to feel that way when he kept on disappearing and making the blond-haired man worry about him.
Mary silently watched him but she didn't open her mouth to concede about the issue, instead she said, "You can always talk to me."
John just glanced at her before he gave her a meagre smile. "I know."
Mycroft stood outside of John's new flat and the first thing the doctor wanted to do was to slam the door on his face. But then he held it back because really, what did Sherlock's brother ever did to him besides being kidnapped on occasional times? "John," Mycroft drawled as John allowed him in.
"Mycroft," he said as the older man looked around the flat and raised a conceding eyebrow.
"I heard what happened," he said and John knew that was a blatant lie, because Mycroft had eyes everywhere and to be honest, the blond-haired man was waiting for when Mycroft was going to appear in front of him again.
"You did, huh?" John asked as he closed the door and walked to the kitchen. "Tea, Mycroft?"
"That sounds lovely, John, but I'm afraid I have to go soon," Mycroft said as he walked into the kitchen as well, his umbrella in his hand. "I just stopped by to see you."
John turned around and leaned against the counter before he crossed his arms against his chest and looked at the man. He simply stared at Mycroft until the man smiled, though it didn't seem pleasant. "My brother is truly an idiot sometimes."
The blond-haired man simply quirked his lips in a manner where it neither agreed nor denied Mycroft's statement. After a minute of silence, the neatly-dressed man continued, "And that is why I'm here to say that it was quite shocking to see you have left my brother alone."
"Mycroft," John started. "It wasn't me who didn't want him anymore."
"Perhaps," Mycroft said though a secret smile played on his lips. "But have you spoken to my brother before you made the decision?"
John felt shame colouring his inside but he knew he wasn't as wrong as he was being put on the spot thought he was. He was doing what other people would've done. He didn't want to leave Sherlock because he never thought he had to. But now, what about now? "He didn't want to talk to me. Sherlock—he—doesn't need me."
"John," Mycroft said. "Whatever The Woman had told you, I would gladly say behalf of my brother that it isn't true." John opened his mouth to protest but the man simply shook his head. "My brother had always been—cold. But you had warmed him up, in ways that even I couldn't have done. My brother is also incapable of apologising, but with you—he does. We detest sentiment, it's a disadvantage but he simply disregards it when it comes to you. John, I wouldn't doubt my brother about how much he cares for you. It's so much, that it is quite sickening at times. And maybe at first I doubted how good you could be to my brother, but—you were probably the best thing that had ever happened to Sherlock. I hope you know that, behalf of my brother."
The blond-haired man felt his chest tightening at the words and his mind steadily went blank. His cheeks coloured but there was also some wave of regret floating about in him. "I'd be off now, John," he said before he walked to the door. "You're special to my brother. Even if he doesn't say it often."
The door closed with a quiet click and John waited for the blow to hit. He couldn't breathe as the words settled in his mind. Sighing out shakily, he ran his fingers through his hair and tried to clear his mind from the haziness. It was difficult at best whenever he thought he wasn't appreciated, because there were times in his relationship with Sherlock that had got him thinking that he wasn't good enough.
But to hear it from Mycroft, it washed some warmth in him and soothed some of the hurt. But it still wasn't enough because, he didn't want to hear this from Sherlock's brother. If Mycroft could step down from his pedestal and talked to him about it like this, why couldn't the detective?
He wondered briefly if Sherlock missed him.
It was the mark of the eighth week since he moved out of the flat he shared with Sherlock when someone knocked on the door to his flat in the middle of the night. John had just fallen asleep a little over an hour ago and he hadn't even started dreaming when the knocking sound started. At first, the blond-haired man thought to leave it alone because he had a long shift at work and he wanted to sleep.
But the knocking persisted and he doubted the neighbours would be happy with him if he let this go on.
The last thing he needed was to get kicked out of his flat.
He lazily rolled out of bed and without even bothering to get his sleeping robe, he walked out of his room and padded to the front door. The knocking got louder and louder at every second John didn't bother to open the door until John was pretty sure the sound was alerting the neighbours. He fumbled on the locks before he finally opened the door with an irritated look.
