Hello.. Okay, so tumblr user higherthanthebeasts sort of inadvertently inspired this. I wasn't really ever intending on writing any Sherlock fan fiction, but this just popped into my head and it wouldn't leave me alone... I swear to God if I could write my university essays as easily as this fell onto the page I would be a very happy bunny... Anyway.. enjoy :D

Sherlock winced as he shrugged into the shirt that Mycroft had provided for him. Really, the Slovaks have incredibly thorough torture techniques. The wounds were healing, no doubt leaving harsh, raised scars where blood had spilt and pooled and dripped. He shook the memories from his mind. Not worth thinking about. All for a good cause. I'm alive. Mycroft entered the room where Sherlock was changing. They passed comment back and forth between them, neither saying what they wanted to: that it was good to see each other. Against his better judgment Sherlock had actually missed his brother.

The topic of conversation passed onto the one thing that had the potential to hurt Sherlock even more than Eastern European torture. John Hamish Watson. Sherlock brushed over Mycroft's obvious concern at Sherlock's feelings. Just because Sherlock felt something didn't necessarily mean he was going to act on it. More often than not it actually meant he was more inclined to ignore the feeling completely. Although, Sherlock had to admit to himself that John made that hard to do. And he longed to be with his friend again, just to see him, make sure he was ok.

Although he had hated leaving, Sherlock knew that there was no other option. In order to keep John safe he had to go and John had to think he was dead. If Moriarty's lackeys had thought for even a second that Sherlock might still be alive, they would have gone gunning for John, Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. Molly, Mycroft and his parents were really the only important people who knew anything. Of course there were a couple of government officials who were aware, but they were hardly important.

Smiling with satisfaction as he slipped into his familiar coat, Sherlock swept out of the room to go and find John Watson. His… friend.

xXx

John sat in the restaurant with Mary, debating over how to produce the ring. Was it better to just put it on the table or to have a waiter put it in a glass of champagne? Did she have any idea what he was about to do? He thought that by the look in her eye she did. Perhaps she did, but she was clearly waiting for something. If only this Goddamned waiter would fuck off, he could do what he needed to do. Wanted to do. What he wanted to do. He wished that he'd been able to talk to Sherlock about this before he made the decision. Sherlock always knew the best way to do things whether he wanted them to happen or not.

And John was certain that Sherlock would not have wanted this to happen. To be perfectly honest, John hadn't at first either. He loved Mary, or at least he thought he did, and he wanted to be with her, but truth be told he had never really pictured himself married. He loved sex and he loved being with someone, but that final commitment just seemed so final and irrevocable to him. Mary wanted it though. John knew that she wanted to be his wife and he certainly wasn't against the idea. Sherlock would have been though.

For all his faults, Sherlock was John Watson's best friend. There was something between them that couldn't really be explained just by friendship. It ran a little deeper. How deep John couldn't really say, but definitely deeper than friendship. He had noticed the looks that Sherlock sometimes sent his way. The longing in his eyes and the almost desperate way that Sherlock spoke aloud to John even when he wasn't there. Certainly there was something there for Sherlock, but John had never quite been able to find it within himself. And now it was too late.

He shook off the melancholy and turned to forcefully tell the waiter to leave when he recognised him. His brain was blank.

Completely empty.

There was nothing but Sherlock's face, his eyes, his… his… Sherlock.

John launched himself across the gap.

xXx

The morning after his bachelor party, John sat quietly contemplating the events of the night. Sherlock's attempts to control the evening, John's blatant flouting of the "rules", the fight, the gay bar… The gay bar? The gay bar! Heat suffused John's face as he remembered the men coming on to Sherlock. And he had seemed to enjoy it in as much as Sherlock enjoys anyone paying him any attention whatsoever. But Sherlock's eyes had kept straying to John as if asking for permission? No, it was almost like Sherlock was indicating that they were together, that he wasn't interested. John's heart hurt. He was getting married in a week and his best friend would be up there with him. As best man. And John wasn't really sure how he felt about that.

Sherlock was in his room at 221b gazing at the wedding outfit he would be donning in less than a week. He pictured in his mind's eye how John would look dressed in the same outfit, stood next to him at the altar. Stood next to Mary at the altar. Sherlock liked Mary. He did. Truly. He did. Now to convince himself of that fact.

