This is actually the first fanfic I publish.
I have to thank my brand new beta reader and britpicker, Ruth, who is being the sweetest helping with my writing and betad this chapter!
I'd love any opinions and suggestions!
"Disarm you with a smile
And leave you like they left me here
To wither in denial
The bitterness of one who's left alone" :: Smashing Pumpkins - Disarm
OOooOOooOO
(Sherlock)
If anyone could truly understand how John Watson had changed Sherlock Holmes, it would be probably Mycroft. Maybe that was why the detective was always so nervous talking to his brother about it. The two Holmes were alike in many ways, and it was unsettling to be read like he did with everybody.
Sherlock wasn't used to being under the lens, he was always the one making the observations, but he didn't miss the meaning John had in his life, as some people seemed to think. People were always assuming he took his friend for granted, but Sherlock knew better, he really knew. The thing is that the fact that he knew didn't mean he knew how to act upon it. And he knew that as well. He always hoped John could understand that.
Human emotions, feelings, relationships, friendships were not his area of expertise, they had never been. The best Sherlock thought he could do was to leave them to the normal people to make John happy. Even those dull women of his – honestly, Sherlock couldn't understand how John always seemed to pick the dullest of them all. Maybe it was his jealousy talking, he supposed, but he would leave that alone as well, it wasn't his area either.
The one thing Sherlock valued the most about John was that, for the first time in his life, he didn't have to pretend. And that was something else. And that's why he never tried to change, to dip into emotions, because he was allowed to be himself around his friend, and John was willing to accept him for what he was and not for what he could, or should be. Sherlock always thought that feelings were a kind of cage, that they trapped people and made them prisoners, but his affection towards John had showed him that they could also mean freedom, permission to be his own self, to not have to act.
Leaving the doctor behind had been the most difficult thing Sherlock had ever done. And at the same time, it had been the one thing that proved John's influence on him. Mycroft didn't have to say anything, his face had said enough. The sacrifice of leaving John, their lives of puzzles, the London streets, and his work behind had been the ultimate proof of how his affection towards his friend had changed him.
Hunting Moriarty's men hadn't been work, it had been a matter of survival and protection. It had always been about John's safety, his happiness, his life. Sherlock was willing to spend the rest of his life hiding, bruised and broken, if that would keep John safe.
When he allowed himself to think about his return, he would scan through the many possibilities. It was not unexpected that John might be blindly angry. Sherlock knew the doctor had mourned him. He was probably the only one who truly did, the only who would ever miss Sherlock, for that matter. John had always been the only one to consider, actually. And of course, Sherlock was also trying to protect Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, but, in the end, everything was to keep John alive.
So, in the worst case scenario, Sherlock anticipated that John could be very angry, he could even be unwilling to listen to anything, slam the door on the detective's face, or slam his fists into Sherlock's face until his nose started bleeding. That was definitely one possible scenario. Sherlock was ready for that.
Sherlock was also ready to see tears, because John had always been the one with the big heart. He might cry, he might feel betrayed, and Sherlock told himself that he was ready to say everything he could think of to explain exactly what he had done, and why, to stop those thoughts in John's mind. He would have to make him understand that it had not been about lack of trust, but exactly the opposite. It was because Sherlock never doubted that the doctor would follow him everywhere, anywhere, because that was John, the most loyal and the greatest man Sherlock had ever know. A true hero.
The best scenario of all it would be if John could understand everything quickly. If he could, at least for some minutes, put his unreasonable thoughts aside and think like Sherlock for once, and then maybe he could see that it was the only possibility, and he could even value Sherlock's sacrifice.
But he was John Watson, and the one thing one could say about him was that he was the puzzle Sherlock never really got to figure out completely. So he didn't do any of those things.
It was the indifferences in the differences, you see, that caught Sherlock unguarded. John had to do the one thing the detective hadn't expected.
OoOOooOOoo
(John)
John had spent those years pretending so hard that he was okay, that, in the end, it was coming naturally to him. He could bloody well be an actor.
