John is very much aware of the truth.
He knows everything. He allows it, fully knowing the consequences. It has started seeping through the depths of John's consciousness, into his mind, then into his heart. It has attached itself to some strings in his heart, and has become immovable. He has to get out, he knows he has to. But, his heart lingers in the memory of something it has implanted in him, thus, disabling him from doing anything.
And, here he is, floating adrift into the sea of nowhere and pretending not to know the truth.
It is another normal day at 221B. Mrs. Hudson is preparing an apple pie downstairs. She has told them earlier in the day that she is going to give it away to the neighbors; however, John is pretty sure it is only to impress their new neighbor, Mr. Thomson. They've only been friends for a couple of days, but the occasional brushes to the other's arm only proved that there is something beyond friendship between them. John cringes at the thought of meddling with his landowner's love affairs. He had better not get involved.
Sherlock is sprawled out on the sofa again, with his long legs awkwardly bent to fit the limited space. He studies John carefully and rather intently that John feels his pulse racing. He tries to focus on the book he is reading, but to no avail. Lestrade had no cases to offer for today. It is also rather strange for him to take a day off on a weekday. Sherlock has deduced this to be the occurrence of a romantic meeting with a corpulent bloke named Mycroft Holmes (he also has told John that the idiots in Scotland Yard reacted to this with extreme terror).
John stands up and walks toward their kitchen to make tea. He opens the fridge to get milk, but finds none. He sighs to himself. Sherlock has meddled with the milk again. He wants to avoid adding more to his chip and pin machine escapades. Maybe having an appropriate punishment this time would teach Sherlock not to lavishly spend all of their milk resources. He walks toward the living room once again, and stops just in front of the sofa. "Sherlock, you are going to do some shopping with me." He says, his hands resting on his hips.
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him, as if telling him that he has no right to burden him with lackluster chores. John responds to this with a sigh. "Going to Tesco's with me would be much more appealing than sitting around in 221B, bored out your wits."
Sherlock looks a bit thoughtful. He glances at John, and urges him to say more. Of course, John knows exactly what he wants. "You can deduce everyone at Tesco's."
John sees the hint in Sherlock's eyes. A bit more. He rolls his eyes at him, before admitting defeat. "We can break into that new glasshouse Mycroft keeps." Sherlock shouts an audible 'yes!' as he stands and lifts the corner of his mouth in triumph. He goes inside his room and slams the door, the sound reeking in sick glee. John shakes his head. The plants in Mycroft's glasshouse are preserved for the manufacture of weapons for chemical warfare. Mycroft knows the inevitability of Sherlock breaking in, so he has warned John in advance that some of the plants there can kill them with even the faintest of touches.
John rubs his temples soothingly. He feels like there's something wrong.
Well, more than that, he just wishes they don't get killed. Not again.
Bringing Sherlock to Tesco was a mistake. John could feel the regret starting to wash over him.
"Your husband's cheating on you, and your daughter has Chlamydia." Sherlock says, his tone firm and void of any sentiment. "You might also want to move into another flat, considering that your neighbor has an uncanny fondness of you and would go to any lengths just to stalk you. He's hiding in the-"
"Sherlock!" John grabs him by the arm and yanks him away from the lady. He throws her an apologetic smile and proceeds to an empty section of the store.
Sherlock tugs his arm away from John, and glares at him in frustration. "You consented to that."
"I told you to deduce them however you want, but I didn't tell you to throw your deductions on their faces!"
Sherlock scowls at John before walking beside him. "This store reeks of idiocy."