However, that look froze on his face when he realised who it was standing at the other side.
Silence matched at both ends as the person who was knocking a moment ago dropped his hand to his sides and silently watched John. The blond-haired man slowly took in how the man looked before something snapped in his mind and he gaped out. "S—Sherlock?"
Almost two months since they last saw each other and Sherlock came to stand in front of his flat door, looking as if someone had practically shoved him into a shredding machine. "John."
That one word had John gasping for air when he felt like someone had slammed a huge brick block against his skull, repeatedly. The huge flow of emptiness and frustration flooded into his mind without a care. Sherlock looked haggard, his eyes lost their twinkle, his hair was slightly longer and untamed, his cheeks seemed curved in as if he hadn't been eating properly and his whole self was just—pitiful to look at.
"What the," John said. "What in the bloody hell happened to you?"
Before John could comprehend at what was happening, Sherlock had walked forward and grabbed John by the shoulders. He pulled the shorter man into a hug, wrapping his arms around the doctor tight. John went deadly still in his embrace and for a few seconds, he didn't do anything but let himself be cuddled in this warmth.
His mind was racing and his heart beat started to pick up pace. Confusion washed in him as he blinked for a few seconds. "Sherlock?" John questioned as he tried to push the detective off of him. However, the grip tightened and John was at loss of words and actions on what to do.
"John," Sherlock began and John finally had enough of this and dragged Sherlock in before he kicked the door closed. The embrace faltered before Sherlock pushed John against the door and tightened his hug. At that moment, the blond-haired man gave up on his resistance and hugged the taller man back.
He truly missed this warmth, truly missed being hugged like this. They rarely did this but when they did do it, it meant the world to John. The blond-haired man buried his face into the taller man's shoulder and inhaled his scent. He almost laughed dryly to himself when he remembered how Sherlock smelled like. It was always the smell of nicotine and maybe a bit of smoke, but it was Sherlock and it was something that John missed.
For a few minutes, John stayed like that in Sherlock's embrace, the taller man didn't let up from the near-painful grip of the hug. "Sherlock," John mumbled as he brought his hands and placed them on the man's shoulders. He tried to push him off but Sherlock wasn't budging. "Sherlock, I'm having difficulties breathing now."
Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled away from John even though his hands still lingered on the blond-haired man. Silence washed in for a second before the doctor said, "Sherlock?"
The hurt was still pounding through him like fire and he knew then that maybe, Sherlock got hurt too. The detective simply stared down on him for a second before he brought both of his hands on John's cheeks. The ex-army doctor raised his eyebrows and tensed when the taller man didn't give John any room to budge as he leaned down and kissed him.
A lot of thoughts ran through John's mind, one of them being; What the hell was Sherlock doing?
But the thought melted away into blankness when he felt warmth spreading through his body. John gingerly kissed him back, his hands which were on Sherlock's shoulder curled around those sharp curves. Sherlock kissed him deeply, pushing the shorter man against the door even harder.
His heart beat increased in his chest and for a second, he felt light, as if this was finally right. Then, Sherlock broke their kiss apart and laid his head on John's shoulder, taking in a deep breath. For a few seconds, everything went still as John huffed out his breath gently and opened his eyes.
He was still confused though because—Sherlock just appeared looking like someone shredded him apart and proceeded to touch him like he desperately needed to. "Sherlock—"
"This is utterly ridiculous," Sherlock said, the first words he ever spoke since he appeared on John's doorstep. John was slightly confused as he tried to nudge the detective to look at him. "Completely stupid."
"Sherlock," John tried again before the detective raised his head and straightened himself to look at the blond-haired man in the eyes. "What—"
The grip on his face pressured slightly before Sherlock continued his—babbling, "It was the most frustrating moments in my life! I could not do anything without being left feeling—John, feeling, like I had my heart ripped out of my chest too many times and leaving me absolutely revolting and cold."