Sherlock reminded himself over and over every day that it was not that he didn't like Mary. That was not the problem. It was that he liked John too much. He honestly had never expected this to be a problem. He didn't want to think about how John and Mary would go off and enjoy their life while Sherlock went back to the life he had enjoyed before. Expect that it wouldn't be the same. There would be a John-Watson-shaped hole right in the middle of it. Not one to succumb to emotion, Sherlock gripped the edge of his desk tightly until the light tremor in his hands passed. And John would be far too busy for him if what he suspected of Mary was true. He would be a father and he would no longer be able to drop everything at a moment's notice to work on a case. He knew that he could always try and find someone else to work with. Molly was always eager enough to spend time with him.

He knew though that no one else would ever do. It was not the company or the help that he wanted, God knew that John was never very much help. Rather it was John himself that Sherlock wanted, longed for. Craved. Yes. John Watson had replaced Sherlock's craving for the drugs and the nicotine. John fulfilled every desire that Sherlock had ever had, albeit mostly in his head. Sherlock swung the wardrobe door closed and sighed heavily. Turning at the sound of the door to the building opening, he listened to John clump heavily up the stairs. Clamping down on the bright smile that spread across his face at the sound, Sherlock went out to greet his… friend.

xXx

Sat with the two people he loved and who loved him most in this world on either side, John was happy. He wasn't naïve enough to believe that this was how it would always be, but he allowed himself today to enjoy having the two of them with him before he had to move on to married life. Although he doubted he would ever admit it out loud, John was petrified of being without his friend after he had just returned. Sherlock never said it, but it was understood that if he ever went away again he would likely never been coming back. If Sherlock ever left again John expected a visit from Mycroft maybe a month or two later telling him that Sherlock was to be placed in a witness protection scheme in America. And if Mycroft could ever tell him that without a slight pucker to his forehead and a twitch in his lips and fingers, John might believe him. Otherwise a part of him would die. For the second time.

Shrugging off the melancholy, John returned his attention to the reception and the speech that Sherlock was making. Tears welled in his eyes as he felt the emotion rolling off Sherlock in waves. Honoured by the words, John couldn't help himself and flung his arms around his best friend, holding him tightly. He felt the slight squeeze of Sherlock's long, strong arms and the dip of his head into John's shoulder. He felt the deep inhale and the slight tremor in Sherlock's shoulders. The held each other for just a moment, soaking up the companionship and the words that it was unlikely either would ever say.

Later that night, John cast his eyes around the reception hall for his friend. His… pregnant wife, the words felt odd, was talking to her friends and he wanted to thank his for all the work he had done to help Mary make this day perfect. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Molly said that she'd seen him walk towards the exit about half an hour before and then went back to dancing with whatever-his-name-was. John moved hurriedly to the exit, not really expecting to find Sherlock, but hoping vainly all the same. He stood in the cold night air, muted noise from the party inside combined with a slight ringing in his ears. The night was empty, still and quiet. Sherlock was long gone. A hint of disappointment settled itself somewhere in the back of John's mind.

He jumped when a small hand slid underneath his jacket to rest at the small of his back. He told Mary that he was just getting some air and would be in again soon. Once she had left he closed his eyes, sinking against the doorframe of the hall. Sharply he drew in a breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. This was his wedding night and he was going to have fun. Starting with wrapping the mother of his child in his arms and attempting to convince her to leave early…

Miles away under bridge somewhere in London, Sherlock sat stoically, chain-smoking a packet of cigarettes. It wasn't what he wanted but he'd promised John. Not a single tear of the several gathered in his eyes fell, but their heat burned him anyway.

xXx

John was angry. Livid. Furious. He hated Sherlock for ruining everything. He hated Mary for lying to him. He hated himself for not seeing it. For being this way. For wanting these people. It took him several weeks to calm down and he certainly hadn't forgiven Mary or himself yet, but when he walked out of his bedroom back at 221b one morning and found Sherlock hunched over his laptop, the usual sheet slipping down past his shoulders, John realised that he had never really blamed Sherlock in the first place.

Quietly, although that was hardly necessary as Sherlock was totally engrossed in whatever he was reading, John walked to stand behind his friend. His eyes were trained on the thick, puckered scars crisscrossing Sherlock's back. Cold hands, warmed slightly by his last cup of coffee hovered over the skin of Sherlock's back.

'Sherlock,' he breathed, making Sherlock jump slightly closing the distance between his back and John's hand. 'What… wha… oh my God.' Shaking, John reached behind him for something to steady himself as the rest of the sheet fell down around Sherlock's hips, exposing the hundreds of silvery-white ropes spanning his back.

'I told you,' Sherlock's voice was terse. 'I was flushing out anyone loyal to Moriarty. You know what he was like, the company he kept.' Sherlock struggled to keep himself in check. The ghost of John's touch still rested on Sherlock's back, goose bumps raised on his arms, chest and thighs. His nipples tightened and Sherlock swiped a hand across his chest in an attempt to lessen his reaction to John with no effect.