John glances at Sherlock and holds his stare at him for quite some time. His curls are disheveled and unruly, but they are unique. John swears he could recognize him anywhere. His eyelashes are long, much like a girl's. His eyes are clear and beautiful; they reflect his clothes, the lights, and most especially, his mind. His lips... oh god, those lips. They are plump and drained of color. John has this sudden urge to give color to those lips, make them swollen, and make them his. Oh, how he—
"John!" Sherlock exclaims, snapping John back to his senses. He looks at Sherlock, confused. He pointedly looks at John's hand. It has snaked its way around Sherlock's waist unconsciously, pressing his own body to Sherlock's. He lets go of him immediately, turns his back on him, and calms his racing pulse. After a minute, he turns to Sherlock, and flashes him a chagrinned smile. John, then, proceeds to the milk section, fully aware of the weird looks his best friend is giving him.
He still feels the lingering trouble somewhere. He just doesn't know what it specifically is. John decides to ignore it, and focuses on Sherlock instead.
Later on, John finds himself smitten by another difficult being.
Sod that chip and pin machine.
"It consumes a person," John finds himself saying as they discuss frequent partner abuse patterns in the cab. Sherlock is thinking. John takes this moment to remember things about Sherlock. He was a ruthless man at first, pushing away all of the people in his life. But, as soon as John got to know him, he didn't seem like the sort he was. Sherlock tells him that he doesn't need sentiment in his life; however, that is not true at all. John sees how much he'd be willing to trade himself off just to protect his friends. John sees everything good about Sherlock. That is why John chooses to believe in him.
However, is that all?
No.
John knows there is something else. He has not known what it is. This feeling, he tries and tries to ignore, but fails. He cannot ignore this bittersweet emotion. He cannot ignore this feeling of wanting to touch him and hold him until he remains safe and sound. He cannot ignore this unconscious warmth he feels whenever he is put first before anything else. He wants to lift this burden, but he knows what would happen. In the end, he loses.
What has consumed him?
"It's irrational, John. Are humans so silly that they choose to do that? To endure something their capacity cannot withstand?" Sherlock stares at him. John gets lost in his eyes once again. Those eyes are the ones which observe and analyze. They are the ones that knew John to the very core. Suddenly, John feels afraid of them. What if those eyes saw through him too much? What if they uncover what John tries to hide?
But, John looks anyway. And, he finally knows.
Love.
"They sacrifice whatever it is left of them in order to keep the ones that they love happy." John whispers lowly. Sherlock shakes his head at him.
He loves him.
"You are starting to sound like those illiterate poems you send in your emails." They both chuckle at the thought of it.
He still loves him, and he is only fooling himself.
The cab drops them off on their desired location. Sherlock leads the way, obviously. They go through a series of unconventional pathways, until they reach a building expertly painted to camouflage itself to its surroundings. Sherlock takes out a card from his coat pocket, and swipes it on the detector by the door. The door opens automatically. He drags John in, and they go through a series of stairways before they stop. John looks up, and sees the gigantic glasshouse (how it fit the building, however, was beyond John). The soldiers form a circle around the glasshouse, their MP5s firmly held by their hands. He glances beside him, and sees that Sherlock has disappeared on him. He tries not to panic. He hides himself in the dark corners of the room. After a few minutes, he hears a fire alarm. The soldiers, with great composure, storm out of the room to tend to the fire. John almost follows them when he sees Sherlock gracefully walking toward him. He winks at him, and drags him inside. The door closes behind them. Sherlock taps on the keyboards beside the door. He hears a computer-generated voice saying that the door was now locked.
Sherlock pulls John as the passage to the glasshouse opens. Sherlock is terribly excited at the sight of the poisonous plants. He pulls out a pair of tweezers and a plastic bag from his pocket, and scoots around. John strides after him. Sherlock tells him all about the plants, of the ones he has read about, and of the ones he has yet to learn about. John likes the sound of Sherlock's voice, and listens to him attentively as he speaks. He is content with this, and he does not want to escape.
But, that was what John thinks.
Sherlock suddenly stops observing the plants. He faces John, and speaks lowly. "John, tell me."
John is puzzled. He looks at Sherlock, but he doesn't see any kind of hint. "Tell you what?"
"Everything, John. Tell me everything."