John had to take it all in for a second before he frowned slightly. "I was physically incapable of solving anything and it frustrates me to no end that I had taken twice as long to catch the killer. The Work is suffering, my mind is not ordered and it's making me mad! And do you know whose fault it is to render me in such a distasteful state? You, John. You did."
The blond-haired man frowned deeper at the words. He didn't know why he felt slightly hurt at those words. Sherlock had found him after two months, kissed him at his doorstep and now was blaming him for it all? "Sherlock, what do you mean it's my fault?"
Sherlock sneered before he let go of John and huffed out loud. "You left," the detective said, his eyes narrowed sharply. "And you seemed to have dragged along my focus as well. Why in the world couldn't you have left without affecting me so much? It is irritating and bloody annoying!"
Irritation spiked through John's mind as he pushed himself from the door and glared at the detective. He had been here, holed up in this hell, wondering if Sherlock ever missed him, ever wanted him back and yet, here he was bloody spouting things and accusing John that it was all his fault.
Hadn't the man had some sense of logic?
Some sense of emotion?
Obviously not, John's mind muttered bitterly. "Well, I'm sorry to have done that to you," John said dryly. "Is that all? Was that why you came here, found me, kissed me? To get your bloody focus again?"
Sherlock's entire demeanour changed before his squared shoulders dropped. "I don't know why you came here, Sherlock. How did you even find me?" John asked as he clicked his jaw shut.
"I have my connections," Sherlock answered. John snorted. Of course he did. He rolled his eyes as he rubbed his face with his right hand.
"If you've got nothing else to say, Sherlock, please, just go," John said tiredly. He leaned his head against the door and for a moment, he felt—exhausted. He really thought Sherlock was here because—well, because he missed him just like how John had missed the detective back. But it seems that the taller man simply wanted to get rid of this distraction, get rid of John.
"John," Sherlock started. "I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean what?" John demanded as he looked at Sherlock sharply. "Didn't mean to offend my delicate sensibilities?"
"John," Sherlock said firmly. "It's not what I meant."
"Bloody hell you didn't," John snapped. "I—" he started for a second before he sighed loudly and shook his head. "Never mind, I hope this visit helped you to get your focus back. Front door is unlocked. Lock it before you leave." With that, he pushed past the detective and headed to his bedroom. He closed the door and slumped at the edge of his bed.
He would be lying if he said he didn't feel happy just now that Sherlock had come all the way here just to see him. But what really did he expect from Sherlock anyway? He felt guilty all of a sudden for shutting Sherlock off like that because—in the past two years, Sherlock had been honest with him, had shown some emotion with him, had even indulged him with some romantic gestures even if it wasn't always done.
But just then, Sherlock had just grated his nerves. It annoyed him that the detective only wanted him because of his focus. Had he been that worse of a distraction? The door opened and John knew it was Sherlock. "Go away," John mumbled as he took in a deep breath.
There was no movement for a minute before John heard the shuffling noise walking towards the bed. "John," Sherlock said.
"What?" John asked slightly perturbed. "What more could you possibly want?"
Without missing a beat, Sherlock said, "You."
John's breath hitched and his eyes widened at the words. He immediately looked up and caught the gaze of those calm grey-green eyes staring at him silently. He licked his lips for a second before he looked away. "What for? To get your focus back?"
"Yes," Sherlock said honestly. "But also because it's quite lonely without you around the flat."
That sentence immediately caught John off guard again. He glanced at the detective and felt warmth pooling through him. "Sherlock," John started as he sighed. "You could do so much better."
"I can," Sherlock said as he nodded. "But I don't think anyone else have the patience to put up with me besides you."
John was tired, it was in the middle of the night, his body ached, his heart burned and he wanted nothing more but for all of this to go away. He knew Sherlock enjoyed talking in riddles, just to boggle a person's mind but John wasn't in the mood today. Right now, he needed to know the truth because, even if they were no longer together, he still refused to believe that what they had all this while was fruitless.
It was the best thing that had ever happened in his life and if Sherlock couldn't acknowledge the same right now, right this instance, John wanted to know that and he wanted closure. He felt his chest tightening again as he blinked the slight blurriness from his eyes. "Sherlock," John said. "I—I can't deal with this now. I just can't. I need you to be honest with me, because I'm not in the mood to decipher you."
