Charactersandpairings:Sherlock/John (one sided), John/Sarah
Wordcount:1,480
Warnings: spoilers for 'The Blind Banker', and some nice, angsty Sherlock/John feelings going on - if ya don't approve, sorry! Go read something else, please!
Rating: K+, purely for slash pairing, and cos I'm paranoid!
Summary/setting:Just after the scene in Blind Banker where they beat the circus gang. As Sherlock watches John check on Sarah, he finds himself thinking about recent events, and he tries once again to convince himself of the futility of his feelings.

"Yeah – I go where you point me."

I smirked, and turned away from the poor, pathetic excuse of a detective. "Exactly," I said, walking away.

My leg hurt. One of the Chinese wrestlers must have pulled it. Hm, I'd have to find a way to stop John from finding out about that. Paracetemol would manage. Otherwise, my doctor would force me to stay in bed for who knows how long.

Ah...

I'd done it again. Ah, how could I be so stupid.

My heart stuttered, and I stopped walking for a second. A nearby paramedic hovered, but I waved them away. They couldn't help. It was my own stupidity. The problems with my heart were only a symptom.

I began walking again, but stopped after only a second. Up ahead, John was still comforting Sarah. They'd stopped, too.

I watched as John smiled at her, and patted her arm. I smiled at his typical nervousness. He always cared, always wanted to show it, even when he was so anxious about it.

And Sarah collapsed into tears, falling against John's chest.

I . . . I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to point out all the bad things I'd figured out about Sarah, until John was too scared and horrified to even hear her name. I wanted to shoot her, to frame her, get her arrested. I wanted to rip her away from him, because I knew she was slowly ripping him away from me.

But I didn't. I didn't do any of those things. I think I smiled.

It does make sense. Honestly. I was even trying to persuade myself, because I didn't understand why I was smiling. But in a way, it did make sense.

I was a sociopath. This is definite. I have written evidence from about seven shrinks, and probably from their current shrinks, if you wanted to ask them. But as I am a . . . tricky person, you can't really trust what the shrinks say. I'd studied psychology myself by then, I knew precisely how to answer the questions, what to say at the ink-blot tests, to become said sociopath. It was . . . easier. It's easier not to care, to distance yourself, when there's people like General Shan who'd take people you love and torture them to get you to do what they want. And besides, they just got in the way. They weren't essential, they'd just become a social necessity, like wearing the latest fashion, eating with knife and fork – that, I understood the importance of, but friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, weren't essential. Life was better when you didn't care.

I'd managed to fool myself of that for over thirteen years.

Then Anderson got annoying, and refused to cooperate, so I'd dropped a hint to one of my associates – of a medical profession – that I needed a flatmate, the probability being that if he knew anyone searching for a flatmate, they'd be medical. I could therefore rope in their expertise when I needed it, and ignore them for the rest of the time.

I got John.

Army surgeon – more than I ever could have hoped for. Psychosomatic limp – but I could soon fix that – soon did. And with a love for danger, love for action, for chasing cabs through streets, and better than that – a good aim and an unexplainable habit of telling me my deductions were amazing.

Was it any wonder I liked him? My first friend for who knew how long. He'd already killed to save my life, and I knew I would have done the same without question. Hell, I would have shot anyone if he'd asked me to. I would have swum to France on his whim. If he'd asked me assassinate the Prime Minister, I would have done it, just to please him.

Perhaps, after blocking myself from having anyone close for so long, I'd made myself more sensitive, more susceptible. I didn't know – I'd have to run more social experiments. But one thing was certain, and that was my inevitable love for someone I'd been given as a flat mate by pot luck.

I'd known it couldn't come to anything from the beginning. From Angelo's, I'd known he was straight. I never even considered telling him, I'd suffer in silence. I was content, anyway. I got to see him smile every day – what more could I want?

But Sarah – I should have seen that coming. John would have to find a woman. Why wouldn't he? Caring, cute, strong, intelligent, everyone would love him. I couldn't keep him locked up in 221B; he was too stubborn for that. But why did he have to find someone so obnoxious. Why couldn't he see how annoying that Sarah was? Inquisitive, pushy, bossy, she grated my nerves. . .

But she was brave. And her sense of humour wasn't all that bad. And John – John seemed to like her. She made him happy – somehow. I would have scared her away the first time she appeared – I tried to, on the stairs at the circus, but later, when she grabbed his arm and John smiled, I couldn't. And then when she whacked the hell out of the guy attacking me, and stayed put later . . . she could be worse. John could have a lot worse.

I'd had to admit to myself, then, the hardest thing ever. I'd had to force myself to understand how undeniably out of my hold John was. I could never, never tell him how I felt. He'd never be with me. So what would I do? Would I go down the route of crazed psycho, screaming 'if I can't have you no one will' as I blew out his brains? Even the thought made me wince, and grimace in shame. If I did that, I'd have to follow him straight after, because I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Besides, it wasn't John's fault at all. It was mine.

That left one option. Letting John be as happy as he possibly could be with whoever he chose. And if he chose Sarah – so be it.

Later that day, when John and Sarah were kidnapped, those fifteen minutes in the cab were the worst I'd ever spent. I didn't know what the general was going to do with John. Why she'd taken him, whether she was going to kill him, or use him as hostage. Wondering how the hell I'd be able to continue if I didn't arrive in time. What point I'd see in living if I didn't have a partner, if I didn't have a flatmate, if I didn't have my John . . .

It was almost comical, the moment I found out Shan though John was me!As I'd said, John was nothing like me. He cared too much to ever be able to pass as a sociopath. And, to get him to confess, Shan had placed Sarah right in the way of the arrow on the delicate string. The one annoyance in my life – well, the main problem – set to be eradicated in mere minutes.

And I'd got the thought that I could stand back. I could let her die. John would have grieved, then moved on, and stayed with me . . .

I'd stayed still for a few seconds, the tantalizing, tempting thought holding me in place, in the shadows, the weight slowly lowering and Sarah silently weeping . . . until John had begged, desperately for her life to spared.

I can't hurt him like this.

And it wasn't a choice between Sarah and me anymore. It was a choice between John's happiness, or mine.

So, of course, I rescued her. Her damn life, losing Shan and almost getting strangled – again – in the process. She always got in the way.

John had kicked the Chinese crossbow to the side, and I'd untied her, untied him, asked if he was okay – before he pulled her into his arms.

I saved his life! Me, not her! Shouldn't it be me in his arms?

No. Her. It should be her. And I was steadily beginning to accept that.

When the police finally did arrive, I distracted myself by filling in Dimmock with everything I thought he deserved to know. He would do well – if his pride would let him admit to being mediocre.

And I'm back to the present. Back to when my mind stupidly said 'my' doctor. Back to where my heart stopped at the painful mistake. Back to where I saw Sarah falling into John's arms, and him comforting her . . .

And me smiling as I watched.

Because, in a way, I'd brought it on. I'd saved her for him. I'd given up for him. He was happy, because of me.

That was why I was smiling.