"Bug in a Web"
To the untrained eye, he would seem distant, uncaring… but, to John, he was so much more. The world would never understand, not like John does.
Sherlock had observed his flat mate. How could this ordinary man have garnered the attention of a self-proclaimed sociopath? How could a man like John Watson have taken the heart of one like Sherlock? What was so special about John Watson, doctor and ex-military? Ever since that first fateful day, the man had stirred something deep within him that no other had done before. Now, after five years of knowing each other, Sherlock wondered where he had changed… when John Watson had come in and replaced the emptiness.
He felt like a bug, trapped by something unknown and looking into the face of something fearsome. However, that description does not suffice. No, it was incorrect, for John was no spider, no enemy. The Spider himself had both John and Sherlock in his web. This Spider- hiding behind his minions- feasts upon those like John. Sherlock would not allow such a thing. John was untouchable. Do not hurt Dr. John Hamish Watson.
Even though the relationship between and he and the doctor was difficult to place a specific identification upon, the consulting detective knew of one everlasting fact: he had broken whatever tether had been holding the two men together. He had fallen into the Web; he had been consumed. For two years, he had been separated from his doctor. Two years, of the five they had been together, separated them. Yes, they had their moment, but John was a married man now with a precious baby girl on the way. A baby girl Sherlock would not have the pleasure of seeing grow up.
Oh, how he desired to fix whatever this relationship could be called, but he knew that the damage would always be done. How he wished to be able to move forward, pretend he had not betrayed his… only friend.
Mary would video chat with Sherlock at least once every three days. She'd let him see the baby and the new dog, Gladstone. She would update him about life in London.
He missed London.
He missed John.
The look they had shared before Sherlock's "departure" had spoken volumes. John was still angry, betrayed, yet, he was also remorseful…
So was Sherlock.
Despite his pleas to his brother to find a way- any way- to let him stay, he could not. The others- as Sherlock had come to refer them as Mycroft's 'throwaways'- were adamant. Sherlock would be deported; to where, he was not told. However, Mycroft refused to allow a complete banishment.
As he sat in the dingy hostel room in the Ukraine, Sherlock could only be grateful for what little freedom he was left. Maybe someday he would be permitted to return… to tell Mary where he was… to see John.
Maybe someday he'd have the chance to go home. To be where he was, at least, useful… To go home… to stay.
John sat at the coffee table with Mary as she fed the baby. He sipped at a lukewarm cup of tea, lost to his thoughts. There was so much he hadn't said. So much he should have told him…
"John?" Her voice, like sweet wine, cut through the bitterness of the thoughts he could tell were brewing under the surface.
"Hmm…"
"Come say 'hello' to Sherlock…"