"John, why did you leave?" Sherlock finally asked and John had to refrain from feeling guilty all over again.
"Because you didn't want me anymore."
Sherlock immediately growled under his breath. "That is absurd!" Sherlock said as he placed a hand on John's shoulder. "John, look at me."
The order was sharp and yet it was filled with—anxiousness and that was the sole reason John looked at Sherlock. The man looked serious and for a moment, John thought he was looking at someone else. "Is it, Sherlock?" John asked silently as his lips curled into a distasteful smile. "Is it really absurd? Because I thought with the way you were ignoring me, after we broke up that day, I thought you really didn't want me anymore."
"Broke up?" Sherlock asked as his eyebrows furrowed deep. "You broke up with me? Did you leave me because you really wanted to leave me?" John frowned before he stood up, Sherlock's hand was still on his shoulder.
"No!" John said. "I never wanted to leave you! You're the one who broke up with me, Sherlock! You stormed out on me that day, you asked me why you put up with me. You didn't want and I bloody quote 'Feelings and insecurities being inflicted on me today'."
Guilt washed in Sherlock's eyes and the hand fell from John's shoulder. "John, I didn't—"
John just stared at him, waiting for him to continue. "You didn't what, Sherlock? Because I need to know if you decided to be with me just because you were scared that I'll leave if you don't feel the same way. You didn't have to—manipulate me. I would've stayed, you know. Even if you didn't feel the same way."
"I didn't manipulate you, John," Sherlock quickly said. "I didn't know why you were insecure or angry. It didn't make any sense because I didn't do anything to warrant such thoughts from you."
"You didn't?" John asked. "Sherlock, I was worried that you kept on disappearing to who knows where awful hours of the day and then suddenly, I find out you sneaked out to see Irene Adler. How was I supposed to feel?"
Sherlock thinned his lips but something like realisation dawned on the detective's face. "You thought I was intrigued with her, wanted her instead of you now that she was back." John glanced away from Sherlock as shame and guilt washed in him.
He knew that he somewhat contributed to this mess. If he hadn't felt so insecure, maybe they wouldn't be here. Sherlock simply huffed out his breath before he chuckled. John looked at him before he frowned, wondering why the detective found this funny. "John," Sherlock said with a quirk of his lips. "It seems that I do have to explain it to you."
"You think?" John said meekly. "I'm not like you, Sherlock. I can't—deduce."
"You did not have to to understand that I do not want her," Sherlock said as John looked at him. "I disappeared at those times because yes, I went to see her, but it was not because I wanted to see her. It was merely because she needed my help on something she was currently stuck on. I helped her, in exchange she never comes back."
John listened quietly and the more he heard, the more shameful he felt about his behaviour. He felt guilty as well because, how in the world had he misread Sherlock like this? He felt his chest squeezing tight and for a minute, his vision blurred. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, unable to meet those eyes. "The reason I would not tell you where I went because it was unimportant. It was none of your concern because there was nothing to be concerned about. John, if I had thought you weren't worth my time, I wouldn't have done everything and anything for you."
John glanced up to Sherlockm and froze on where he was standing when he saw how sincere the detective looked. "Then, what is this between us? What—what does this mean to you?"
"Whatever it is you want it to be," Sherlock said quietly as his eyes seemed to lose some of its earlier gleam. "We do not need labels, John. Labels are mundane, to socialise, to categorise and what we have, can we not just call it ours and not label it?"
John flinched at the words as they struck deep in his heart. "I didn't—know," John admitted as he chuckled dryly and brought a hand to drag down his face. "And I thought you—I just—I doubted you."
"A normal response from what she had said to you, to what you have concluded from the series of events," Sherlock said as he waved a hand.
"You said all those things to me, you were—harsh, Sherlock. And it isn't a normal type of harshness either, it was as if you didn't want to talk to me anymore, and I—"
"I'm sorry."
