Three words.
Three simple words.
They shouldn't have been difficult. He should have been able to say them whenever he wanted, instead of keeping them locked up inside of himself until it was too late. They were true, after all, as true as anything in his life had ever been. Hell, they had been as plain as day to anyone who had been paying attention. So why hadn't just said them? Why had he waited so long, always delaying it for another day? So much wasted time, so many missed opportunities.
He'd thought they hadn't needed saying. Oh how wrong he had been.
There had been a million ways he'd tried to say those words without actually speaking them aloud. Something about actually vocalizing them was so utterly terrifying, so huge and insurmountable that he could not bring himself to do it. So he had done everything he could to get his point across without such clumsy and useless things as words. He'd tried to express himself in the ways that really mattered, the ways that affected their lives so much more than words ever had.
He regretted that now. He regretted it so bitterly that it ate at him, tore at his mind as he moved through life without really living it. He said the words to himself again and again, burning them in to his brain and filling his mouth with a thousand unsaid things. It became his prayer, his mantra, the words that got him through his empty days. There were days when he felt like he was going to drown in the silence, be buried under the mountain of regrets and should-have-beens. He had tried to let them out, tried to relieve the pressure and just say the things that spun around his head in ever-tightening circles. But even then he could not say the words he truly meant. Even then, with no audience but a silent headstone, the words had died on his tongue.
It was pointless after all. He had not said them when they mattered, when they could have made a difference or meant anything to him but regret. They could not possibly be said to the empty air now; that would rob them of their meaning and that was a possibility he could not fathom. So those words would live inside him, building up, filling him, crowding with the memories that consumed him. They were linked, the words and the memories, inextricably tangled together in his mind. The words wove in and out of his memories, different shades of meaning for every time he had meant them but not said them. But no matter the circumstance, no matter how he dwelled on them, one thing never changed.
John had never said those three words to Sherlock. And now he never would.
It should have been obvious on that first night. He should have known. But how could he? He had barely even been able to catch his breath that whole strange, mad, wonderful night as he raced about London feeling truly alive for the first time in months. His brain had not had time to catch up, could not possibly process everything that had happened. It's not every day that you get caught up in the orbit of an eccentric genius that could read your life story in seconds and yet did not understand the rudiments of human emotion. A man who abandoned you at a crime scene mere hours after meeting you and then brought you back to life on the rooftops of the city that same night. He had been carried away, swept up, utterly consumed. From the moment that wonderful man had looked past the jumper and the cane and seen the quiet desperation for something, anything to break the tedium of floating through life with no purpose, there had been no choice.
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh God, yes."
Three words. It always came down to that, didn't it?
Those three words had changed his life forever. But they were not the words that tormented him now. He had not even known that he wanted to say them then, but even on that very first night he had worn them on his sleeve. He might as well have shouted them to the world that night, and he might have if he had only known. But he had not, and so he had not said what he did not yet know he felt.
Oh, there had been other words that night. Other ways he had tried to express the wonder he felt watching this man work and run and think at the speed of light. That night, the first of so many nights, he had begun searching for the right thing to say. The right way to tell Sherlock just how marvelous he was and just how much John admired him.
"That was amazing."
It had been. Utterly amazing. And yet Sherlock was surprised, amazed that anyone should say so. How could that be? Couldn't the rest of the world see what he had seen? Apparently not, absurd as it seemed. Apparently no one had told this fascinating man that he was truly extraordinary, instead lashing out, casting him off, and branding him "Freak". The word still burned in John, so wrong, so hurtful, so ugly. Sherlock had not minded that night of course, he had never seemed to mind. He had brushed it off with his casual arrogance, dismissing the criticisms as readily as he had accepted John's praise. But John could not bear it, could not bear the thought of such a man going without praise.
"Brilliant."
"Fantastic."
The words left his mouth without him even realizing it, his brain once again not able to keep pace with his heart. It was too amazing, too incredible to watch. And as much as Sherlock claimed not to care, as much as he had brushed John's words aside, he had glowed brighter with every word. His mind seemed to whir even faster, he became even sharper as he bounced ideas off of John. Together, they were unstoppable.
But even those words had not been enough. He had meant them, he always would. But later that night, desperate and afraid, John had looked through a window and seen Sherlock raise that damn pill. He had seen the shaking hand come slowly down, and John had known. In that moment of terror, John had known that Sherlock would not stop himself, could not possibly stop himself from risking his life any more than John could not stop himself from trying to save it. He could not lose what he had just found, not when he was finally whole again. And so John had raised the gun, steadied the breath that was leaping in his chest, and shot. If he had only realized that shooting a man to save someone he just met would come to define the relationship he had just stumbled into. Words might fail, but John would never stop trying to save Sherlock.
