Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine.
This fandom is refusing to leave me alone, I'm afraid. So there will be more coming in the future weeks, too. Just a short piece here to test out a slightly different writing style - please let me know what you think. Reviews are love. :)
Sacrifice
He sits at the desk, his open laptop in front of him. John has gone out for groceries. He is alone and that is when the memories come back to haunt him.
"That, er... thing that you... that you did, that you offered to do... that was, um... good."
Even now, months later, Sherlock still cringes with guilt. Guilt because he couldn't even bring his mouth to work, to say the right words that night. Guilt because he doesn't know if he would have done what John did that night.
He isn't worthy of John's sacrifice. And yet the doctor, the friend he doesn't really deserve, is willing to give up everything for Sherlock to survive. The thought never even occurred to him that someone would make that ultimate sacrifice for him. Never for him. He'd never known anyone who would willingly offer their life up for him.
He's still shocked by this fact. Truly and genuinely shocked. And scared.
Scared for what he might have lost that night. Scared because he doesn't know if he would ever be able to return the favour.
"I'm glad no one saw that,"
Sherlock isn't listening. He's pacing back and forward, his mind working at a phenomenal speed. He's vaguely aware that he's waving a live weapon around but somehow it doesn't seem dangerous. He turns to John. "Hmm?"
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
"People do little else."
He resumes pacing, pausing to glance occasionally back at John or nervously flatten his suit down. Relief flutters through him, but it is nothing compared to the strength of the shock. Shock at what has just happened, what they have just been through. Shock at what he might have just lost. And shock at what John had offered to do.
The rest of that night doesn't matter to Sherlock. Mycroft turning up to settle everything out before anyone is hurt is just a blur. Sherlock's only real annoyance was that Moriarty escaped. An annoyance he, obviously, takes out on his brother. But that is it. The rest is just shock and guilt.
He still cannot let it go. He cannot forget it. The memories are too much. The shame he's never felt before is too much. John was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and he couldn't form the simple 'thank you' that wouldn't even begin to cover the gratitude and amazement he felt.
Sherlock has just realised there are tears of confusion and guilt in his eyes when there is a bang. As the door shuts downstairs, he automatically he closes off the emotion, his focus returning to the laptop screen.
If, when John enters the room, he notices his flatmate's overly bright eyes, he doesn't show it. The doctor places the shopping on the bench.
"Thank you," Sherlock says. It is so sudden and so genuine, it surprises even himself. He realises it's probably too late, but he looks up and gray eyes meet the softer dark blue ones. Unspoken amounts of gratitude pass between them and John knows this is more than the usual unfeeling, automatic thanks for getting the shopping.
An age passes before Sherlock blinks, giving a tiny nod. It's a way of apologising and John immediately understands despite the two month gap. He doesn't need the thanks; he'd do it again in a heartbeat, but he knows it's what Sherlock needs. The doctor blinks back sudden unshed tears and tears his gaze away with a return nod. He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't need to.
Sherlock returns to the laptop, a slight smile gracing his lips. He feels lighter somehow, despite that being physically impossible. He feels different too, like he now has a clear conscious. Because he knows now, too.
If he is worthy of John's sacrifice, then John is worthy of his sacrifice. And if their places had been switched that night Sherlock would have done exactly the same.