You shouldn't be here.
You know you shouldn't. You know you're putting everything in danger, you know that letting emotions overpower logic is ludicrous. You've always resented people for doing it, and now here you are, doing the same. The same weak, vulnerable, human shadow of yourself.
And the worst part is: you don't even care.
You don't care about anything anymore. You can't concentrate on things that matter, on things that need your immediate and undivided attention, because your mind always trails back to him.
You wonder how he's doing, if he's still mourning you, if he found a way to keep going. You hate yourself more than anyone for what you did to him, and it rips whatever you have instead of a heart apart to remember what insufferable pain you caused him. You don't understand why. You can't possibly fathom why he would hurt over you. Only the fact that he tolerated it you for that long surprised you every minute that went by, and you always woke up with the fear that that day would be the last one with him, because he would refuse to take any of your nonsense anymore.
But that never happened. He never left, he never even came close to leaving. And as a thank you, a silent demonstration of your gratitude, you tried to keep in line, as much as your impossibly difficult character would allow you, for him.
It was all for him, you see now. Every time you ever said thank you or sorry, every time you stopped yourself from laughing in a crime scene, every time you tried to be as nice as you possibly could, even without much coming of it, it was for him.
This was no different. You fell for him. Maybe in more than one ways, it occurs to you.
But that's why you fell in front of him, that's why you hid away and kept yourself distanced and concealed. To protect him. To protect all of them, but don't kid yourself- if it wasn't for him, you wouldn't have done it. If he hadn't been there all that time, if he hadn't changed you the way he had, you wouldn't have done it.
He's the one who made you realize that you can't possibly live a life depending only on yourself, he's the one who made you see the importance of someone's presence in that life.
And right now you hate him for it. You hate him because if it wasn't for him, none of this would have happened to you. And because you wouldn't be here right now, in the dark, a stranger in your own home, hiding away for someone else's sake. A home you haven't stepped a foot into for more than a year. You hate him because he made you love him.
You see him sleeping, although it's so restless it barely qualifies as sleep. He twitches and turns, tangling himself in the covers, but not waking. Cold sweat is dripping from his forehead, his hands made in tight fists. His lips are moving, they have been for a while now, but you couldn't make out what they said, until you hear his voice, the most terrified and heart wrenching whisper: "Sherlock…"
You immediately sprint yourself up from the chair you were sitting in, and two small hurried steps and a millisecond later, you're by his side, kneeling on the side of the bed. You can see his face more clearly now, closer than you have been in a year and a half, and it startles you. He looks so tired, exhausted. Lines under his eyes and on his forehead betray the pain he's been through, the pain he's still going through, and all because of you. You feel pressure of tears in the back of your eyes, and it doesn't surprise you. It's not the first time since you've been gone.
"Sherlock don't! Please…please… "
His voice breaks even in a whisper, and the tears are now streaming down your cheeks, to accompany the huge lump in your chest. You feel the weight of all you've done pushing you to the ground, and you want nothing more than to wake him up and let him see. Let him see he's not alone anymore, you're still here, and you're not leaving again. You wish with all your might for that to be possible, but you know from experience that wishing never helped anyone.
"Sherlock, stop…Sherlock, NO!"
His voice rises, but he doesn't wake. You see his hand grabbing the sheet beneath him and squeezing it, until the tips of his fingers turn white. Before you can stop yourself, you take his palm in yours. You feel his warmth again, radiating through your entire being and the tears multiply. You brush your thumb gently against the back of his hand, and you feel his grasp relax. You lift your eyes to his face and see he's less tense now, as if recognizing your touch. His breathing begins to even out, and you feel your stomach tighten as he swifts his palm in yours and laces your fingers together, holding you tight. You look up, but he's still asleep.
Your eyes run back to your hands, linked together, his grasp firm and tight. You briefly wonder how you will get out, but you don't let that thought linger for more than a second. You don't want to leave. You never did.
You lay your head as close to his as you can, and try to take in everything, memorize every single line, freckle, spot on his face. The curve of his eyebrows, the way his eyelids turn, the shape of his lips, everything that you can see in the dim light coming from outside the window. You don't want to forget anything, not one little insignificant detail, even though you feel that nothing is insignificant about him. You don't know for how much longer you'll have to be away, and you don't even want to think about it. You barely got through these eighteen months, and every moment was harder than the last. His voice brings you back to reality, much closer now.
"Sherlock, I—I love you"
An unconscious smile spreads across your face, and you think this may the first time in all of those months that you ever heard something worth hearing. You brush your finger against his cheek as gently as you can, and the words exit your lips without the slightest hesitation.
"Me too, John. I love you too"