All of a sudden, John knows. John knows what Sherlock wants to talk about. However, John is afraid. He doesn't want to tell him. He doesn't want to risk things. He stays silent, poking at the plant in front of him.
Sherlock lets out an annoyed sigh. He tries again, this time with a tone that begs John for everything. "John, tell me. Please."
John doesn't know what to say. He knows this day will come. He knows that their last day will come. So, this is the trouble he has been sensing since this morning. That it will all be over soon. But, John doesn't want this to be over. He wants to live like this forever. Still, he knows he has to end this. He knows what is good for both of them.
"Sherlock," he sits down on the metal passage. He urges Sherlock to sit down with him, and he gladly takes it. "I.. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this. I was so desperate" –he puts both of his hands on Sherlock's face—"and I couldn't entertain the fact that you're gone." John bows his head in defeat. He said it. He has let out the truth. "This is our last day together, Sherlock. I can't hold onto you anymore. This has to end."
Sherlock looks at John tenderly, and John is surprised. He could not believe Sherlock could give him that kind of unadulterated look. "I know." He stands up and walks further into the passage.
John stands up, too, and watches him walk. The alarm beeps off abruptly, but John couldn't care less. The glasshouse is starting to shatter, and Sherlock is still walking further and further away from him.
"You're just an illusion. You're not real." John exclaims in desperation.
"I know."
John tries once again. "I love you, Sherlock."
"..I know, John."
John loves the way Sherlock says his name. However, Sherlock doesn't stop walking. He walks and walks, until John couldn't see even his silhouette anymore. Tears silently stream down his face as he watches the glasshouse crumble into pieces. It rains purely of glass pieces, destroying the beauty of what used to be inside it. It is a spectacular sight. However, John chooses to weep in silence. He weeps for his broken heart, and he weeps for the broken realm.
A large piece of glass hits John on the head. He instantly falls to the ground. John smiles bitterly, his consciousness growing thin at the moment.
"I love you, Sherlock. I really do." He whispers before he closes his eyes and renders himself to the dark.
John hears a beeping sound to his left. There is also a sound of the swift brushing of cloth in the same direction, but it was farther than the beeping sound. Eager to know what those sounds are, John opens his eyes slowly. He sees something white. It must be the ceiling since he is reclined. He looks to his left, and sees the heart monitor. He raises his arms, and sees needles punctured to it. Then, he spots the familiar curls to his left. John widens his eyes in shock.
"Sherlock?" He asks faintly.
Sherlock responds to him by standing up. He leans forward, and looks at John carefully. "Are you alright?"
John doesn't respond. Taking this as a cue to explain, Sherlock speaks rather quickly. "I came to the flat yesterday and saw you lying on the floor. You had a pulse, but you were shivering. You were coughing violently, and your body temperature was higher than normal. So, obviously, you had pneumonia. The lines on your forehead and the bags under your eyes suggest fatigue. Mrs. Hudson and I rushed you to the hospital as quickly as we can. Mycroft sent you some disgusting jasmines."
John stares at him. No, he couldn't be real, right? He is going insane. John couldn't stop the illusion of Sherlock from haunting him. This is another hallucination. It isn't real. He looks at Sherlock, and sighs in disbelief. "Sherlock, please don't come back. I am trying to push you out of my life. I am trying to destroy you in my mind. I don't want to just.." John chokes, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. He gulps. "I don't want to have just an illusion of you. You're dead; you're supposed to be dead. I can't have my mind playing tricks on me. I can't have my mind telling me that you're alive when you clearly aren't."
Sherlock is silent for a minute. John closes his eyes. He tries his best to get Sherlock out of his mind. He tries his best to face the reality of his death.
John feels a soft stroke on his palm. He jolts, opening his eyes in the process. Sherlock looks at him, a serious aura dawning over him. John is forced to look at his ex-best friend.
"John," Sherlock begins with a soft voice. "I'm back. John, I'm real."