Fuck. This is ridiculous.
John gets up out of his chair and walks over to Sherlock. He places the vial of truth serum into Sherlock's open palm.
" I don't need this. There should be no need for chemical inducements between friends."
The reminder is effective . You're my best friend. No one had said that to Sherlock before. It was unexpected and carries certain ...responsibilities. Ones he never asked for. Ones he wants to live up to.
Sherlock slowly stands up and approaches John, who is staring into the mirror. John sees the two of them, Sherlock's hand is hovering near John's shoulder. His breath catches in his throat. He wants this. He remembers when it was only his lonely reflection. Before Sherlock came back.
"Sherlock, would you believe me if I said I've never lied to you ?"
Sherlock frowns , and drops his hand to his side. "Everyone lies, John."
"Okay...maybe...true, but I can't think of any specific examples, can you? When it comes to us ? I mean, have I ever said an untrue word to you – the Great Sherlock Holmes ? What would be the point ? You'd see through it in an instant, probably before it even popped out of my mouth."
Sherlock turns away, circles John twice, building speed, then storms to a stop six inches from John's face. There is lightning in his sea glass eyes.
"Oh, all right, then, so you've never uttered an untrue word – that is a fact yes ? Proud of it ?"
John is jolted backwards. That is not what he meant.
"No, Sherlock – no my point is – gah ! - we're friends, best friends" and now his own anger reaches up from inside, rising from his feet to meet the fury of a descending Sherlock.
" Look ! You don't have to drug me to get my honesty, you Just. Have. To. Ask !"
Sherlock hisses at him. " Well what do you call a refusal to acknowledge the facts then, John. A blind eye to the truth. Is that not a deception, another kind of lie ?" He is so close to John now, that
John reflexively takes a step back , feet shifting into the defensive stance of his military training.
Sherlock abruptly turns away. The vial could crack, his fist is clenched so tightly around it . " A lie to oneself . Ha ! To thine own self be true, John."
" What ?! Oh, I see . Best defence is a good offence. Hardly original, Holmes."
Sherlock whirls at the use of his surname. John has never used it before.
" Indeed Watson." His voice is low thunder. " You know to what degree I hold the truth above all
else , even where others cannot see it, refuse to see it, don't even want to imagine the truth of what humans are capable of doing to each other – I seek it out ! What kind of detective would I be if I settled for half truths, jamming facts to fit into theories -" his voice cracks then, the accusation he was forming in his mind against John has somehow turned against him roaring hypocrisy, his thoughts have gotten twisted around, he thought John could not truly love Mary, how could he after everything she did ?
The question. The one question he wants to ask. The real reason he kept that vial. Do you love me John ? He has waited so long, waited for John to come to him. Do you love me ? It burns in him, like acid, like shame. He is a fool to even think it.
"To deceive oneself - " Sherlock spits " - to hope for something to be true that is not, is an unforgivable waste of time. The worst kind of lie."
Comprehension crashes into John, and leaves him reeling. This is about them, the buried truth.
But John cannot believe the audacity.
" No, Sherlock, what you did to me, that was the worst kind of lie ! When you were gone , when I thought you were dead, I wished I could say that better men than you had died. I've seen many men fall in war, Sherlock. I wanted to say there goes another soul, another friend, but better men than him have gone, and I hope he is at least at peace now. But you didn't even leave me that shred of hope, that I might meet someone better, someone who could heal me, make me whole again."
John is trembling all over. " I tried, I really did. I reached out to Mary. Out of hope, Sherlock . To go on living. She said she loved me –"
And that wounds Sherlock to the core. Mary said what he did not. She was braver.
No, she was a liar.
He turns to face John, who is standing defeated, staring at some point mid distance between them on the floor.
" But she wasn't you. If you had just told me ..." John chokes back a sob.
Sherlock is struck dumb. He wonders if the truth has come too late. If it is worth saying at all.
He is falling all over again.
His knees give out and he stumbles backwards, collapsing into John's chair. Sherlock has had nightmares about this, ones he will never share with John. He is falling off the roof of St Bart's, but this time he has horribly miscalculated how quickly John can move. Sherlock can see John waiting directly below, arms outstretched, ready to catch him. His smile reassuring - it's okay Sherlock , I've got you. Calculating force equals mass times gravity he will surely kill John at this speed and tries to stop his descent crawling up through the air and that is when he wakes up , arms head and feet flown toward the ceiling of his room and his guts punched into the mattress. Still in his head he lives the collision, feels John crushed under his weight , sees the bloody corona on the pavement, hears his last whisper -it's okay, I've got you.
In this awful dream, Sherlock survives while his best friend dies beneath him. It usually takes Sherlock at least half an hour to stop shaking, repeating to himself it was only a dream, just a dream.
Except it wasn't. It's precisely what he did to John.
John needs to sit down too, in Sherlock's chair.
How can anyone fix this ?
"Ask me."
Soft, quiet. A plea for leniency.
" John. Ask me anything. I swear I will tell you anything you want to know."
The air is heavy with the past, the present and their uncertain future together. Too much time compressed into one space makes it difficult to breathe.
John feels like he is back in Afghanistan, stranded in the desert, miles of empty sand in every direction . Distant drumming urges him forward, it is either bombshells exploding or someone's heart thumping under the sand, buried for its own protection. And Sherlock sitting there, like a mirage, a man who has always seemed so impossibly far away. John wants to reach out , to say things to him.
Are you in love with me Sherlock ? Is this real ? But to utter such words is dangerous. They may cause the vision to shimmer and disappear.
John shakes his head. He is not in Afghanistan. He is here, with Sherlock, miles of misunderstanding between them, and a chance to close the distance. He imagines the question in his mind, the answer he wants, and his next move. If Sherlock says yes, then god damn it, he is going to claim that heart for his own. If no, then ...but he already knows the answer. Sherlock is in love with him. He doesn't have to ask.
Just thinking about it brings all the confirmation John needs. He watches Sherlock's expression change to one of wonder, eyes wide, lips parting slightly, as he helplessly reads John's thoughts.
Damn that man. John quirks a rueful smile. At least this time, he was consenting.
He won't take Sherlock's answer from him unwilling, though, not by force or compulsion or a sense of things owed. As he continues his mental approach, the mirage solidifies into something real and beautiful and sustaining.
To survive this, all they have to do is move forward. So, onward soldier. Move. Keep moving. John sees it all in his mind first, before he even rises an inch out of the chair. Envisions himself standing up and walking over to Sherlock, kneeling in front of him, leaning in for the embrace he is sure is waiting for him.
John rises up and crosses the battlefield.
He rests his head on Sherlock's chest, feels the drumming of a too human heart .
" Sherlock. I love you Sherlock."