The warm wind blew quietly, wrapping around jacketed shoulders, weaving between tangled hair, caressing pale skin. The gentle tumble of sapphire waves on gritty-soft sand, the emphatic baying of gulls and the salty-sweet smell of the ocean would have been a comfort to anyone else. But to him, it was pain. Yes, pain, for even he felt it, and despite his best attempts at hiding it, the ones that worked seamlessly for fooling the world around him, it was always there, beating, throbbing, aching like the surging pulse of the tide. He could not fool himself.
He felt like he was drowning, drowning in non-verbal lies and silent falsehoods. Fake smiles and pretend laughs. Lies. Always.
He felt as though he was in the water, a weight of stupid, human emotions tied unyieldingly around his ankles in a rope too strong for him to think about breaking, pulling him down into the infinite depths of hurt and despair, and it's too much, too heavy for him to fight, and the air is pulled from his lungs and he's overwhelmed, and he thinks he sees a hand, if it's real or merely a false creation of his inundated brain he will never know, and he tries, with all his might, to swim up, swim free, and if only he can reach the hand, before the blackness consumes him...
He doesn't want to think about it. It hurts. He doesn't want to be hurting.
He felt it building up inside, everything he'd ever wanted, every reason he'd had to live for. But was it enough? What was the point of these, these dreams of stone, if they left you empty, cold, and just out of reach of the light touch of happiness, in sight, but too far, much too far.
But, the funny thing was, dreams weren't all that he hid beneath his skin. He was afraid. Why, he did not know, but he was afraid. He had fears, he had doubts. Fears of falling so far under he would loose himself for good, doubts about himself, about this, all of this. Was it really what he wanted? If not, why did he keep doing it? If so, why did it still hurt so much?
He stared out across the immense monotony of the ocean. It was endless, just like the hurt that surrounded his heart like a thicket of thorns. It was the rhythm of waves and agony. Hope seemed like the shore on the other side, one that felt as near as a teardrop, as far away as forever. He would drown before he could ever reach it.
His mind was a raging storm. The blackness of dark clouds hiding the sun, of growling thunder and hissing lightning, making the sea of his heart roar and thrash in the chaos of it all, as his body of lead grew weaker and weaker and he wondered if there was peace at the bottom, or if the storm shook the waters there, too.
He felt like a failure. The great Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, felt like a failure. The thrill of a case, a mystery to be solved was not enough anymore. He wanted, needed more, but more of what, even he did not know. He couldn't figure it out, and it no longer frustrated him, it just made him sad.
He felt like nobody. Sure, everyone knew who he was. He was the greatest detective in London, England, or maybe even the world, for crying out loud! But who cared about that? He certainly did not. Fame was never what he wanted. And the people? The thought of him as a hero. But did they care? About him? No. And his brother? Perhaps a little, but not enough. They were family, and Mycroft had no choice but to care about him. Molly? Of course Molly cared, but it wasn't the same. She cared about everyone. Scotland Yard? They only saw him as an asset, and perhaps an annoyance. And John? Well, John, although he would be saddened if he was gone, would probably move on and make new friends. That's just the way John was. Kind, thoughtful, and easy to grow attached to.
But Sherlock didn't want to think about that either, not now, not ever, for surely he would only realize that he needed John far more than John needed him. He would only realize that his very human heart could belong to another, even while it was there, beating inside his own chest...
And he realized that he was thinking about it, now, as he watched the water crash against the shore and felt the cool spray it brought settle on his curly hair. He could not escape it, for even though his ribs were cages, they could not contain the wild beast if his heart. He just wanted to go back, back to when he first met John Watson, and they were hardly friends, let alone anything more. He wanted to be back at the beginning, again.
A drop of water slid down his face. He was startled, for he first thought it was a tear that had escaped his notice, salty as the ocean, and just as deep. Then he felt another drop fall to his nose, and he realized it was only rain.
Rain was like sadness. A tiny drop did nothing. It did not hurt, it hardly made a splash. But it added up, added up until it was overflowing, and everything you could see was covered in it, and still it fell, and you wondered when you would see the happy sun again, or if it had ever existed at all.
My heart is yours. But what a broken place it's in.
He laid on the couch, thinking, always thinking. He felt like he was stuck in traffic. Frustrating, time consuming, and boring traffic that could last minutes or hours. He felt heavy, like a great weight held down his shoulders and his heart. It was like poison to his mind. He wanted to believe he was alright, everyone else did, but he could not.
Sherlock sat up, straightening his back and breathing in sharply. Maybe if he chose, made a conscious effort, to stop being depressed, he would.
But the sadness still gripped him, and he hung his head in his hands, shoulders slumped.
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked with concern and mild curiosity. He had never seen Sherlock look so... upset. Or maybe he was in pain. Or thinking. Although he never thought in that position.
Sherlock, for the first time he could remember, was startled. The white noise of his thoughts had made it hard for him to focus on the world around him, and he genuinely hadn't noticed John was even in the building. Which he definitely should have. He looked up with a pained grin.
"Headache," he replied shortly.
John was worried. Since when did Sherlock get headaches? He certainly never complained of them. Quite frankly, John didn't think Sherlock would tell him even if his head did hurt, but apparently he was wrong.
John went to go grab some medicine from the medicine cabinet to give to him and- wait a minute. They didn't have a medicine cabinet. He would have to go out and grab some from the store.
"I'll be back with some painkillers, alright?" John informed as he slipped on the nearest jacket, which happened to be Sherlock's.