When he found himself alone in their flat after the fall – yes, their flat, it would always be theirs – he could feel the wave of pain invading his chest and it would be almost impossible to breathe. In the first months, he would look at himself in the mirror and it would be clear that he hadn't lost only a friend. He had lost everything. The life he had with Sherlock Holmes had jumped from the roof that day, along with the coat, the scarf and the incredible man and his pair of mysterious eyes.
He had hated when people came around, trying to be sympathetic. As far as John knew, the only right thing to do would be to leave him alone and understand that nobody could possibly know how he felt. He had hated all that cheap talk about grief, about loss, about missing a dear friend. Anyone who thought he could describe Sherlock as a dear friend wasn't allowed to say anything in the matter.
John had his work, sure. He was a doctor. He was an ex-soldier, he was a good man. But Sherlock Holmes... Sherlock Holmes had been everything. Sherlock Holmes was everything. And everything was what he had taken with him to his grave. Everything John had in his life had come from that genius when they first met. It was an irresistible force pushing John to him, giving a greater meaning to his training as a soldier and a doctor. Back in the days when they were both together running through London, John would find himself thinking about fate and how he was, in fact, grateful for that bullet hole that had brought him to Sherlock Holmes. He was even grateful for that shitty afternoon when he ran into Mike at the park – that afternoon that seemed so random at the time, but now seemed like it was set to happen.
Because Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson – how could anything be more certain than that?
As the months and years passed, John allowed himself to get rid of Sherlock's things. Some of the things, anyway. Some other things he could never bring himself to give away or destroy, and he had never told anyone. Mycroft had not asked, and John would never tell. John let his therapist think that he had given it all away, and that it was a sign of his progression, but for him it was really the opposite. One day he knew that his pain would never go away, no matter how hard he tried. Time wasn't a factor on that matter. Time was nothing compared to the force of nature that was Sherlock Holmes.
So Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Greg and his therapist had all thought John was moving on by rearranging the flat, and they couldn't have been more wrong. John felt that he was, in fact, surrendering, accepting that nobody would never understand how broken he was, and that he would never be whole again. The violin and the microscope could tell them that. They could listen to his nightmares night after night, they could listen him talking to himself and to Sherlock in his head.
The best thing that happened in those years was to feel himself getting numb. He didn't need to drink, he wasn't Harry. He didn't need cocaine, or morphine, he wasn't like Sherlock. All he had to do to feel completely numb and oblivious was to leave the flat. At the moment he stepped outside, he could feel how out of place he was, how the world seemed strange and boring – oh, so boring – so empty. But he played along very well. He would fulfill his working hours, he would meet Greg for some pints, he would drink tea and eat scones with Mrs. Hudson. Fuck it, he would even date! He was ready to win an Oscar. He would smile, kiss, even have sex and never let out a single damn word about the life he had with Sherlock Holmes with anyone. The only person who had managed to make him talk about it was Mrs. Hudson, and he had ended her attempts with a simple: "I don't think I'll ever be able to talk about him. Sorry". He felt she deserved that. She had never asked again, but John could tell she had understood. She was the only one that could tell John suffered the same way every day. John was glad she didn't know his therapist because she would make things difficult in his plan of fooling everybody.
The stupid therapist had tried to convince him that it would be a good idea to look for a place of his own. Of course that stupid woman would think about it. What an idiot! John would never leave Baker Street. If he left it, he could blood well die, because then that would be really no place where he could be himself. It was the most stupid thing he had ever listened. After that, he never came back to therapy. He was afraid he would lose control and let out all the pain he was still feeling. He would never leave Baker Street and that was that. England would fall – he could hear in the back of his mind. In his head, himself, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock Holmes and Baker Street were a single organism. It was in bad shape since Sherlock had died, but it was the only home he had known since he had came back from the war, and he wouldn't leave it for a thing in the world. Mycroft was still paying half of the rent, and John never wanted to know why.
Three years after Sherlock's death, he would discover why. Because the selfish bastard was fucking alive all that time, that was why. Of all things, that was the one John was not prepared for.
