John was at 221B when it happened. He had just finished up another case with Sherlock, and they'd gone back to the flat for a shag, but an experiment had distracted Sherlock, and John was simply waiting for him to return to the real world, and out of his mind palace.
He wasn't doing anything incredibly important, just watching as Sherlock stared intently at his microscope. As the genius looked up, giving him a faint smirk, it happened. It hit him in the face like a ton of fucking bricks, and his stomach flipped rapidly. "John, are you ok?" Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice carefully neutral. John looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes, flushing red. "I-uh. I'm fine, I just- I need a deduction." He said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, waiting for John to explain. "I think I'm in love with you," he confessed
Sherlock's expression morphed in an instant, from controlled worry to a painful sort of hope. "You think you are? A bit cruel don't you think, telling me that? Hope hurts John. Oh, you just had to make things complicated." He said in reply talking more to himself than John near the end. John sighed in frustration. "I just thought you ought to know." He said defensively. Sherlock swallowed thickly. "Just- just get out, alright? Come back when you've figured it out." He said tiredly.
John sighed, giving Sherlock a small smile. "Alright. I uh, see you then Sherlock." He said, exiting the flat. He leaned up against the door, eyes screwed shut. "Fuck. Why is this so difficult?" he thought bitterly.
Sherlock lied on the couch, hands arranged in his usual thinking position as he ran over John's words in his mind. However, the blaring ring of his phone interrupted his mind palace dwellings. He picked up reluctantly, if only to stop the ringing.
"What do you want?" he demanded irritably. A very familiar voice replied to his rude question. "I just want to talk Sherlock." She said. Mary. The absolute last person Sherlock wanted to deal with at the moment.
He snorted sarcastically. "Oh please. The last time you said you wanted to talk, you threatened to shoot me in the chest. Again. " He shot back, unable to keep the fierce harshness from his voice. "That's sort of what I want to talk about." She began. "You told John I dialed 999, didn't you? You said I missed on purpose, let you live on purpose. Why did you say that? You know it isn't true." She said, cold psychopathic tone seeping into her falsely kind voice. Sherlock's jaw ticked in irritation. "Why do I do anything Mary? To make John happy. You know that." He bit back, bitterness lacing his cutting words.
Mary laughed, a cold, cruel laughter. "Trust me, I know. I'm not blind, faggot," she said, any delusions of kindness departing immediately. Sherlock flinched; he never could get over that particular insult. "What exactly was the point of this phone call?" he demanded sharply. Mary paused, thinking it over. "Like I said, I'm not blind. It's clear as day what you two have been up to. And it's clear as day that he loves you too. I'm here to tell you that you can have him." She said harshly. Sherlock let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "I can't have him. He's not a prize, and he's not a pet. I can't just make him love me." Sherlock said. And with that, he ended the call, throwing his phone onto John's empty chair.
He lied back down on the couch, taking shaky, calming breaths. Mary knew. Sherlock slammed his head on the armrest of the couch "Idiot" he thought angrily. "This is your fault." He told himself. He had to call John.
John was in the cab, almost ten minutes from his home when he got the call from Sherlock. He was immediately concerned, seeing as Sherlock always texts, except in dire emergencies. He answered on the first ring, not bothering with hellos and such. "Mary knows." Sherlock said, as soon as John connected. His stomach dropped, he felt ill. He leaned his head onto the cab's headrest, groaning regretfully. "How do you know? Did she say something to you?" he asked, genuine worry creeping into. He was well aware that the women he married was not a kind person, and he hoped that she hadn't said anything bad to Sherlock.
"Yes. She called to inform me that I could 'have' you." Sherlock said, voice tense and stressed. John furrowed his brow, confused. "You can have me?" he repeated, voice gaining in volume. "Is that how she sees me? As some sort of prize?" he asked, thinking out loud. Sherlock didn't comment, thankfully. John sighed wearily. "Alright. I'll um- I'll talk to her when I get home." He said tiredly. "I love you Sherlock." He said, before hanging up, without realizing what he had said.
Sherlock froze, hearing the last word before John hung up. He sighed, an 'I love you too' lingering on his lips.
John arrived at home, well his new home, in a state of panic. He barged in loudly, not bothering to take off his shoes and coat before going to Mary, who was lying in their bed, reading some magazine. "He can have me?!" John demanded, getting straight to the point. Mary looked up calmly, not even blinking. She gave him a small, cold smile. "Ah, I figured he would tell you." She said, closing her magazine. "Well yes. He can. It's simple John. You love him. He loves you. He can have you. I've had my fun." She said, flippantly. John clenched his fists, staring at her in anger. "You- you've had your fun?" he repeated, voice trembling with both hurt and rage. She gave him a slow, cold smile. "Well yes. And it's plain as day you love him more. It's a win-win." She said. John took a deep, calming breath, in an effort to quell his anger. "Alright, fine." He said, whirling around, and out the door.
He called Sherlock, seeking comfort of his best friend and lover. "Oh god Sherlock, it was awful." He said, breathing heavily into the phone. "I-I don't know what to do." He said, mind foggy with rage and panic. "Come to 221B or course." Sherlock replied calmly, forgetting his anger at the false hope John had given him. Sherlock was no longer sure it was false.
Sherlock sighed, lying back down on the couch in his typical thinking position. When had things become so complicated? He sighed, pressing on his temples. "John- John loves me." He thought, thinking over the words. John loved him. Possibly. But John had a family. He had a wife with a child on the way. John had a home, away from 221B. Sherlock huffed in frustration, getting up to retrieve a nicotine patch from his secret stash. He couldn't face John without an extra boost. He couldn't deduce if John loved him without the nicotine racing through his bloodstream, providing a sense of calmness and relief.
By the time John arrived, Sherlock was lying on the couch again, three nicotine patches on his arm. He recalled what Sherlock had said when they first met. A three-patch problem. He had simply burst into 221B, not feeling the need to knock. Sherlock looked up as he entered, eyes studying him, most likely to see if he was ok. He wasn't. John sat in his chair, which Sherlock had moved back into the living room. "I hate everything." John announced dramatically. Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "You sound like me." He said. John chuckled, a bitter edge in his humor. Sherlock smirked. Hesitantly, he approached the obvious subject. "So, um, how long are you planning to stay here?" Sherlock asked, carefully regulating the hope in his voice. He didn't want to sound like he was begging, but God he'd missed John.
John shifted in his seat, thinking. "Well I uh, I guess however long you'll let me." He said at last, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. The genius smiled, a genuine happy smile for the first time in what felt like years. "So forever then?" he asked, giving John a sly smile. He laughed. "Yeah, I suppose so." He said. They were quiet for a few minutes, sitting in pleasant silence. "I love you John." Sherlock said, breaking the comfortable silence. John gave him a quick, small smile. "Yeah, I know." He said. "I love you too."
And this time, Sherlock believed him.