Great. Now it's going to smell like him.
Sherlock sighed. Why was his life so hard?
He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew, John was shaking him awake, and placing a hand on his forehead, which he promptly swatted away.
"You're not sick," John breathed in relief. "Now take your medicine," he said sternly, and he did not leave until Sherlock had done so, even though he didn't actually need it.
So maybe John did care. A lot. But it wasn't the same as the way Sherlock cared for him. It would never be.
They were working on a case. It was a generous four at best, but Sherlock desperately needed something to take his mind off of his mind.
John had taken off at a run, following the second member of the murdering duo. Sherlock was grappling with the first, trying to keep the man's fists away from his face. When it was clear that Sherlock had the advantage, despite the other man landing a number of healthy blows, the man turned tail and fled the way his partner had, letting Sherlock fall to the ground.
Now his head really did hurt, but it was good, a distraction, and he knew it was superficial. It probably wasn't even bleeding.
"Sherlock! Sherlock! Are you okay?" John shouted, sprinting toward Sherlock and throwing himself down by his side, ignoring the harsh scrape of the pavement. His eyes were wide, scared.
"Did they get away?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's question for now.
John shook his head, still trying to regain his breath. "Lestrade's dealing with them right now," he puffed.
"Good," Sherlock said as he closed his eyes. His mind felt soft, fuzzy almost. It was kind of nice.
"Sherlock!" John shrieked and he opened his eyes again, looking at the terrified face of the one he adored. "Are you alright? Are you in pain?" He asked, calmer now that Sherlock was still awake.
Sherlock nodded. Yes, I'm in pain. I'm always in pain.
John began to shake. "Where?" he whispered. "Where does it hurt?" He was scared to know.
Sherlock was always so strong, so unbreakable, even when it seemed as though the world tried to beat him down. He was John's hero for that reason, that even when it was hard for the tall man to be strong, he always was, even though it must have torn him up inside.
Sherlock felt brave, daring, even. He reached up and grabbed John's hand, visibly shocking the doctor, and placed it over his heart.
John went pale. What was wrong with Sherlock? Was he having a heart attack? Palpitations? What was it?
As John felt Sherlock's perfectly normal, if not a little quickened, heartbeat, he began to relax, but he was still confused. He looked to Sherlock, a question on his tongue, and saw a strange look in Sherlock's eyes, something he had never seen before. Broken, and... something else.
"They say you can feel your heart beat loudest when it's breaking," Sherlock said softly. His voice was gloriously warm and soft and accepting, bordering on defeated.
John was scared. It was not like Sherlock at all to become poetic all of the sudden.
"Sherlock, what are you saying? You- you would never say something like that. What's going on?" He nearly shouted. Was he dying? Why wouldn't Sherlock just give him a straight answer, one like he usually did, that was too detailed for John to wrap his head around, but was based solely in facts, and not... whatever this was.
Sherlock smiled bitterly. "You and I both know our fatal flaws," he said, placing his hand over John's which was still on his chest.
John stared at Sherlock for awhile, trying to figure out what he could possibly be referring to. Suddenly, understanding flashed in his eyes, along with something infinitely more tender. He grabbed Sherlock's hand, running his thumb over the smooth palm.
"Yes, but we both know that love is what you make of it," John breathed against Sherlock's face.
Now Sherlock was confused. What did that even mean? Why was John looking at him like that? Why was he touching him so gently? Why was his heart beating so fast?
His confusion must have shown, for in the next moment, John was rolling his eyes and leaning down to touch his lips to the corner of Sherlock's mouth before smiling fondly.
"W-what was that for?" Sherlock stuttered. He could feel his face heating up.
John huffed. For a genius detective who could figure out basically everything, he sure could be awfully dense sometimes.
"Really, Sherlock? Do you need me to spell it out for you?"
Sherlock nodded, interested, for once, in what John had to say.
"I honestly don't know how you of all people haven't figured it out yet, but because you haven't noticed, I guess I'll just tell you. I love you, Sherlock."
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't. He closed it, and tried again. "But I thought you only like-"
"You, Sherlock," John interrupted. "It's always been you."
Sherlock didn't respond, and John felt his earlier confidence draining away. Why was Sherlock so quiet, now of all times? John sighed and turned away, about to get up and tell the paramedics about Sherlock's concussion. Might as well. It would need to be treated at some point. A hand stopped him, pulling him around until he fell, crashing down on top of his friend's so his face collided with Sherlock's forehead.
He pushed himself up, slightly irritated. His lip felt like it was busted, and he could taste blood. He was about to reprimand Sherlock for being so careless, but when he saw the smile on Sherlock's face he stopped himself. Sherlock looked so innocent and happy, and John couldn't help but think it was incredibly cute, and he grinned back. Sherlock let out a little laugh, and before long, John laughed as well, and suddenly Sherlock got really quiet.
John looked to see him gazing up at him with unusual desire, and John became acutely aware that he was still sitting on top of Sherlock.
"Can I kiss you?" Sherlock asked softly.
John didn't reply. Instead he ducked down and pressed his lips firmly yet gently against Sherlock's.
He pulled back and pecked Sherlock's nose. "Of course you can," he whispered lowly, "anytime you want."
Sherlock smirked before flipping them over, still on the cold asphalt, and kissing John senseless.
All that Sherlock could think was that, perhaps, the hand reaching out to him hand been John's, and with that, he grabbed the hand and slid his fingers between his beloved's.