I do not own BBC Sherlock, sadly. Hope you all enjoy.
Warning: Angst and denial.
1
He chose the wrong building. How could he be so stupid! No, it wasn't stupidity, it was Chance. And Chance had it that he was in the wrong building. Maybe Chance didn't want him to save Sherlock, maybe Chance wanted Sherlock to die.
Screw Chance, John had defied Chance before. John should be dead, should have died in Afghanistan, but he had lived. Chance was fickle but always seemed to turn a blind eye to the actions of John H Watson.
So John pulled out his gun, his Chance-defying weapon. He barely thought about what he was doing, the fact that he was taking another's life. He merely aimed and pulled the trigger, the tremble in his hands nowhere in sight. As soon as he knew he had hit his target, he hid, not wanting Sherlock to see him.
It wasn't until he was outside of the building, waiting for Lestrade to let Sherlock go, that he realized what he had just done. He had shot a man to save Sherlock, a person he barely knew. He might have just saved Sherlock's life, or he might have just caused the cabbie's death in a different way. But the most shocking part of it all was the fact that he felt no guilt, no remorse for what he had done.
He killed a man for Sherlock Holmes.
2
Cars were out to kill the man. Actually, any moving object in general, especially taxi cabs. It's like somehow Sherlock had offended all metal moving objects, from bikes to trains to planes. If John had a dime for every time Sherlock had gotten hit or nearly been hit, he would have enough money to eat a nice dinner every day for a week.
Just last week the two had been running after a suspect, again, and Sherlock had neglected to observe oncoming traffic, again. Luckily for Sherlock, John's mum had been adamant that he look both ways before crossing the street. He was also lucky that John had extremely fast reflexes. Before he knew what happened, Sherlock had been pulled back onto the curb, a lorry missing him by a few centimeters. He didn't stop to thank the doctor, merely continued on his chase.
Only today John had saved both Sherlock and a biker a nasty trip to the hospital, having tackled Sherlock out of the way. Some curses had been thrown out, not just by the biker, and none of them came out of Sherlock (surprisingly Sherlock didn't seem to swear that often). Sherlock had been thoroughly berated for his recklessness.
Now John was pressing Sherlock up against a wall down some unknown alleyway. And no, his face was not turning slightly red with the close contact, he was saving Sherlock's unlucky ass (also, John was not thinking about Sherlock's ass). Of course the car hadn't stopped, they were running down an alley after a suspect, and the suspect got in a car and drove at them. He wouldn't stop, so John had to throw himself against Sherlock, and now he was panting into his flat mate's neck.
He would have to start charging Sherlock for these savings. He'd get so many nice dinners. He deserved a nice dinner.
3
If John had left on Christmas Eve, if he had gone out with his girlfriend, Sherlock would've come home to an empty flat. He would have gone up to his room and sat on his bed, barely visible underneath clothes and experiments, and he would've stared at his wall. That brilliant mind of his would've raced and thought, retracing every text he had ignored, every act he could've taken to change the outcome.
If John had left, Sherlock would've wondered into the kitchen to work on some experiments. He would've absentmindedly added arsenic to one, not knowing the outcome. He would've then made himself some tea, thinking of how John usually does that, and promptly forget about the kettle he had just set to boil. The new concoction with arsenic would've bubbled over, sputtering dangerously and burning his skin on contact. He would then clean up the mess, forgetting to wear gloves at first, and leave the kitchen, leaving the kettle on.
If John had left, Sherlock would've sat in his armchair, plucking at his violin. He would've played something melancholy that would pull at the heart strings of anyone who listened, had there been anyone listening besides the skull on the mantle. His hands would be raw and stinging from the chemical burns, but he wouldn't notice. Numbness would be the only thing Sherlock felt, a cold creeping numbness that consumed his entire being. He wouldn't even register the fact that his fingers started to sting from holding down the strings, wouldn't realize he was bleeding on his beloved instrument.
If John had left, Sherlock would've absently made his way to the bathroom. Once there, he would run the tap on cold and splash his face, hoping to stop the numb feeling. It wouldn't work, and so he would run the bath on scalding hot. He would get in, not bothering to remove all his clothes. He'd only take off his pants before immersing himself, and while he soaked in the tub he'd toy with John's razor. He'd watch the curls of blood from where he cut his fingers on his violin. Completely submerged, he'd watch the bubbles rise from his mouth, the water stinging his eyes slightly. He'd get out of the tub, noticing that his shirt was stained a little with blood.
