Sherlock sat in his chair, face blank, body still. John sat across from him, eyes misty. Not even now did Sherlock Holmes have the decency to cry. He had just gotten a call from Mycroft, and his mother had died. A drunk driver had killed her late last night. Sherlock loved his mother more than anything, and would've done anything to protect her. The doctor couldn't take it. The pressure had been building ontop of the detective the entire month. Unsolved cases, cases that had been solved incorrectly, nearly being killed on some cases, and ontop of it all, he had no cigarrettes or drugs of any kind to calm his nerves. But still, he didn't break once. John's nostrils flared and he fumed in his seat. Eventually he stood up and threw his arms in the air, going into a shouting fit.
"I can't take it anymore! What's wrong with you? You never show any feelings at all. The stress has been piling onto you and even now, when your mother died, you just can't get off of your high horse and let even one tear out of your eye. It's like you don't even care!" At that last comment Sherlock stood up and towered over John, and the doctor could feel emotions coming off of him in waves.
"You think I don't care? You think I wouldn't do anything to stop what happened? I loved my mother! I am simply choosing not to feel because feeling is life, and life is pain. My mother lived, I loved her, and she died. I repress my emotions because they are nothing but self-destructive. What's the point of feeling if anything and everything you hold dear will only be torn cruelly away from you in the end?" The detective was yelling, but then he stepped back down, blinking the salty tears out of his eyes. John sighed sympathetically, placing his hand on Sherlock's face. It was only a kind gesture, they weren't together. But in the end, wasn't it more? The mere beginning of a universe of possibilities? John Watson had Sherlock Holmes in the palm of his hand. What would he choose to do with him? The detective leaned into the touch as the doctor spoke.
"The point of feeling is to enjoy life and all you have in it while you still have it." Sherlock closed his eyes, warm tears slipping down his alabaster skin.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry." He sobbed. "I need control, and I didn't have it, and I didn't know what to do. I was wrong, I'm sorry. I can't let it all go, I can't release. Control is like water slipping through my fingers but I can't release, I can't release." He whispered hysterically, and John held him close. He didn't say anything, he just held him close and listened to him while he cried and ranted on about things that seemed unimportant at the time. He just held him, and he didn't let go.
AN: If convenient, review. If inconvenient, review anyway. - CH