OoOOooOOoo
(Sherlock)
The reunion had been difficult to plan. Sherlock didn't know what to do about that. He didn't know how to approach John. How does one approach his best friend after three years hiding in plain sight? Sherlock waited until he was certain there wouldn't be any other threat to John's life. And he waited until he was healthier. Those years had been exhausting and to say that he was in bad shape it would be a light statement. He had some broken ribs, he had been shot – in the shoulder, of all places! - he was thinner and sleep was a luxury that he couldn't always afford.
Sherlock knew that turn up at Baker Street impaired and broken would easy his way to John's heart and life, but he felt he couldn't do that to his friend again. He couldn't manipulate their reunion to make it easier for himself, when he knew John would hurt so much. He was a doctor, he was a healer, yes. But Sherlock knew he didn't deserve that kind of treatment just yet. He wanted to make sure John would understand exactly what had happened, and being vulnerable was not something Sherlock liked.
Sherlock spent almost two weeks thinking about how to talk to John. After all those years, one would think he would have planned everything ahead, but he hadn't. He hadn't because he didn't allow himself to think about John in that objective way or he knew he would go mad. He first did what he was supposed to do – well, maybe not exactly. Maybe to kill Moran hadn't been necessary, but who could judge him for killing the man who would have shot John in the head?
Anyway, in the weeks he retreated to rest in the Holmes Manor, he tried to think of how to approach John. It wasn't an easy task. He couldn't just show up in the surgery and ask John to get him some tea. He couldn't approach John on the street, he didn't know how John would react. The only reasonable thing to do was to go to Baker Street, maybe to break in – not really, he still had his key – and wait for John to arrive from work.
Sherlock thought maybe he could lighten the impact by sending some texts, but he was afraid John would feel played. He couldn't toy with his friend like that, sending mysterious texts along the weeks, he could end up driving John mad. Sherlock regretted not having prepared things earlier. He even regretted not taking John with him, but he only allowed himself to think about that for some minutes. He knew he had done what he had to do. And even if he had spent all those months aching alone, traveling around the world and risking himself, the hardest part would be to return, uncertain of how John would take it.
In the end, he decided he would just slip into their – John's – flat and wait. He sent a single text, when he knew John would be heading home from work. He had to say the most truthful truth of them all, the only thing he could never forget.
I missed you -SH
OoOOooOOoo
(John)
John couldn't believe it, after all that time, someone was toying with him like that. After three fucking years some heartless bastard had the guts to send him a text and even to sign it with Sherlock's initials! John was burning with pure rage and grief, he was feeling like he might collapse at work. He went to wash his face, changed his clothes and decided he was getting himself drunk before heading home that night. A single text could make his heart burn like a massive fire, because for a tiny second it felt so true, but also so fake. It was so true that John would like to hear those words from Sherlock, but it was so mean that it was never going to happen. He kept asking himself who would be so evil and send him that. Who would know Sherlock signed his texts, anyway? John sighed and headed for the pub.
He wasn't exactly surprised to see the black car pulling over by his side on the street. After all that time, of course Mycroft bloody Holmes would turn up exactly on the day someone sent him a text pretending to be Sherlock.
"Ah, hello, Doctor Watson, it's been a while," Mycroft said from inside the car. John didn't let himself get too close for fear of being dragged into the Holmes' madness one more time.
"Yes, I would prefer to keep it that way. What do you want?" John's expression was as hard as a stone. He couldn't remember being that angry for a while. It was a Holmesy talent, if you asked him. "I'm going to the pub, so leave me alone, yeah?"
"Oh, I see. I thought you would be running home by now, I can give you a ride," Mycroft said in that manipulative tone of his. But something in it wasn't right in John's ears. He knew Mycroft a little, he seemed... shaken? Emotional? Had he received a text too? Well, John could relate to that.
"So, have you already discovered then? I'm actually feeling sorry for the bastard now that I know you'll catch him. Who would send tha-," John didn't know what to make of Mycroft's face, but he felt compelled to get in the car, and his hands were shaking. He heard Mycroft sigh and there was that expression again. Was he concerned? What the fuck was happening? "Who the hell sent me that text, Mycroft?"
