"You're the only consulting detective in the world, and you couldn't deduce this?"
Sherlock simply stared straight ahead at nothing in particular, no feeling in his eyes except perhaps faint bewilderment but that alone gave John the answer, an answer that he had not anticipated, although in retrospect he considered himself being extremely naive. He scoffed loudly, almost like a choked sob. Sherlock's head spun with confusion, which was a rarity.
"You're disappointed," Sherlock stated quietly, unsure of what else to say other than what he could deduce, what he knew was true. He never felt more inadequate in his life.
"Shut up," John shouted as he crossed to the other side of the room, shuffling as quickly as possible. He was not just disappointed, he was upset, very upset, Sherlock noted. If this was not his best friend, he would consider this a basis for a brilliant experiment. But this was John, who was aching, and Sherlock was at fault.
"Just shut up," John repeated as he stepped out of the room, down the stairs, and out of 221B without another word. Loud silence filled the flat and Sherlock's dense brain felt utterly vacant.
"I was so alone, and I owe you so much."
Sherlock stood from afar, and watched Dr. Watson grieve openly at his grave. He wanted to yell his name, watch his eyes light up with the sight of him standing, breathing, living. He wanted to tell him it was alright and that he faked his death to save his life because he was the only person in the whole universe that mattered to him. But he could not and it broke Sherlock's heart.
He stayed in hiding for three years. Ripping his life apart would not have hurt so much if it did not include severing his contact with John. His dearest confidant had been completely erased from his life, and Sherlock from his. If John would have never became his flatmate to begin with, all those years ago, he would not feel this profound agony. This problem would not exist.
Sherlock looked up from the dew-covered cemetery grass and realized his face was wet from bitter tears.
"Just stop it. Stop this."
When Mycroft first told John, he could not believe it. He spent weeks, months, and years thinking, hoping, and even praying that Sherlock was alive. That he did not see his best friend fall seventy feet and land on unforgiving pavement with a disturbing thud. That he did not see his crimson blood pooling on the sidewalk. That he did not feel for a pulse and not find one; all John was left with was faintly warm flesh of a man alive seconds earlier, a man that changed his life.
A man he loved more than anything.
"I spent three years waiting for you," John whispered. "And I felt so foolish... because I knew you were dead because I saw you, I was there. That phone call..."
"I'm sorry, John, I wish I could-"
"For God's sake, Sherlock, don't apologize," John said with a sad laugh. "You did it because you had to. You saved my life. You saved Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Don't ever apologize."
Sherlock watched his friend with such deep curiosity. John's always wore his heart on his sleeve, but this was too much. This was the most sincere and vulnerable John Watson had ever been.
And it scared the hell out of Sherlock Holmes.
"I care about you, Sherlock," John huffed out quickly, the words mashing together as if they were one.
There was a pause, a hesitation that was just long enough that John knew something was very off. He instantly regretted saying it, but tried to convince himself it had to be pronounced.
"I care about you too, John. I thought this was evident. There is no need to tell one another." Sherlock said it as if he was presenting a lab report or testifying in court, totally emotionless and tactful.
"Sherlock..." John tried, his voice cracking the tiniest amount. He felt so moronic, and his mouth would no longer verbalize words. He stood there, mouth slightly agape, and was about to give up, but he managed to push through. He had to get it out. He had to say it.
"I love you, Sherlock. More than friends love each other. I want to be with you. I can't hide it anymore. I sound like such a fucking git but... there."
The only person that ever tricked Sherlock, that ever got under his skin, was James Moriarty, but never John. Never his best friend. Except this was not a trick, this was John's heart. And apparently he had very strong, non-platonic feelings for Sherlock Holmes, whom completely missed all the hints.
Were there hints? Of course, there had to be. Physically? John had to look fondly at Sherlock on more than one occasion. Emotionally? John had to care more about Sherlock than himself. And it suddenly hit Sherlock that he has noticed both of these cases, but for some reason never put two and two together. He simply assumed that was what best friends did – stupid, stupid, stupid. He was still quite new at maintaining a friendship, and oblivious to relationships, and the more he dwelt on it the more he realized he was oblivious to friendship as well.
And Sherlock suddenly knew what he had to do. It was one of the many things he was brilliant at, one of the many things he never failed in, and it was breaking people's hearts.
When John returned to 221B, he was greeted by an astounding number of boxes. Boxes full of Sherlock's things. Boxes with labels printed cleanly on them, boxes that could not be mistaken for anything other than what they were.
Sherlock turned to John, met his eyes for no more than a second, then looked back down as he placed his last items into a small box. "I hoped to be finished before you returned," was all he said.
"What are you doing?" John said, surprised his voice worked.
"Moving, obviously."
This was not happening. "Where? Why?"
"There are other places for me to go, John. 221B isn't the only flat in London," Sherlock said, a sound of sadness and irritation both present in his voice. "And you know why."
"Because of what I said," John whispered. "You're leaving because I said that I love you."
"Don't say you love me, John," Sherlock said loudly, now staring right at John, who flinched slightly, stunned by Sherlock's sudden unnecessary outburst. "Don't. It makes it harder for me, and harder for you. You are my friend, my only friend, and I... care about you. But I am not in love with you, and living together will just make that harder for you to accept."
Sherlock looked around at all the boxes, and simply said, "I'll have these out in about 18 minutes. 10 if you'd assist, but I'd rather you didn't. I fixed tea in the kitchen, please go help yourself while I do this. I'll text you my new address once I get in the cab." He walked over to where John was standing, and stood only inches away from him. He could feel Sherlock's slight breath on his face. John envisioned moments like this in his dreams, but under very different circumstances.
Sherlock sighed a sad, quiet sigh, almost as if it pained him a great deal, even though he seemed to approach it as if it was the easiest, simplest thing he had ever done. And maybe it was; he was Sherlock Holmes.
"I'm sorry John, but I do not love you. Not like this."
Years had passed since Sherlock moved out, since John confessed his love for his friend. The two continued to work cases together, but John tagged along less often, which was hard for Sherlock to accept at first, but he had eventually come around. He did not have much of a choice.
John fought his reverence for Sherlock for quite some time. Part of him always did. Every now and again, he wished Sherlock thought differently all that time ago, but had come to accept one, simple thing: people are the way they are, and you cannot change them, as much as you wish to.
John met Mary Morstan and fell in love rather quickly, much to his dismay. Sherlock, also to John's dismay, was extremely welcoming of Mary, but John figured he was being foolish to think otherwise. For the first time since Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street after he faked his death, John was happy.
And, through all these changes and growths, one thing remained constant: Sherlock Holmes was disconnected from the wonder of love, and remained married to his work for as long as he lived.
NOTES:
This fic was honestly an experiment. I wanted to write a semi-angsty, almost anti-Sherlock/John fic (which was hard because I ship them so much, but I digress) and use some flashbacks/flashforwards without much transition. I intended on it being jumpy and sort of ambiguous. I wrote it on a whim, but I'd really appreciate feedback!