If John had left, Sherlock would've gone back to his room and changed into his pajamas. He'd lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling for hours. Her face would haunt his mind, the mystery that was her mind. He new nothing about this woman beyond her profession and her measurements, yet she was beyond intriguing. Now she was beyond his reach, no more could he find out how she thought, that brilliant woman. He'd trace the shadows on the ceiling with his eyes and slap a nicotine patch on his arm. The cars on the street would change the way the light played across his room.
If John had left, Sherlock would've wondered why. While sitting on his bed, the hours passing like a blur, he would wonder where John was at and whether he was happy. He liked when John was happy, it usually made him feel good, but then it would be like a hot poker in his side. He'd think about what John would do if he were there, the calming voice of the doctor would sooth his troubled mind. Just the presence of his blogger would be enough to keep his mind grounded. But John wouldn't be there.
If John had left, Sherlock would have stood by the window and watched the streets as they came to life in the early morning. He would have then gotten up and walked up the stairs, being as quiet as possible. Knowing every stair that creaked, every board that made a sound in the house, Mrs. Hudson would have no idea that Sherlock had even moved. He would go as high in the building as possible, and stare down at the streets for a while.
If John had left, Sherlock would have watched for him to come home. He would watch every car, waiting to see the sandy haired man step out. He would wish for his flat mate to come home, to come upstairs and tell Sherlock he was brilliant and an idiot in the same sentence.
If John had left, he would've come home as Sherlock opened the window. He would've looked up to the top of the building and wondered what the hell his flat mate was doing putting his entire body out the window. Then it would hit the man, Sherlock was going to throw himself from the building. John would try and say something, yell up to Sherlock, tell him to stop. John's voice would fail him, and he would run forward, but John would be too late.
If John had left, Sherlock would be broken, and John would be broken because of it. But John didn't leave. John stayed, despite loosing yet another girlfriend, John stayed for Sherlock. He stayed and the night was uneventful, and Sherlock would thank him for it if he knew how much it meant.
4
Sherlock didn't eat by himself. Never once had John seen the man feed himself or get food for the purpose of consuming it. One would think the brilliant man would realize that he can't live off of tea and nicotine patches, but clearly he wasn't that much of a genius.
So John made it his job to get food into the beautiful man. John had a right to call him beautiful, since everything about the man was just that. A strait man could appreciate beauty without it being odd, right?
Every morning John would make pancakes for Sherlock and place them on the table. At first Sherlock never ate them without John asking him first, and that was only a bite, but as time went on Sherlock got used to being fed every morning. In fact, on days when John forgot, or when he had worked the night shift and was too tired to make breakfast, Sherlock would try. He'd fail, sure, but he'd try. It always amazed John how such a scientific man couldn't get a simple recipe correct.
At night, John usually ordered in for his flat mate. Chinese, Thai, Italian, anything that delivered in less than twenty minutes had been called at least once. Other nights John would take Sherlock out to dinner. Sherlock suggested this sometimes, but rarely ever ate when he got there, until John started physically feeding him off of his plate. Sherlock wouldn't even protest by that point.
Since John moved in with Sherlock, the detective has eaten at least once every day (unless he was on a big case or John was gone) and gained about ten pounds. John was just glad his friend was no longer dieing of malnutrition.
5
It was an unknown outcome, something that hadn't happened and would never happen now. No one knew, not the boys at 221B, not Moriarty, not even Mycroft.
Sherlock had been in a downward spiral, heading for a dark place where no one could follow. His destructive tendencies when board and the constant boredom were making a volatile concoction that was destined for an explosive end. It was unstoppable, a fixed point in time, unavoidable that the end would come on that path. Sherlock needed something to stabilize the solution of his life. It had seemed that nothing could have done that, but that was wrong.
John was a short, sturdy man who was completely ordinary. At least that's what everyone thought, what everyone thinks when they first meet him. But the small man was a rock in the river of Sherlock's life, a place for someone to hold on and stay in place. John stopped Sherlock's movement towards the waterfall that was his end, swept the man out of the cold waters and held on tight.
John saved Sherlock by being there.
+1
Sherlock jumped, and John died a little inside. Not a little, a lot. A hole was punched right through his chest as soon as Sherlock moved towards him, and John had no clue how he hadn't been able to save his best friend. The one man John cared most about in the world was gone, and John never said how much he had meant. John couldn't think without the man, it seemed, for his brain was only supplying static, his movements were now the default, his interactions hollow.
After all that time keeping Sherlock safe, all that time of keeping him fed and healthy, John hadn't been able to stop him.
He'd lost the one man he had ever and would ever love.