It was rather apt, he realized now. Gunfire instead of words. It fit them.
It was even a bit poetic.
But it was not just with bullets and praise that John tried to speak those elusive words. While their friendship had been forged in the fires of stress and fear and the joy they brought with them, it was tempered and made strong by the little struggles that came with daily life. There were times that each day felt like a battle with their flat as the warzone. It was not the bickering, or the snide remarks, or even the jagged barbs that were tossed out at every occasion. Those were natural, expected. Those were part and parcel of two such men sharing their lives every day. It was the other things, the greater struggles that tested them. When privacy was thrown aside for expediency, when wishes were ignored for experiments, when tempers truly flared thanks to the unbearable dullness of the world. This was when their bond was tested the most and they always came through the stronger.
Silence reigned in the flat after one such struggle. It had been nearly two weeks since their last case, and Sherlock had reached his breaking point. John tried to understand what his friend was going through, he really did. He tried to be sympathetic and understanding as he watched Sherlock prowl around the flat like a caged animal, lashing out at anything that annoyed him in the slightest. But that sympathy began to wear thin when John became the target of his anger, and when Sherlock deliberately tried to provoke him into saying something stupid. John knew that Sherlock was just trying to pick a fight in order to distract himself from his own brain. That didn't make the insults any easier to listen to.
"Didn't you hear me John? Or are you too thick to even understand me?" Sherlock's words were a vicious snarl, nothing like the musical baritone that John was used to. His voice was almost unrecognizable under the layers of sarcasm and disdain and John recoiled from them slightly.
He breathed slowly in through his nose, trying to settle himself. He could not react, could not lash out. Things had escalated badly enough already that if John were to reply the way he so badly wanted to, it would not end well. Not at all. John had learned the hard way several years ago that nothing ended friendships quite so fast as violence.
When he finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "Yes, I heard you Sherlock. I'm just choosing to ignore you as long as you keep acting like a five year old having a tantrum."
Sherlock sneered, the angry curl of his lip twisting his face and making it ugly. "Typical. I don't know why I even bother with you when you're just as dull as the rest of the world." He turned and walked over to the couch, flopping down on it so violently that it shook.
John stood frozen to the spot, stunned. He expected insults - they came on an almost daily basis in varying degrees of sharpness and rudeness, coming even more frequently when Sherlock was in one of these moods. Most of Sherlock's barbs had no real bite to them, simply being the product of habit and long practice. But that had hurt. Really, truly hurt. Sherlock knew how badly John needed to feel useful, how much he craved being needed and valued. To be told that he was useless? That he wasn't even worth the bother of keeping around? There was nothing he could say to that.
Sherlock remained silent, staring up at the ceiling as though it too had personally wronged him. The silence was growing, filling up the flat as John looked at Sherlock searching desperately for something to say. But there was nothing to be said, not anymore. So he turned, and trudged slowly up the stairs with head cast down. He knew that he shouldn't let Sherlock get to him like that, that he shouldn't allow such simple words hurt him so easily. It had been a stupid argument, anyway. John could barely even remember what had stared it - likely something small like Sherlock stealing his laptop earlier in the afternoon that had spiraled quickly out of control thanks to Sherlock's temper and John's frustration. It was silly, but that that didn't mean it hadn't hurt.
John emerged from his room several hours later. He was still hurt, still upset, but the burn of his anger was gone. There was no point in holding a grudge against Sherlock for something like this. He had probably already forgotten all about his comment, and had not even realized how hurtful it was in the first place. To try to stay angry at someone like that was like throwing yourself at a brick wall. Painful, and pointless.
The lights were still on in the sitting room, despite the late hour. Then again, John wasn't sure that Sherlock even slept like normal people, so that wasn't much of a surprise. But when John entered the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea he saw no sign of his flatmate sitting at the table conducting an experiment or standing at the window staring down at the street. Curious, he stuck his head into the sitting room to see what Sherlock was up to.
He was curled up on the couch, fast asleep. It was amazing the change sleep could work on this man John thought to himself as he looked on in amazement. Not a few hours ago, he had been a ball of nervous energy ready to explode at the slightest provocation, wound so tight that he seemed about to snap. Now, he was peaceful. Mostly. There was still a small frown on his face, and he shifted slightly ever so often as if that energy had transferred over into his dreams. But he was nothing like the nervous wreck he had been, and John felt his heart soften slightly as he looked at his friend. Sherlock may be an insensitive prick most of the time, but it was good to know that he was at least still human.
