John Watson was still blazingly mad. Not only had that insufferable git played dead for the worst two years of John's life, but as soon as he'd come back, he'd turned his world upside down again. And now Mary was gone, because she didn't want him kissing her and thinking about someone else, and he'd had no choice but to come back here, to 221B Baker Street, in the middle of the night, because the place where he'd stayed for three months now was no longer his home.
And the fault belonged exclusively to Sherlock Bloody Holmes, who probably didn't even have an inkling of what he'd done to the doctor whose heart he'd stolen without ever trying. But John knew, and he was prepared to ream him out for every single detail, damn what the neighbors thought of his shouting. They talked anyway, after all. He might as well give them something to talk about.
Hands in fists, though one was admittedly wrapped around the handle of his single suitcase, John marched determinedly up the stairs to the flat he'd formerly shared with the mad genius, not bothering to knock. He still had his key, because Mrs. Hudson had insisted. He spared a though to feel bad for the verbal litany she was probably about to unwillingly witness, but his anger was overriding all logic. He shoved the door open, expecting to find the curly haired man sprawled on the couch waiting for a cup of tea, or perhaps at the window, composing something on his violin. But the lights were out. John frowned; since when did the consulting detective sleep without being forced?
Wary now, because he didn't like walking into unfamiliar situations and the solider in him instantly took over, John stealthily set his suitcase down and withdrew his gun from his waistband, holding it carefully in both hands, the safety clicking off the only sound as he slowly approached the partially opened door that was all that separated him from the man he both loved and hated. He hadn't been able to replace this man, despite everything… but he'd be damned if he didn't make him pay for that fact. Assuming someone else hadn't already done so. He was worried, despite himself.
Careful, silent steps took him closer and closer to that barely opened door, before he heard a sound. It was a gasp, and was vaguely reminiscent of his name. Confused now, the doctor put his gun away, and took the last few steps to look inside.
There, he saw Sherlock Holmes, high-functioning sociopath, sitting bolt up in his bed, covered in sweat and breathing hard, eyes wide open and staring at the far wall. And that was when he registered the small, sobbing noises the genius was letting out, which resembled those a wounded animal would make, before his hand flew up to his mouth in an attempt to stifle them. He had already been quiet, but now, he managed to make himself look even more miserable. John froze, watching Sherlock bury his face in his hands, giving up on his attempt at composure and weeping openly, thin shoulders shaking with an emotion that was, unmistakably, grief.
John knew it was not something he was supposed to be seeing. Sherlock had never shown this much emotion in front of him. He had occasionally laughed, and frequently thrown temper tantrums, and even sulked a few hundred times. But never before had John seen anything even remotely resembling this broken outpouring of grief, as if someone had taken from him everything he cared about, leaving him broken.
Realizing that it was probably wrong of him to intrude on this moment, he started to back away, only to freeze when he heard a single word escape, sounding like shattering glass pouring from the consulting detective's lips.
"John." At first, the doctor thought he'd been spotted, but Sherlock's hands hadn't moved, and he was shaking even harder, if that was possible. That could only mean one thing, but Captain Watson wasn't at all sure how to process the inevitable conclusion. And yet there it was, unmistakable. Sherlock was crying, over him.
"Oh, John, my John…" If there were more words, they were lost to the sobbing again, but John had heard quite enough to understand the truth. Now all he had to do was act. And do what, exactly? He asked himself scornfully. Yell at him when he's already hurting? No, that wasn't right. Yes, this was Sherlock's fault, but… it was then that John remembered, for the first time since his return, that the consulting detective had lost the life he'd loved, too. And apparently, he'd lost far more than he'd ever admitted out loud to anyone, if John could judge by his current reaction.
For whatever reason, John knew instinctively that this was a realer version of Sherlock than anything he'd seen by the light of day. He wasn't the machine John had accused him of being, and this wasn't a manipulation. This was the heart-wrenching meltdown of a man whose heart hurt every bit as much as John's. Was it possible that that meant that Sherlock cared as much for his blogger as John cared for him? He would never have thought so before, and that had been part of the anger. But now… well, possibilities opened up before him.
He knew it was probably wrong to confront the other man when he was obviously so vulnerable. At the same time, this might be his only chance. Sherlock could easily deny having broken down like this, and John would have no proof that he'd ever seen this if he didn't try, right now.
So he pushed the door open and stepped into the room, closing it with a click behind him. Sherlock, who hadn't even noticed his presence, jerked his hands down and stared with wide eyes, utterly exposed, as John took two steps into the room and stopped, not quite sure what to do now.
"I… John." Sherlock's voice was rough, obvious pain turning his normal baritone gravelly, and there were a great number of emotions in his tone. Surprise and embarrassment were expected, but there was also fear, which John didn't like, at all. When Sherlock flicked on the bedside light, both men winced; Sherlock, who realized that having light just meant he would be even more exposed, and John, because the light threw into relief the bruise on his face, a couple of days old, where John's fist had plowed into his face. It was mottled purple and green, and stretched over that high, perfect cheekbone, having narrowly missed his nose.
