A/N: Non-Italicized is Sherlock's narration. Italicized is third-person narration of the flashback. Random plot bunny. Firm believer in unrequited Johnlock I hope you like it~

Sentiment

I was so close. So close. Like it was possible, we were. We were possible… But we weren't. We never were, and never will be. I promised myself long ago I wouldn't succumb to something so degrading, something so vicious. I promised I wouldn't let myself fall. But that was before him. That was before I met John.

It was venomous. Love was venomous. It drew its talons and it had them held to my throat—it couldn't let it get me. I promised myself that I wouldn't fall apart for something so unreal. Because that's all love is: unreal.

I convinced myself it was nothing. That what I felt wasn't real. There was something else behind my racing heart. There was something else that made me feel on fire around him. There must have been something else that was there. I couldn't focus. I was up for nights on end, and I couldn't sleep. I would normally skip hours of sleep, but whole nights, that was new. I found myself falling asleep to dreams, to fantasies. I would wake up in a cold sweat, alone and missing the warmth of a hand that used to be by me, and occasionally lips that used to be against mine.

I said they were nightmares, and in a way, they were.

John continued to be my partner in solving crimes even after he married. It was the same as it always had been. Sometimes I would catch glances of Lestrade or even Donovan, and I knew what they were thinking, but they're always wrong. Same goes for Mycroft. Involved? I'm not involved. I'm trying desperately not to get involved, and it's going well.

At first I tried to delete him. Delete him like I did all the facts, but I couldn't. It just wouldn't go. I've never felt so vulnerable. I've never felt anything like this. Things that made my heart…

He doesn't realize a thing. What's there to realize? Nothing at all. I'm perfectly fine being his best friend. Best friend. It doesn't feel right. But what do I know of relationships? Who am I to say what feels wrong?

We were working on a case one night. I can't even remember what it was. I only remember… I only remember…

John's pace slowed to a walk. The night was cold and he shivered. His head spun around to Sherlock behind him, his eyes the image of fatigue. Sherlock knew he hadn't slept for at least twenty-four hours due to the fact they were chasing some criminal. They had just found him though, and were back at Scotland Yard. Why were they back there and not the flat? Everything was a blur. Sherlock actually couldn't remember the precise details, and it drove him mad.

They made it up a flight of stairs, just outside the door that would lead them to the hall where Lestrade's office was. But John sat down.

"I need to rest," he said in short breaths. "I'm so bloody tired…"
"We'll go home to sleep in a moment, we just have to tell Lestrade where Demona is," Sherlock said, but John didn't seem to hear him. His eyelids grew heavier and soon he fell asleep there on the ground. "John, you shouldn't sleep there," his voice was quieter.

Sherlock walked over to him, kneeling down in front of him, in front his beautiful eyelashes that refused to open. He placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him lightly, but John wouldn't stir. That's when it came crashing down.

John fell to the side and his head rested on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's heart raced so quickly it was impossible to take his pulse. His fingers twitched, aching to brush a piece of his hair from his eyes. Shouldn't he have gotten a haircut by now?

"John, you should wake up," Sherlock said hoarsely. He couldn't bring himself to wake an angel.

It was a few moments later. Sherlock let John have a few moments of rest on his shoulder, feeling an aching in his heart. It was the talons of Sentiment. It had finally gotten him. He felt like he was bleeding through his shirt but he couldn't see the blood. Why wasn't it there? Why couldn't something do surgery and get this THING out of him?

But he would never wish John out of him.

"John, are you awake?" Sherlock asked dumbly. He received no reply, only soft breathing. Sherlock brushed his fingers over John's cheek. He felt cold. Sherlock shrugged off his coat without waking him, draping it over him. "John, if you're awake, say so."

No response.

Sherlock felt his heart pounding. He knew he had to say something before he fell apart at the seams. Before he was ripped apart completely. He couldn't just let all of this go unheard. John's subconscious would hear, and hopefully he would never remember. That would be enough.

"John, I want to tell you something," he whispered in harmony to the cold wind. "You're… I…" he laughed softly. "I'm bad at this. I've never felt like this. Well, I'm sure you've felt like this many times, but I never have. I've never… Never felt so…" he choked up. "Are you awake?" Sherlock asked again. John didn't answer.

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead. "I love you," he said softly. "But I can never tell you, and no one can know. You're married, and I'm the unfeeling-psychopath. And that's okay. I know I'm going to die someday, and I know it will be unexpected. I can only hope I die before you. Does that sound selfish? I don't know, I don't know much of anything anymore. You have Mary. I don't have anyone. I've always been alone. I know people say they're there for me, I know you say that, too…

"But you're not. Not really."

Sherlock suddenly remembered his place and calmed down. What was he doing? Pouring his heart out to no one? He felt something break inside of him. Something that shouldn't be there in the first place. He felt like he was bleeding.

"You're a doctor aren't you?" Sherlock whispered and he felt his voice crack. Was he crying? "I wish there was a cure for a broken heart… I shouldn't even… I've never…"

There was a clattering noise and Sherlock's head snapped up. There was someone at the top of the staircase.

Lestrade suddenly looked scared. "I-I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I know I shouldn't have… Listened… I just…"

Sherlock looked back down and looked ashamed of himself. "No, I'm at fault."

"It isn't a fault to love—!"

"It is!" Sherlock shouted and heard John move. His heart jumped in fear, but John was still asleep.

"It isn't," Lestrade whispered.

"It's… Impossible," Sherlock's voice wavered and he wished he had a mirror to see how pathetic he looked. "Don't tell him. Please, don't say a word."

Lestrade pursed his lips. "Don't you—"

"DON'T TELL HIM!"

I only remember that night in hazy details. I wanted to forget it altogether. I wanted every trace of my emotions to disappear. Caring is not an advantage. It is a chemical defect found on the losing side. But how have I lost without even entering the race?

John's eyes opened. Sherlock froze. Lestrade held his breath.

John sat up slowly and Sherlock's coat fell off of him. It was hastily yanked back by the detective. John looked around confusedly.

"What? Don't… What did you say?" he asked drowsily.

His gaze lifted to Sherlock's tear-streaked face and he gasped. "Sherlock... Sherlock you're crying?"

Fear skittered across Sherlock's eyes and he stood. "No," he lied in the same emotionless voice as always. It scared Lestrade how convincing it was. Sherlock ran down the stairs and the door opened and shut like thunder.

Lestrade and John were left alone.

"What happened?" John asked, "He was crying, he was. Why was… Sherlock can cry?"

Lestrade was silent.

"Lestrade! What happened? Why..?" John began to recollect his thoughts. "'Don't… Don't tell him'? 'Don't tell him'? Don't tell me what?"

Lestrade shuffled his feet, looking down.

"Lestrade!"

"It isn't my place to tell you," Lestrade decided. "I can't."

"But he was crying! Sherlock! The man without emotions!"
The words stung even Lestrade after hearing Sherlock's speech.

"He's a man, he has emotions. Don't talk about him like he's a computer," Lestrade snapped.

John felt his breath caught in his throat. "No, wait, I didn't mean it like that. I mean… I meant I never saw him…"

Lestrade sighed. "I know what you meant."

He turned and opened the door to the hall again.

This love is just something that can't happen.

"So you're not going to tell me?!" John demanded.

And I accept that.

"I can't."