Some angst, because apparently I'm masochistic.
Mrs. Hudson walked carefully up the stairs to 221B, carrying a tray of tea. Her boys had been awfully drunk the night before and she knew that they would have monstrous hang-overs. Such lightweights, they were! Mrs. Hudson had heard Sherlock's client, the lovely young nurse, come stomping down the stairs muttering, "Lousy detective, passed out during my story!" Mrs. Hudson had laughed to herself and decided to pay them a visit the next morning.
So there she was, maneuvering opening the front door with the tray still in her hands, when she saw that Sherlock and John hadn't left the sofa from the previous night. She set down the tea tray on the kitchen table and walked to stand in front of the sofa. She then noticed that the men were shirtless, their clothes on the floor near their armchairs.
Oh, my.
The pair was passed out, John lying on his back and Sherlock fully spread out on top of him. Sherlock's arms were wrapped around John's torso protectively and his face was the picture of innocence and peace pillowed on John's chest. John's hand was resting on Sherlock's lower back and his face was buried in the chocolate-brown curls. Mrs. Hudson knew from the day they moved in that there was something more to their friendship, especially on Sherlock's side. The way he looked at John made the woman's heart ache. She couldn't imagine the pain he must go through, having to help plan John and Mary's wedding and be the best man. They must have finally done it, she thought, with their defenses down and alcohol granting the courage to do what they always wanted.
But Mrs. Hudson knew John. He was getting married soon; he would be horrified if he woke up and realized what he'd done.
She rested her hand on Sherlock's bare shoulder and shook it gently. "Sherlock, dear."
He nuzzled John's chest and tightened his embrace around his torso.
She reluctantly shook a little harder, trying not to wake John. "Sherlock!" she whispered close to his ear.
Sherlock's eyes shot open and he looked at Mrs. Hudson dazedly.
John did not stir.
She held a finger to her lips. "Don't speak, dear," she whispered, "just get up. Carefully, now."
Sherlock's brow furrowed and he looked down to where his arms were wound. His eyes widened and a red flare lit his cheeks.
Mrs. Hudson frowned, Poor dear.
Sherlock removed John's hand from his own back and set it down gently as he slowly got off his companion. When he stood, Mrs. Hudson averted her eyes. Sherlock and John's zippers to their trousers were still undone. You didn't have to be a detective to piece everything together. Sherlock rubbed his temples—no doubt from the inevitable headache pounding into his skull—and set his face into an unreadable mask, zipping up his trousers and making a B-line to his room.
Mrs. Hudson sighed and picked up their shirts. She wasn't their housekeeper, but she had to help Sherlock during a time like this. She folded the discarded shirts onto Sherlock's chair and looked up when he strode back out of his room, now downing his read dressing gown.
Mrs. Hudson walked into the kitchen where Sherlock was getting tea and set her hand on his shoulder again, not missing how he tensed. "Sherlock," her voice held all the sympathy in the world. Being heartbroken wasn't easy. She should know.
"Don't tell him about it," Sherlock said lowly, not facing her. "He mustn't know."
"He might remember it, Sherlock."
He shook his head. "Highly unlikely. Even if he does, I will deny it and say it was probably a dream. He'll believe it because he'll want to." He sounded empty.
"You have to tell him how you feel," she frowned.
He shook his head again.
"But he's getting married!"
"As if I don't already know that," he growled.
"You have to tell him before it's too late," she insisted. She stepped to the side to see Sherlock's face.
His eyes were closed and his jaw was clenched. "It's already too late. I lost him when I jumped." His voice held such finality and resignation.
Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly, "You can still-"
"No," he said forcefully and opened his eyes to glare at her. They stared at each other for a few moments until he broke, eyes turning suspiciously wet. "He could never love me," he whispered. "I'll do whatever you want. Do not tell him. Please. He would never look at me again if he knew."
Mrs. Hudson sighed deeply. Over the years, she had never heard Sherlock so desperate. She disagreed with him entirely. She knew John loved him and even if he didn't return Sherlock's feelings, John would never resent him for it. But Sherlock was looking at her with tears in his eyes and his lower lip trembling, and she knew no one else ever saw him in such a state.
"Fine."
Sherlock sighed in relief. "Thank you." He walked into the sitting room with his tea.
Mrs. Hudson couldn't understand it. How could John be so blind? How could Sherlock not even try to get him back? Most of all: how could two people love each other so much and not do anything about it?! The whole thing was infuriating as it was tragic. Before she left, she saw Sherlock take the blanket from the back of the armchair and cover John with it, pausing a moment to brush John's hair out of his face. Mrs. Hudson quietly shut the door to 221B behind her, mourning the heart of her poor detective.
Why did I do this to myself?