John hadn't meant to hit him that hard, and his only excuse was that he'd lost his temper. Somehow, though, John guessed that the bruise wasn't why the other man was crying. He seemed unaware of it for a moment, until he saw the direction of John's gaze and turned his face into the shadows, so only the unmarked side was visible. His face was still tear-stained, and his blankets were tangled and twisted as though he'd been having a nightmare, and his attempt at appearing composed was failing beautifully.
"I hadn't expected you tonight… well, ever again, if truth be told." Sherlock's voice was subdued, but there was a trace of self-mocking in it that left John more confused than ever. This was a man who never doubted himself, and was always unfailingly self-confident. Obviously, however, John had been wrong about that. He seemed extremely unsure of himself now, and for some reason, John found it ridiculously appealing.
"Mary kicked me out." He said, probably unnecessarily. Still, Sherlock flinched again, eyes closing as he bowed his head.
"I apologize, John. I never meant to tear your new life apart. I had only hoped… But perhaps I should not have returned." Sherlock's lips twisted upward in an expression that was obviously meant to be a smile, but for the bitterness it contained. Even from the side, John could easily see that. He realized that while he knew the toll his "death" had taken on John, he hadn't bothered considering what it might have done to Sherlock. He was even paler than usual, had lost weight, which should have been impossible, and his eyes weren't reserved or superior or proud or any of the expressions John remembered having admired in them so many times. They were full of anguish.
"I… London is your home, Sherlock." The tall man let out a bitter laugh at that, turning to face John again, expression defiant as he slipped out of bed, dressed only in silk sleeping pants, and walked over so they were less than an arms' length away, staring at one another, the genius with that empty smile seemingly stuck on his face, the former army doctor with his mouth open in surprise.
"London was never my home, John. I never had a home, until I met you. Had I known how much pain my reappearance would have caused you, I wouldn't have ever come back here. I can pursue The Work anywhere, and with considerably less interference from my dear older brother."
"Then… why did you come back, Sherlock?" Confused now, and stunned by the pain the formerly unmovable Sherlock Holmes seemed to be feeling, John realized that he had to ask. Why had he returned? And why had he really left in the first place?
"I came back, John Watson, for the same reason that I left. For you." Spent from the confession he'd never meant to deliver, but had been almost bound to offer up after the other man's sudden appearance in his room, Sherlock turned away, wrapping his arms around his chest as though he was afraid he would fall apart, and walked to the window. There would be no more sleep tonight, not when John continued to sling abuse at him and then die in his dreams, only to come back and do it again. And with the real thing here… no. Two hours of sleep had definitely cured him of the need for a couple of days.
"Get out of here, John." His voice was so soft the doctor barely heard it, but then Sherlock raised his voice until it was a low growl. "Go! Now! I can't give you anything more!" John's mouth opened and closed convulsively for a few moments, not sure what he should do. He wanted to comfort Sherlock, but he also had a feeling that he might well send the other man over the edge if he did something crazy like pull him into his arms, or worse snog him…
Realizing that he couldn't go too far, just in case, John left the room without another word, though he thought he heard Sherlock sink to the floor as he slowly shut the door behind him. Alone in the hallway, he decided that for now, his best choice was to go up to his room and unpack. They could worry about everything else in the morning.
But John couldn't bring himself to go upstairs and sleep in his empty bed, couldn't bring himself to move quite so far from Sherlock when the younger man was hurting so badly. Instead, he simply set his things by the stairs and settled onto the sofa with a blanket, settling in for the night with the absent though that his shoulder would really hurt like a bitch in the morning before closing his eyes.
When John woke up the next morning, it was from the quiet click of the bathroom door. His mind sprang instantly alert, and he cursed himself for not having heard Sherlock's emergence from his bedroom. He had, no doubt, been attempting to be silent, though why Sherlock would care about waking him, he couldn't say. At least until he remembered the night before, and he found himself blushing as, fully awake now, he rose, shoulder screaming in protest.
The former captain went to the kitchen, pleased to find that there were still things left with which to make tea, despite Sherlock's having been back for a couple of days. He busied himself preparing two cups, instead of his usual one—Mary hadn't liked tea—and by the time Sherlock crept out of the bathroom, he was ready. The curly-haired man froze when he saw John watching him from the kitchen table, and looked embarrassed.
In the light of day, the bruise on his cheek looked a little less painful, though not by much. Again, Sherlock realized where John was looking, and when he came to take a seat, he angled himself so the bruise was facing away. It wasn't pride, but a way of protecting John from what he'd done. And John hated himself a little for the fact that Sherlock was giving him that, after everything.
"What was that last night, exactly, Sherlock?" John didn't see a point in beating around the bush, though he kind of wished he'd eased into things a bit more when he saw the absolutely stricken expression on the other man's face.