And then John saw the coffee table, and any trace of anger or resentment he had been carrying vanished. The pile of papers that John had been grumbling about this morning was finally straightened up and tidied into something resembling a neat stack. John's computer had been picked up from where it had been discarded carelessly on the floor and returned to its rightful spot on the desk. And sitting next to John's chair was a cup of tea. It was stone cold by now, but it had obviously been intended for him as a peace offering of sorts. John smiled, touched beyond all reason. They were little things, and certainly did not erase the hurtful things that Sherlock had said. But for him to even notice that he had done something to hurt John was an enormous step, and the fact that he had clumsily tried to apologize was enough to earn John's forgiveness. He tip-toed over to the couch and picked up a blanket, covering Sherlock's sleeping form with it gently. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he substituted other words for the ones he really meant; they were close enough.
"I'm sorry too, you idiot."
But there were times that John did not want to remember. Times that he tried to block from his memory, but could not no matter how hard he tried. He could not help but remember the weight of Semtex on his chest, the glare of laser sights on pale skin, the insane laugh that echoed coldly on hard tile. Those were things he would never, ever be able to forget.
But even more than the fear, even more than the threat of violent death at the hands of a murderous madman, it was the memory of Sherlock's face that still haunted John the most. From the moment John had stepped out from that changing stall, Sherlock had looked as though his world had come to an end. For the briefest moment, betrayal had warred with confusion on that face, leaving John desperate to wipe them away forever. But he could not, not with this bomb strapped to his chest and a sinister voice whispering menacingly in his ear. He could not tell Sherlock how sorry he was, how he would never betray him like this. He could only stand and beg with his eyes, hoping that Sherlock would somehow understand.
But that had all been rendered useless when the man himself had appeared, with his vicious sing-song and insane outbursts and eyes so cold that they were hardly even human. This was the man who had turned their lives upside down with a simple phone call, the man who played with their lives like puppet strings just to watch them dance. Sherlock had been fascinated by him, entranced by the idea of a man who could be his equal. He was not fascinated anymore, not by this reptilian man whose smile gleamed with glittering insanity.
John knew with sickening clarity that they were not going to make it out of there alive. He knew that Moriarty would never let Sherlock out of his grasp, and that Sherlock would not allow his enemy to walk free. These two men could not survive in a world together. And so when he saw his chance, when Moriarty was momentarily distracted, John jumped. He leapt at the madman in front of him and clung desperately, praying that the sudden movement would not set off the bomb before Sherlock had a chance to escape.
"Sherlock, run!"
It was all he could do, all he could say. He could not say what he really meant, not with the cloud of death and fear hanging over them and mere moments to spare. He could only tell Sherlock to flee, to take his amazing self and get out of there while he could. But Sherlock had not run. He had jumped back, startled, looking perhaps even more surprised at this sudden action than any of the other strange events that had occurred that evening. But he had not run. Even when John had offered his life freely, offered to stay behind and leave himself at the mercy of a man who would blow him up without a second thought, Sherlock had stayed. And his eyes had held more fear than John had ever seen, more than he hoped to ever see again.
It was not until later, when the danger had passed and they were again safe at home dazed with adrenaline and relief that John could think about that moment. It had been stupid. Profoundly stupid. And it had not even amounted to anything, in the end. But he had done it without thinking, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. He would gladly offer up his life to save Sherlock's, no matter the circumstance. What did that say about him? Nothing good, certainly. But John didn't care, not even a little bit. He would continue to protect Sherlock at whatever cost, using his actions to try and say the words he was too terrified to speak.
Even later still, staring up at the ceiling and remembering Sherlock's addled thank you for the offered sacrifice, John realized that for the first time Sherlock might just have understood.
Not everything was bullets and bombs and death however. There were quiet moments too, happy moments that glowed as bright spots in John's memory amidst the darkness. These were the moments that most people would ignore, the little things that would normally slip by unnoticed in the long stretch of days and nights spent together. But John treasured these times, hoarded them like the rare and precious things they were. After cases, but before the tedium had set in. Late at night, with only the flicker of the television or the soft hum of violin strings to keep them company. In those moments they were together, and safe, and content.
