The world was a bleak place for Dr. John Watson. Just, John, he supposed, since he must not have been a very good doctor.
Since the day…it happened… he couldn't help blaming himself. Thinking back, the signs were obvious. Not that Sherlock was a fraud, of course, never that. But the drugs, the smoking, the poor eating habits, the solitude. There were so many reasons John might have known that Sherlock was an "at risk" patient.
He knew he wasn't a very good doctor the moment he walked in the door of 221B with Sherlock's blood still on his hands and on the knees of his pants. It took a note and a final act for him to realize what was happening. Unfortunately, he wasn't just a doctor.
He was—or had been—a friend. The best friend to the best man he'd ever known. But the flashbacks wouldn't seem to let him relive those happy times, stuck as he was on shattered memories. Quite shattered indeed….
The emptiness and the brokenness seemed to stretch on forever, because he couldn't accept that Sherlock was gone. He couldn't move on if he didn't accept it. But he didn't want to move on, of course, because then he had to accept it.
When those terrible two years were finally over, and Sherlock was back, he couldn't help noticing that neither man had truly returned from the trauma they had endured. John had managed to blame Sherlock—having spent the last two years hating himself, it was nice to direct it outwards for a change. But he couldn't hate Sherlock. Not really.
That first few weeks—even days—had been enough to remind John of exactly what he'd been so lucky to find in his eccentric friend. The subtle considerations, wherein Sherlock repeatedly demonstrated that he did indeed have a heart, were not only meant to restore their friendship, but to restore John Watson. Sherlock, a man who was tortured and isolated for two years, was determined to help John Watson.
The idea seemed preposterous, until John realized he was doing the same. John, a man who had lost his best friend to suicide before his very eyes, was determined to help Sherlock Holmes.
Unfortunately, plans for his wedding to Mary were well underway before he realized that his would-be spouse would be a mistake. Sure, she was certainly lovely, smart, skilled, a little kooky, all the things he so admired. Except that he admired them in Sherlock Holmes.
The tingling in his stomach that brought a fragile smile to his perpetually drawn face was the direct result of that special expression of Sherlock's or that special way he moved his hands across the violin or that special way he simply was. There, extant in 221B, Sherlock Holmes embodied…well John wasn't even sure what he embodied but he was quite sure he liked it.
And Mary? Dear Mary.
He certainly did love her, and he could see that Sherlock did, too. Unfortunately, that love extended in a very deep, very brotherly way towards his soon-to-be wife, and he found that he loved Mary much the same way Sherlock loved Mary, and that he loved Sherlock much the way Mary loved him.
So many regrets.
And then they were married. And Sherlock loved him. He had said so, hadn't he?
And then Sherlock was in a drug den, at death's door, just a month or so after the wedding.
And then Sherlock was dying of a gunshot wound, and Mary did it.
And then Sherlock was gone again. Only for a few minutes though. John couldn't forget that Sherlock betrayed his nation for John and Mary and the unborn baby Rosie, that he had then shot a man and effectively sentenced himself to exile or death for John, that he had looked so lovingly at his dear friend just moments before he sealed his fate.
Except, of course, that the Holmes brothers don't particularly listen to fate, and Sherlock was soaring high through London again within a span of minutes.
And then there was a baby. And then there was a pretty face and the realization that he would never be happy enough. Happy, sure, but happy enough? Never.
And then there was a gunshot and everything he though he didn't want was taken from him. He knew, then, that he had made a mistake. He couldn't stand to even look at Sherlock and the images of his dead wife, his beautiful beautiful dead wife, haunted him.
He realized too late—much too late—that he had loved them both. He had chosen just one and discovered very quickly that he had chosen wrong. But that wasn't to say that he didn't love Mary. God knows he loved Mary. He'd always love Mary. But he loved Sherlock, too. Maybe more.
And he hated him for it.
It was months before he could be friends with the detective again, and he would forever regret the angry letter, the torrents of abuse, the hatred, and finally the physical assault that had left his dear friend a bleeding mess on the floor of a morgue. He was certain his heart had stopped when the crazy man that brought them there was caught trying to kill his friend.
As certain as Sherlock was of all the facets of humanity, he hadn't quite expected the actual risk to himself. And John's heart had stopped at the prospect of losing the only thing left that mattered to him, other than his baby daughter.
Still, it was months before they could admit it to each other. Settling in to 221B made the transition smoother, but it felt so much like old times that they were both loathe to ruin it. Still, John couldn't help the small smiles when Sherlock played the violin for Rosie and the two men, more in love than ever, retired to the living room where they watched the fire dance evenly in the fireplace. And then, slowly, without realizing it was happening, they retired to the bedroom, where they watched themselves fall ever deeper in love, their passion dancing evenly beneath their skin.