Mycroft sighed again and nodded to the driver. "I think you should go home, John, trust me."
"Yes, I should trust you, the last person who did ended up pretty fine, didn't it?" John was fuming. Even him was surprised with how angry he was. All that he kept hiden inside for so long was being poked at by a cruel text and the presence of Mycroft. He wasn't prepared for this, he wasn't prepared for remember any of that. "Look, stop the car. I'm going for a walk," he told Mycroft, already trying to open the door. When he realized he couldn't - bloody safety locks -, he turned to the older Holmes with a look of pure fury. "What the fuck is happening, Mycroft? Who sent me that text?"
"John... You have to go home. And he will explain everything. Now, please, calm down," Mycroft sighed again and sent a quick text.
"He...?" John asked, feeling his heart pumping in his ears because he knew. He just knew. He looked at Mycroft for one more time and he just knew.
He didn't know how, but everything he had been through, every tear he had cried, every fucking day of every fucking week of the last three fucking years had been a lie. He didn't know why, he didn't know how, but at that very moment, John decided it didn't matter. It didn't matter because something inside him had died three years ago, and if Sherlock thought he could have it back, he was truly mistaken. Not even John recognized the cold that had taken his heart. For a second he really wished he could melt it down, but it wasn't for him to decide. And after some minutes thinking about it, why should he? Why should he try to forget everything he had been through to go back to being friends with a person who could do that? Why should he be the same old John Watson, warm and giving and healing and sane if Sherlock Holmes could do such a thing to him? No. If you asked John, he would say to you exactly that: No. He wouldn't fight the numbness. He would continue to hide his pain to himself. It wasn't Sherlock's business now, was it? The selfish bastard hadn't even thought about him. He was probably traveling around the world, enjoying himself alone.
The car pulled over and Mycroft could almost read John's mind. Of course he could, he was a Holmes. John found himself paralyzed for some seconds.
"I see you have made up your mind already," Mycroft said pressing the bridge of his nose. "Just at least give him a chance to explain."
"Of course! What am I if not a toy for the Holmes brothers?" John gave Mycroft his best fake smile, built of the deepest bitterness he had in himself. For a moment he could swear he had seen some sorrow in Mycroft's eyes, but he couldn't care less about that, really. John felt he had his own wounds to deal with.
He headed upstairs and sighed heavily before opening the door. He felt like he was about to remember the worst and the best things that ever happened to him. He flinched for a minute and stepped back. He straightened his shoulders, he cracked his neck, and his hands were steady. He prepared himself to fight. Not with his fists, but with his own heart. He wasn't going to let that bastard take anything more from him. What was left for him to take? John ran a hand through his hair and opened the door.
OoOOooOOoo
(Sherlock)
Sherlock was driving himself insane waiting for John to come home. He didn't receive a reply for his text, but he could hardly blame John. Who would reply to a dead friend? He had much more time for wander in the flat than what he had expected, and it wasn't at all a good thing. Everything looked so different that everywhere he looked was a reminder that John had moved on. That Baker Street wasn't his home anymore, and that he didn't even have one. That realization was doing things to his own body that he didn't expect and, frankly, wasn't prepared for.
He tried to be reasonable, of course. He knew it was normal for John to move on, and to change. Maybe he was a different person now, maybe he had changed the flat because he wanted to forget Sherlock and the life they had. It was normal, Sherlock supposed he deserved that. In the end, it didn't matter if he had sacrificed so much, he would always be the wrong one, the one who left everything behind. Mycroft had talked to him about that.
Sherlock looked for his violin in the living room, but it wasn't there. Mycroft had told him that John had kept it, but it seemed unlikely. Sherlock felt a pang in his heart. Had John kept it? Had he destroyed it? Sherlock looked down at his own hands. He didn't even know if he could play anymore. One of his targets had broken his hand at some point, and he couldn't get the proper treatment at the time. It pained him some times, when it was cold, but Mycroft had sent him to a trauma specialist when he came back and they said he should try. Well, he would like that very much. He would like even more if he could have his violin back.
