John is cold, but he won't say anything. He sits and listens to the world around him, cars passing in the distance, the chatter of children playing in the park across from the bench he is sat on, the steady breaths of Sherlock Holmes who sits next to him. He is thinking hard, he can tell. He is frowning, lines forming in places where there normally were none.
"There's nothing more you could have done," John finally says, breaking the silence that has been hanging over them for days. He knows as soon as he has spoken that he should have stayed quiet. Sherlock's head turns quickly. He is shooting John a look that breaks his heart. Pain, anger, confusion. All of the things that Sherlock Holmes should never feel.
He holds John's gaze for a while before looking back down at the ground. "I could have saved her John," he whispers, so quietly that John has to strain to hear the detectives words. There is a wobble in Sherlock's voice, as if the tears are building up inside him like a dam ready to break. Like his throat is burning from trying not to cry for so long.
John doesn't know what to do. There is nothing he can say that will stop Sherlock's pain. He wants to hold him, tell him that it is ok to cry. He wants to tell him that he'll never leave, that he will be strong for both of them. He wants to tell him that he has loved him from the very moment they met. But this won't help. Sherlock doesn't care for love.
"I solved the case John," he is still whispering, as he loses his fight and the dam begins to break, a single tears gliding down his cheek as he looks back at John. "I solved the case." He is sobbing softly now, John places a reassuring arm around him, an elderly woman shooting them an odd glace from the path. John knows how it looks and he doesn't care. Sherlock needs him.
He can't help but think back to the moment Sherlock had realised what was happening. The image of the detective falling to his knees in front of his mother's broken body. They had been working a case, on the edge of a breakthrough that would send down one of the most influential criminal groups in London.
And then he'd had the call from his brother. Their mother had been found in her house, the life beaten from her. The calling card left for him to find. It was a warning for him. A disgusting, heartbreaking warning. The woman had CCTV installed all over her house; she had protected her son until the end, so Lestrade said. Sherlock would never be allowed to see it.
John pulls Sherlock closer so that his head comes to rest on his shoulder, his black curls splaying over John's coat. He rubs his hand over the detective's shoulder in soothing circles and rests his chin on his head, kissing him gently. Sherlock wouldn't think anything of it; it's simply how people comfort each other.
Sherlock grabs John's coat in his gloved hands and pulls himself as close as possible without sitting on his lap. He nestles his head into the crook of John's neck and breathes deeply, trying to even out his stuttering sobs. John can feel his chest moving unevenly against his side as Sherlock gasps through his sobs, trying to catch the air that has been knocked out of him.
They sit like this for a while, John rocks slightly which seems to calm Sherlock's breathing to deep shaky breaths. The detective finally pulls his head away so that John can see him. His eyes are a burning red, glistening trails of tears highlight his cheekbones in the mid afternoon sun. Sherlock smiles softly, the final tear falls down his face, gliding across his pale skin. John lifts has hand and catches the tear, tracing his thumb across Sherlock's cheek.
"Thank you," his voice shakes, though he smiles again. John places a hand on either side of his face, pulling him forwards and placing a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Let's go home," John forces a smile back. He can tell Sherlock is trying to look brave, but John can see through him. He has come to know Sherlock so well that sometimes he can't believe they have only been living together for a few months. John can't remember his life with the world's only consulting detective. He doesn't want to remember.
They get up and start the short walk back to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock walks as close to John as he can so that John's shoulder bumps his arm. They are silent again, there's no need for words, and nothing either of them say will change what has happened. John shivers a little. The sun has gone in now, and the afternoon is darkening. The long days of summer passed quickly, the nights are drawing in again.
They are back in the warmth of the flat before they know it. Sherlock immediately sits on the sofa. He too is shivering now, even through his thick coat. John's makes tea, sitting down next to Sherlock and automatically wrapping his arm around him again, this time his fingers are lightly tracing patterns on Sherlock's pale neck.
Sherlock kicks off his shoes and pulls his legs up onto the sofa, curling himself towards John's warmth. He can't cry anymore. He doesn't want to. He just wants to be close to someone. He wants to shut everything out and forget what has happened. He wants to be with his flatmate, no friend. He is more than a friend. Sherlock can admit that now.
John is suddenly aware of the other man's hand clasped around his leg as if he is scared to let go. He swirls his thumb in a comforting motion. John pulls Sherlock's head closer and twists his fingers into his black curls as he buries his nose into them, breathing in Sherlock until he feels dizzy. Sherlock's hand moves up his legs slightly and John's stomach flips. He can't take being this close for much longer. He has shut away these feelings for too long.
He moves his hand on top of Sherlock's, lacing their fingers together. "John?" the detective croaks, his throat still sore from crying, he sits up so that he can look into John's eyes. He is lost in them for a second. His worried, loving eyes. Before he knows what he is doing John's lips are pressed against Sherlock's. He seems tense at first, he doesn't kiss back, and instead he drops his head away from John's lips.
"You don't have to do that John," he says, unable to look up. "Sherlock," John turns his body towards him and pulls his chin up with his thumb. "I don't have to," he pauses for a moment, and gazes deep into Sherlock's eyes. He is looking for a reason not to kiss him again, but he can't find one. "I want to... I want you Sherlock." He presses his lips to Sherlock's again before he can reply, but this time he feels the other man melt beneath him. He kisses back, his lips part hungrily as he pushes against John. He can't get close enough.
The kiss is rushed; their teeth are knocking against each other as they search for a rhythm. They taste each other, their hands are exploring each other, grabbing, scratching, pulling. John pulls away and presses his forehead against Sherlock's. He is crying again. He hadn't noticed until now. Shimmering trails are falling down his cheeks again. "Please, John," his voice cracks as the fresh tears rip through him like a tidal wave.
"Please," he draws another ragged breath as John pulls him into his embrace. "Shh," he is trying to comfort him as he falls apart again. He moves further into the corner of the leather sofa, pulling Sherlock so that his head rests in his lap. He runs his hands through his thick hair as he continues to sob. He's falling apart.
Half an hour passes, Sherlock's sobs have calmed again. He is breathing deeply. John leans forwards to find Sherlock's eyes closed tight. It isn't until now that he realises that the detective has fallen asleep, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. He continues to stroke Sherlock's hair, he won't leave him. His voice breaks though the silent flat. He is almost shocked that he has said it aloud but he doesn't stop himself. "I'll never leave you," he whispers again.
Sherlock lies almost motionless. John thinks he is asleep. Truthfully the light is burning his sore eyes so much that he can't stand to have them open for any longer. He has never felt this broken in his life, but John is already helping him heal. He is holding him together against the storm. Sherlock realises in this moment what he has been hiding for so long. He is in love. He is in love with the man who was thrown into his life. He cannot imagine anyone else so perfect. So genuine. Dr. John Watson; the man who broke through his defences, took his cold heart and brought him back to life. Sherlock would never let him give it back.
The detective grasps John's leg, reassuring himself that he is still there. "Sherlock?" John whispers, wondering if he has woken. His eyes are still closed tight. He continues his rhythmic strokes through his hair as we watches the steady rise and fall of his chest. "I love you," he whispers, his heart almost bursts. He has finally said it aloud. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you. And I will never leave you."