The silence that washed in between them was still and stunned. John immediately looked at the detective and noticed the hurt that was playing in those eyes. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."
"Sherlock—"
"I didn't—I was exasperated, probably irritated that you would ever think of me in such a debauching manner after all that we had been through, but it came to my attention that my words had—hurt you. When you moved away, I thought you would come back. 'This is just John being John,' I thought. But you—didn't."
"Mycroft," John said slowly. "He told you, didn't he?"
"My brother could be useful when the time needs it to be," Sherlock said with a shaky smile. John felt a smile working on his own lips too. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said again as he sighed. "Come home, John. It's quite—I couldn't concentrate without my blogger."
John went quiet for a while as he blinked away the slight wetness in his eyes. "Only for that?" John asked as Sherlock frowned a bit.
"Listen closely, John, listen closely because it would probably be a long time before you would hear this from me again," Sherlock said and John knew that he was nervous slightly as he licked his lips. "I love you. I adore you. I have an unhealthy obsession for you. It seems that everything that I do, think, speak, relates to you. Without you, John, it seems I'm lost. I'm—not me."
John's eyes widened at the words and he felt his heart skip a beat at the words. The hurt, the insecurities, the misunderstanding between them melted away to the background as he tried to work his mind with these facts. Sherlock looked at him seriously before he placed both of his hands on John's cheeks once more, caressing them softly. "I ask again, John. Come home. For me. For—us. Now."
The latter part of the sentence sounded more like a demand than a request and John felt something like joy work in his heart at that thought. Because really, this wouldn't be Sherlock if he didn't have something commanding in his voice. The doctor ended up chuckling as he closed his eyes and relished the man's warmth on his cheeks. He placed his own hands on top of Sherlock's before he squeezed the fingers lightly.
"Yeah," John said as he opened his eyes and smiled. "Yeah, okay. I'm—sorry too, Sherlock. I—I shouldn't have—"
"It does not matter anymore," Sherlock said softly, his smile spreading on his face. "It turns out there are still some things that I've not mastered yet."
John knew that this was Sherlock's way on admitting defeat that he had no idea how to stir this relationship as much as John was at lost too. The blond-haired man simply chuckled out some more before he said, "Let me check if the world is ending real quick, yeah?"
The grip on his cheeks tightened before Sherlock huffed. "I'm pretty sure it isn't ending, John. Don't be obtuse."
"No, of course not, like how the solar system is a useless fact," John said and he laughed when he saw the irritation on Sherlock's face.
"Seriously, will you ever forget about that?" Sherlock said as he took a step forward.
"Me? Forget it?" John asked with a grin. "That's pure gold! Sherlock admitting he didn't know about the solar system and about how a relationship wor—!"
Before John could complete the sentence, Sherlock had sealed the doctor's lips with his own. He could hear the silent command 'Do shut up, John.' in the kiss as he smiled into it and succumbed to the familiar feeling. He tightened his grip on those fingers as he closed his eyes and kissed him back.
"L'amour toujours," Sherlock whispered against his lips as John opened his eyes and looked at those eyes, calm and serious, and yet filled with—affection. John realised then, that what they had meant something to the taller man—that they didn't fall out just because of this because they were so much more than just a relationship. They were—together for better or worse.
They were real.
He smiled at Sherlock as he nodded. "Je t'aime," he whispered back and for the first time since they had been together, he felt—complete.
The detective didn't reply but when he kissed John again, it was clear he felt the same way. John pushed away the long-ridden hurt, discomfort and everything else that came in between them. Sherlock had gone through all of that, to keep their relationship alive. To keep them from breaking apart. He adored the man, and he promised himself that he would make a bigger effort to understand Sherlock.
As the night became morning, a fresh start was made and a new chapter began. This obstacle would be referenced and used to keep them going. John vowed to do that, and this time, even if Sherlock one day got bored of him, he wouldn't leave him. He would be the best he could for this detective and in return, John knew the taller man would do the same.
"You'll always be important to me," John gasped out as they broke their kiss.
Sherlock simply smiled.
"As you are to me as well, perhaps and likely, even more."
The End