I conjure up the thought of being gone
But I'd probably even do that wrong
Sherlock sat alone in the flat, hands together, deep in thought. John had left long ago, something Sherlock was noticing more and more lately. He used to talk to John for up to four hours before noticing he'd left. Now he noticed but tried not to let it divert him. Although, it was impossible not to let it divert him today. Last night, John and Sherlock had gotten into a shouting match over some event with one of John's girlfriends, Sarah or Margaret or Jane. The one with the Corgi. Sherlock had accidentally spouted quite the insult to her. She'd walked into the flat and he had begun his analyzation, however after five minutes of talking he grew bored and burst out, proclaiming that he'd rather not be in the room with someone who'd had their niece killed for divorce money. John had given him a murderous glance and now he was here. Twice, Sherlock had thought of getting up and leaving, maybe running about for a week, of course while ignoring John's probable worry. But he stayed rooted to the chair in the sitting room, for reasons he could not comprehend. He would not run away. Why? Because he was worried what John thought of him? Perhaps. But it was more. He wanted to resolve the conflict between them. He wanted to, what...keep John here? Yes. That was probably it. So far, John had almost always come back, but Sherlock was finding that the thought of no John in his life disturbed him more than it should. No one to take on cases, no one to have tea with, no one to make sure if he was safe...
But what did his safety matter? He'd been just fine before, just...okay.
Sherlock was coming to the conclusion that John Watson had become a fixture, something in his life that had slowly attached itself to him, so much so that to separate it from himself would be to rip out a vital organ. The part of Sherlock's mind that always functioned in the light of fleeing was figuring ways out. Ways to separate the limb from its body.
I try to think about which way
Would I be able to? And would I be afraid?
But the rest of Sherlock's mind screamed that John could not be left, that this connection could never be severed no matter the cost, no matter the pain. And that was the part Sherlock was trying to listen to.
The detective rose to his feet, distracted, and hit his hip on the endtable. The pain was distant and unreachable. Sherlock began pacing. That always helped his mind work better. Yes.
He thought of everything he'd been through, and everything John had been through. He thought of the glances of strangers, people who thought him an emotionless machine, and then of the sound of John's voice when he told Sherlock he was spectacular. Those words meant so much to him, and yet he had never said. Why hadn't he spoken?
'Cause oh, I'm bleeding out inside
Oh, I don't even mind
Oh, John. It was all John's fault, really. All his praise, his admiration. The way he'd let himself be attached to the mess that was Sherlock Holmes.
It's all your fault, you called me beautiful
You turned me out and now I can't turn back
I hold my breath 'cause you were perfect
It was perfect disaster, the two of them. Sherlock caring about him and John caring about Sherlock. The two of them intertwined on the battlefield, the cycle of don't-hurt-him and selfless-to-the-end. It would never finish, would it?
But I'm running out of air and it's not fair
Sherlock was surprised that he didn't care.
I'm trying to figure out what else to say
To make you turn around and come back this way
His thoughts were interrupted by the downstairs door opening. John.
I feel like we could be really awesome together
Sherlock, who had melted to the ground, jumped up, suddenly alert. He was going to apologize? Yes. But he wanted to do more than that. He had a sudden urge to tell John, to tell him something...to tell him that he cared. That he never wanted to leave him again.
So make up your mind, 'cause it's now or never
Love. That was what this was. Sherlock realized that, but he didn't care at the moment, all he wanted was John. John here, safe, and keeping him alive. Oh, it was so obvious. The detective thought of all the times he'd been so near, his urges to straighten clothes or brush hair or be closer. He'd tried to logic it away but it was not possible. John opened the door, and Sherlock broke into a run-walk, going towards him with purpose. John paused in the doorway, his mouth opened to say something. Probably to scold him...
I would never pull the trigger but I've cried wolf a thousand times
Sherlock steeled himself and flung his arms around John, who sucked in his breath and dropped his phone.
"John."
"Uhhh...Sherlock?"
I wish you could feel as bad as I do
"John. I'm very sorry." The doctor had relaxed, his surprise alleviated, but continued to sound mystified. Sherlock pressed his chin into John's shoulder, clinging to him.
"Sherlock...what is it? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing's...wrong." Sherlock found himself near tears, and his voice cracked the tiniest bit. "I've...I've just realized something."
"And...what's that?"
"I never want to let you go."
I have lost my mind.
The End.