'You didn't tell me thi-' John's voice cut off. He was choked with emotion. Sherlock had endured such suffering, such pain. 'What was he going to do? Why did he make you-? I know he made you. Tell me.' John's voice was but a whisper as he moved towards Sherlock, gently brushing the back of his hand against the raised skin of Sherlock's back.

Sherlock tensed and then relaxed as John's hand swept over his back, caressing his scars, his sacrifice.

'He had snipers. Trained on-' He broke off and swallowed. Then tried again. 'On Mrs. Hudson. Greg. On… on you.' Sherlock's voice wavered and John's hand ceased its movement.

'Me? I should have known. He was going to kill me.' John sank to his knees and pressed his forehead against the back of the chair that Sherlock was sat on. 'You suffered this because of me.' He knew it was true. Sherlock rarely did anything for anyone but himself and John knew that he was no masochist. Sherlock didn't enjoy pain and he wouldn't have subjected himself to it without reason.

'Yes.'

The single word was quiet. It hung in the air between them as Sherlock sat stock still in his chair, barely breathing with John on his knees at his back. John's hand had slipped down to the sheet, tugging it down a little further to expose the waistband of Sherlock's boxers. John moved his hand to grip Sherlock's wrist and he squeezed.

'Thank you.'

These words were barely whispered, they escaped on a puff of breath as John exhaled rather than him consciously speaking them.

'I love you.'

This was not a declaration so much as an explanation. Sherlock was sure that John was already aware of his feelings and he was right.

'I know.'

John spoke these words with defeat ringing in his tone. Sherlock turned in the chair and looked John dead in the eye, tears streaming down his face.

'I couldn't let them kill you. Better to escape and let them think I was dead. Better to leave you thinking I was dead. You had to believe it. You have to believe me.' John nodded, his eyes locked on Sherlock's as he understood the desperation in his voice.

'I believe you. I forgive you. I forgive you.' John repeated the words as he rose up on his knees to wrap his arms around Sherlock's half-naked body. His breath brushed over Sherlock's bare skin as the words that he needed to hear were murmured into his neck. He placed soft kisses on John's shoulder, leading up to his neck. John pulled away and gripped Sherlock's neck with both hands as Sherlock reached his jaw.

'I love you.' Sherlock whispered again as he pressed his lips firmly to John's. They kissed quietly for several minutes, gripping each other closer, never getting close enough. There were hands gripping limbs and tugging at hair, hot breaths mingled and chests pressed together.

When John pulled away, dropping his head, Sherlock almost cried out. He knew what was coming but he couldn't stop himself from speaking. 'I love you.' The words left his lips over and over again, tears running over his cheekbones, dripped onto their entwined arms, John's hands resting on Sherlock's neck and Sherlock's hands covering them, gripping them almost painfully.

John nodded, tears spilling over his own cheeks as he looked up into Sherlock's eyes once more. He swallowed several times, trying to clear the lump in his throat.

'I know. I love you too.' He stalled, the words stuck in his throat as he saw the pain in Sherlock's eyes. He didn't want to cause him any more pain. 'But,' Sherlock's eyes closed in defeat, tears coming thicker and faster. 'I can never been what you need, what you want, Sherlock. Not like that. I can't-' His voice broke off, pain wracking his body as he pressed their foreheads together. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' John's body shook with sobs while Sherlock's hands tightened on his forearms and their breaths mingled as their noses touched, breathing in as much of each other as they could.

'I know. I'm sorry too. So sorry.'

They sat that way for nearly an hour, ignoring the cramping muscles, not moving, just breathing each other in, reveling in the closeness that they could never really have.

xXx

Sherlock stood on the tarmac waiting to get on the plane. John stood in front of him, his hands tightening in fists before relaxing again. He went through this motion several times, just staring at Sherlock. Unable to stand John's pain any longer, he said something stupid about baby names and held out his hand. John looked at it, realising that this handshake would be the hug that they couldn't have right now. Could never have again. Tears shone in their eyes as they gripped each other's hands tightly, trying and failing to convey everything that they wanted to say, had never said and could now never say.

With one last squeeze, Sherlock let go of John's hand, silently accepting responsibility for everything, all the pain he had caused his friend. The love of his life. Climbing the stairs to the private jet, Sherlock turned and looked back at John, Mary's hand snug in his. He looked Mary dead in the eye and she nodded, silently promising that she would keep to her word: she would never let go of John Watson. She would protect him when Sherlock couldn't.

As the plane took off, Sherlock closed his eyes.

Six months.

The length of time didn't really matter.

He was already dead.