After some time, Sherlock watched the black car pull over. Mycroft had interfered without being asked, no news here. Maybe it was better that way. Sherlock hated to admit, but his brother was better in human emotions than him. He felt them, but they were messy and confusing, he didn't know what to do. And those minutes between the car pulling over and John opening the door had been the worst emotional storm he had ever felt. His heart was hammering, he forced his hand to stop shaking and he breathed deeply.
When John opened the door, Sherlock froze. How could he freeze if he was expecting him? That was odd. He wasn't functioning properly, he didn't understand. He shook his head, and tried to regain his senses, because he knew he would need them.
"John," Sherlock managed to say. It wasn't anything, really. Was it a greeting? It seemed more like a reassurance for his own sake, to say that name out loud, to convince himself that John was there. He was behaving oddly, it was obvious John was there, he was looking at him. "You must have questions."
The talk was one-sided. Sherlock followed John to the kitchen because he knew his friend's ritual. It wouldn't be a talk without tea. Sherlock watched John set two mugs and watched his friend's back while he waited for the kettle to boil. All the situation was maddening. John wasn't even looking at him. He was in his soldier form and his body language was anything but friendly.
Sherlock could understand anger. He had prepared himself for that. Sherlock could understand being hit by John, having his nose broken. He could understand pain, sorrow, grief, betrayal. He was prepared for seeing all those things in John's eyes, but he wasn't really prepared for not seeing John's eyes at all, he wasn't prepared to face only John's cold back.
He thought it would be easier when the tea was ready and they headed for the living room. But John set himself at the window, and Sherlock didn't know how to get closer without crossing the line John was setting between them.
"Can you at least look at me?" Sherlock asked after sipping his tea and watching John's back for more than what he wanted.
John sighed. "Not really, no."
OoOOooOOoo
(John)
John couldn't, really. He felt he couldn't. After all that time, one would think he would be prepared to see Sherlock without having that eagerness to crush the bastard's lips with his own. But no, he wasn't.
Sherlock seemed older, tired, hurt, he seemed small, seemed alone, and scared. John could see everything in just a glance. It was funny how Sherlock was the one with the deduction skills, but John was the one who was always observing the detective. How could he love a person like that? John thought he must be mad. After everything, the first thing he felt seeing Sherlock was love, a heat of happiness and relief and a sign of familiarity that he wasn't allowing himself to feel for much more time.
John crushed his own hopes, he swallowed his own stupid emotions and went to make tea not because he wanted to drink it, but because he couldn't look into Sherlock's eyes without preparing himself to lie. Because he'd be damned if he would let that bastard see everything so clearly in John's eyes in the way it would be probably showing in that moment. John loved him, had loved him all the time, and he didn't even know what that meant, but he did. He did, but he couldn't! How could he love a person like that? How could he let this person come back to his life? How could he, John Watson, doctor, ex-captain, good man, let one single person destroy everything a fucking bullet of the Taliban fucking militia had not managed to? No, he couldn't. He wouldn't do it. He would crush this useless love like a bug.
And he wouldn't look into those storm coloured eyes until he was sure he could hide everything, as he had for the past three years. Sherlock was very much mistaken if he thought he would come into his house and deduce a bunch of emotions in John's eyes. No, he wouldn't get away with that anymore. He didn't deserve it.
John stayed in silence for sometime. But he was truly curious.
"How?" he asked, without turning from the window.
"Homeless network. They were there, they didn't let you come very near. Molly helped with the body. Mycroft helped me hide. But, John, I had to do this, Moriarty-"
"No, no, no," John said, in his command tone. He wouldn't turn from the window, wouldn't look at Sherlock. "I ask the questions". John's mind was rushing. Of course all the fucking London knew and John didn't. Who was him, really? Nobody important. Why would he be informed? Silly of him to ask that, really.
He was surprised Sherlock had really shut that big mouth of his and was waiting for John to ask his own questions. Now he was concerned? Oh, John thought that was just sweet. He thought he should be touched by all this fucking kindness. His right hand was clinched into a tight fist.