"How much did you hear, exactly?" He asked cautiously instead of answering. When John just looked at him patiently he sighed, running a hand through those unruly locks.
"I was… it was a nightmare." He said bluntly, wishing he could simply walk away from this conversation and retreat to his room. But John was here, John was home, and he was talking to him without anger on his face. He couldn't take that to mean he was forgiven—and he didn't deserve forgiveness—but maybe… maybe, someday, he could make John understand, convince him to not hate him completely.
"About what, exactly?" If there was one thing the doctor knew, it was that talking about things actually could help, with the right person. And that person was usually someone you actually trusted. Sherlock was short on people in that particular category, but he'd always thought of himself as one of them. So maybe, just maybe, he could confide in him, and maybe help alleviate the nightmares.
"Well… you." Sherlock said, blushing. At first, John was horrified, thinking that he meant John was doing something awful to him in those dreams. Seeing the other man's expression, Sherlock rushed to explain, despite knowing how vulnerable it would make him. "In the dreams, you yell at me, and then you… die. Over and over. And I can't stop it, even with your blood pouring over my hands like water and I just… Losing you again and again hurts, John."
By the time he reached the end, his voice was so quiet as to barely be audible. Fortunately, John managed to catch all of it, and the words made his breath catch in his throat. He forced himself to swallow and continue.
"And why is that, Sherlock? You didn't seem particularly attached to me before." His words made the other man laugh as brokenly as he had the night before, and he shook his head, those ebony curls bouncing wildly.
"I was never… You mean everything to me, John." The words were simple, and shocking in their simplicity. Because while they were almost unbelievable, they were also undeniably true. John sat and stared at him for a long moment, and eventually Sherlock rose, the awkwardness making him want to head back to his bedroom and… what? Go back into his mind palace where he could spend as much time as he wanted with a John who still cared for him?
It was what he'd been doing the past several days, while he'd waited for the bruises to disappear so he could go out in public without revealing what John had done. It would embarrass him to have everyone know what he'd done, and Sherlock had decided to make it a point to never, never embarrass John. It would be all the papers talked about for days.
Before he could take two steps John's hand was wrapped around his wrist, a loose but firm restraint that he knew would tighten in an instant if he put up a struggle. And while Sherlock was surprisingly strong for his wiry frame, especially after his time abroad, he didn't have John's sheer power. He stayed still, but didn't turn to look at the doctor until said doctor reached out and took his other wrist, tugging him around so they were face to face.
It was a surprisingly intimate position, and Sherlock felt a blush heating his cheeks at the realization.
"You were everything to me too, Sherlock." John said quietly, and just like that, the consulting detective felt like crying again. John had used the past-tense, which mean that while he might once have had a chance, it was long gone, now. But then the doctor surprised him, lifting one hand to tangle in his hair, making him gasp and stare down into those bottomless blue eyes like they were his only salvation.
"And you still are, Sherlock. Heaven help me, but you still are." Releasing the consulting detective at once with a shaky laugh, John turned away, only to be spun back around.
"Do you mean that?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, demanding, but before John could respond, the other man's phone went off. Sherlock cursed in about seven different languages before answering impatiently with his name. When he hung up, there was an expression on his face caught somewhere between need and pain.
"It would seem that Lestrade has a case that he and his team of complete morons can't crack. Care to join me, John?" It was a gently spoken offer, one he knew he could easily refuse. And yet, the part of him that had always craved adrenaline was now wide awake from that moment where it had almost seemed like Sherlock was going to kiss him… and all that energy had to go somewhere.
"Sure. Just let me change first." At his words, a beautiful smile spread over the consulting detective's face, pure joy filling his eyes.
"Then the game is on! Five minutes, John. Then we go!"
The case was a simple one, barely a two on Sherlock's scale, but exactly what the two boys had needed to get their footing back. Of course, it also ended with Sherlock nearly getting shot—"a slight miscalculation, John; completely irrelevant!"—and John being so furious he'd grabbed the consulting detective's lapels and drawn him down for a bruising kiss that had everyone in the immediate area gasping, including the reporters who'd come to film the end of the case.
"John? Everyone's watching us." Sherlock said, uncertainly, when the doctor finally let him up for air. John knew exactly what the other man was thinking. His reputation as a straight man was flying out the window, and he would probably lose every ounce of privacy while out of the flat that he possessed, at least for a while. And there was also uncertainty there, that John would want to tie himself to Sherlock in any way, especially so publically.
However, John was just ecstatic that the other man had kissed him back, and rather enthusiastically, at that. He understood, now, and he wasn't going to give Sherlock a chance to get out of it and retreat to his normal façade of emotionlessness. With a wicked grin, the doctor tangled his fingers in that hair again, before whispering against the consulting detective's lips.
"Well then, by all means, let's give them something to talk about." And they proceeded to do just that.