There was one night in particular that stood out in John's memory, shining brightly with happiness. They had just solved a particularly brutal string of murders by catching the killer before he could strike again, leaving John exhausted but happy and Sherlock exultant at his own cleverness. John could not have been more proud when Sherlock had pieced together the clues and realized who the next victim would be, and the glow of that pride lingered in his chest even after the man had been caught.
But now even the post-case meal was over, and both men were left with sleepy contentment that came with a job well done. It was deep into the late hours of the night, and John could finally feel the excitement and adrenaline leaving him as he half dozed in his chair. The quiet peace of the flat was lulling him to sleep, filling him with happiness and serenity that was only matched by the quiet joy that radiated from Sherlock in waves.
Sherlock stood by the window softly playing his violin, letting the random notes soothe his overworked brain that was still coming down from the highs of deduction and problem solving. He would sleep soon too, finally allowing his abused body to rest and recover after the abuse he put it through while working. It pained John to see what Sherlock did to himself while on cases, but there was nothing for it. No amount of begging or arguing would convince Sherlock to eat or sleep while the game was on, and the most John could ever do was make sure that Sherlock did not utterly run himself into the ground. It gratified him to see Sherlock relaxing now, and to know that for at least a little while he would take care of himself until the next case arrived.
John yawned hugely, feeling dazed with tiredness and yet still unable to relax enough for bed. He should sleep soon, he wanted to sleep soon, but the buzz of the chase had still not left him entirely and he found that he could not. His thoughts were still rocketing around his skull, still nagging at him as though the case were still unsolved. He would never sleep at this rate.
Suddenly the music from Sherlock's violin changed, and John started slightly. It was no longer a random series of notes, but instead a gentle melody that stirred something long forgotten in the depths of John's memory. It was a lullaby. His favorite lullaby from when he was a child, the one his mother had sung softly to him when he had woken screaming from nightmares. It was a simple tune, soothing in its repetition and calm. John hadn't thought of it years.
A smile crept over John's face as he listened to the song, happiness blooming in his chest. He had no idea how Sherlock had known about the song; he had certainly never told him about it. But it was exactly what John needed, exactly the right thing to send him over the edge into sleep. As John looked at Sherlock's back and his head bowed in concentration over the violin, he was filled with the desire to finally say those words, finally tell this extraordinary man how he felt. But he could not. It would ruin this perfect moment, smash it beyond all repair, and he could not bear that. So instead he mouthed the words silently to the unseeing room, meaning them with all his heart.
And then there was the last time.
The time he should have said it. The time he needed to say it, but couldn't. The time that played out in his mind over and over, tormenting him with a thousand what-ifs and regrets. The time he had done nothing but stand frozen, helpless, mute as his world came crashing down.
Would it have changed anything? Would it have made any difference? It was impossible to say, but John could not escape the crushing feeling that yes, perhaps it would have. It was that feeling that kept him up at night, surrounded by the emptiness of his life and wracked with guilt.
Every time he closed his eyes to sleep, John was back on that street, staring up at the rooftop of the hospital in horror. He could not believe what he was hearing, could not fathom what Sherlock was telling him. Sherlock Holmes, a fake? Impossible. It could not be true. John knew Sherlock, knew him better than he knew himself some days, and he knew that this man was no fraud. Whatever had happened, whatever was causing Sherlock to say these things, John knew that he could solve them if he could just get Sherlock down off that damn roof. If he could just talk some sense into him, could make him see how absurd this whole thing was.
But he couldn't.
He couldn't save Sherlock this time. Guns were no use here, there was no sacrifice he could make. Words were useless. He was useless.
John's heart stopped as he saw Sherlock throw his phone. He knew, too late, what was going to happen. Too late. Much too late.
"Sherlock!"
The scream was ripped from his throat, desperate and raw. His mind spun, stuck on repeat, helpless at the sight of Sherlock spreading his arms wide. No, don't do this please, no no no, don't leave me, no.
But even then, he could not say it. Fear kept him silent until it was too late to say it to Sherlock, and he would not scream it to the world now. He had not said it when it mattered, when it could have changed something or made a difference. He had not said it when it could have stopped Sherlock from jumping. He could not say it now as Sherlock fell, plummeting to earth, dragging John down with him. It would not be right for that to be the first time. And so John was silent, struck dumb in horror and disbelief as the sound of cracking bones filled his ears.
There were other words after that. Begging. Sobbing. Denial. But they were filler, substitutes for what he should have said. For what he would say silently now every day, for what he meant with every fiber of his being. His final, worthless plea. The truest thing he had ever known, and the only three words he had never said.
I love you.