"John," Sherlock tried, only to be cut by John again.
"Shut up." John wasn't shouting, he didn't seem nervous, he seemed distant. Even he himself was scared with his reaction. John had never been a cold blooded person.
Nobody would believe this John Watson who wouldn't let his emotions show, who was calculating his own reactions, who was trying to get rid of sentiment himself. Well, but those people hadn't lived with Sherlock Holmes. Those people hadn't been broken by Sherlock Holmes. One would be amazed by the parts that die when a person loses the most important thing of his life only to discover that it was all a lie. It had all been a great lie. Not only the death, but the life as well. John had never doubted Sherlock Holmes, but now he couldn't trust that man anymore. He was a genius, yes. He wasn't a fake genius. He was a fake friend, an awful person, a fucking machine. John should have known.
Yes. Now, John could look into Sherlock's eyes as much as he wanted. There was nothing more there for him to take.
"Okay," John set in his armchair and signed to Sherlock sit on the sofa. "Tell me everything".
OoOOooOOoo
(Sherlock)
Sherlock flinched seeing his friend's eyes after so long. The same deep blue eyes, but so different, so distant. Is that who John was now? Or that was only his reaction to Sherlock's presence? This wasn't John Watson. John wasn't like this, he was never like this. He almost sounded like Sherlock. That realization disturbed the detective much more than he was prepared for.
"There were snipers for each one of you. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and you. They would have killed each one of you if I hadn't jumped. And the order was still out there if I hadn't died. I had to die! And I had to stay that dead until I had tracked down the three snipers and the other names of Moriarty's network," Sherlock sighed. John didn't even seem to be listening. Sherlock was growing impatient and confused. "Are you listening?"
John looked up from his own hands and nodded. "Go on."
"It took longer than I expected. Much longer. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through." Sherlock had so many things to say, but John didn't seem like he was willing to listen. In fact, Sherlock couldn't remember any other time in his adult life that he had felt so defeated. John almost didn't look into his eyes, and when he looked he was so distant, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to believe what his deductions were telling him.
Did John still care? Did John wanted to listen to anything? Did John want to be left alone?
Sherlock hated to admit that his own emotions were getting in his way. He couldn't accept what his deductions were telling him, this cold person in front of him wasn't John. John was joyful and full of life. John had always been warm, forgiving. John wasn't hard like that.
"It wasn't because I didn't trust you, John," Sherlock continued. He had thought about it a great deal of time, and he had to say that. He wouldn't let John think he wasn't needed. "I just couldn't risk losing any of you. I know you would help me, but you helped me convincing everybody that I was really dead. I'm sorry".
Sherlock's voice was trembling and if John noticed, he didn't say anything. Sherlock stood up and started pacing through the living room. He wanted to shake John's shoulders, to yank him from that oblivion. "Aren't you going to say anything? You are disappointed, I know, I'm sorry! But you have to talk to me about this!"
John snorted. "No, I really don't. I don't have to do anything."
Sherlock was exasperated. "But if you don't... If you don't..."
"Yes, please, tell me, if I don't what? You will leave? That ship sailed. I don't intent to talk about this, so leave it alone." John was impassive, his features were hard and his gaze cold on Sherlock.
The detective pretended he had not heard the cruel words. Was John angry? Angry was good. "If you don't show something, I won't know what to do. You know this is not my area!"
John laughed. John, the puzzle Sherlock could never bring himself to solve, was being what he had always been: unpredictable.
Sherlock felt scared. Something in John's behavior made him feel afraid and alone. And he couldn't help but feel guilty for what he had done to his friend. He knew it was his fault. And he could only hope John could see his motives. But Sherlock didn't even know if John had listened to him.
"Tell me what to do. What can I do?" Sherlock asked, desperately.
"For the first time, nothing. You can't trick me, you can't convince me, you can't do anything." John stood up and took the mugs to the kitchen. He came back to the living room. "It doesn't matter, anyway".
This talk was like a nightmare that Sherlock couldn't wake up from. "Of course it matters! It's the one thing that does matter!" Sherlock shouted. His eyes widened from the sound of his own voice and his own words. He was surprised at his own outburst. These things, these emotions, this confusion were exactly why he had always chosen to disregard his feelings. He waited for John to answer, to say anything, but John seemed lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock could understand that, maybe he should give John some space, try again a day after.
"I am sorry, John. I did what I had to do, but I am sorry," Sherlock took a deep breath. "I should go." Sherlock was already opening the door.
"Stop!"
OoOOooOOoo
( J ohn)
John's voice sounded more desperate than he predicted. He should let Sherlock go away, he should be happy that Sherlock was leaving him alone, that he seemed to understand that John needed some time. Why was he shouting like a lunatic in his own living room? Why were his hands shaking, why was his blood running cold?
Why couldn't he bring himself to let Sherlock walk out the door? He should. He bloody well should let Sherlock go to hell. Why did he still care so much? Bloody Sherlock Holmes. Always John's weak spot.
John was certain things wouldn't be like they were before The Fall, he knew he was broken, he knew he couldn't trust Sherlock. But John discovered that he couldn't lose Sherlock again. He just couldn't let the detective leave through that door and wander lost.
"Where are you staying?" John asked, awkwardly. He wasn't used to caring anymore. It had to be Sherlock Holmes to put him through this again. He signed. "At a hotel? Do you have your own flat?"
Sherlock's shoulders lost some of their tension. The detective turned from the door and looked into John's eyes. "I'm staying in my family's house," Sherlock started, his voice insecure and shaken. "But it's been three years since I last had a home, if you must know".
John felt his own breath fail him. He let his gaze fall on the floor and paid some deserved attention to the carpet.
John didn't know what to think. Sherlock would never admit a thing like that. What was he doing? Was this some kind of experiment? Was he trying to manipulate John again? He must be, John thought. It was easier to assume Sherlock was being manipulative than to look at the truth so clear in the other man's eyes. No, John couldn't let himself fall for that. He couldn't just admit that he himself had felt homeless for the last three years, because he had learned that home was, actually, something connected to the tall man in front of him. No, John Watson would not fall for that, he'd be damned if Sherlock would just take him back after three years of lies.
John took a deep breath and signed for Sherlock to wait. John needed to think about that. What the hell was that storm of emotions he was feeling? Maybe he was having a panic attack. He was sweating.
"Jesus...," John said, sitting on the sofa and rubbing his face with his two hands, "... Just... Give me a minute."
John could feel himself slipping into shock. That was bloody fantastic, he thought. Just amazing. He wasn't in shock because the git had lied to him and showed up at his house after three years. No, he was in shock because Sherlock was about to go out through the door and John couldn't even think about that. No, he bloody well couldn't.
He wanted to want Sherlock to go away. He really wanted to do that. He wished he could just dismiss the bastard, shout at him, bruise him, shoot him. But he couldn't. At that moment he had to admit that he couldn't. He wasn't just refusing to react because he wanted to stay cold in front of Sherlock. He was actually paralyzed, he was genuinely confused and hurt. He was so hurt, and he couldn't bring himself to say anything, because he didn't know how to. He wanted to don't want Sherlock to stay, but it was obvious he did. He didn't want to want Sherlock to come back, but he needed just that. He wouldn't admit why, but the fucking prat had to come back home. John needed him to. He hated him. He just hated. He wanted to squash Sherlock like an insect, he wanted to hurt him. He just needed the idiot to come home.
When John snapped from his thoughts he found that the detective was exactly where he was when John had shouted at him to stop. His eyes were like a little child's. He seemed so lost, so afraid. John couldn't look at them for long, it was too much.
"Do you...," John sighed again. It wasn't easy. "... Do you want to come back?" He felt his heart turn in his chest when caught the sight of Sherlock's expression. Jesus, the man was a fucking apparition. How could he look so tired and be so beautiful? The bastard did that on purpose.
"I... John... It's the only thing I want," Sherlock said, leaning against the wall and nodding, seeming surprised by John's offer. "I can come back tomorrow, if you need some time."
"No!" There was John's command tone again. He didn't seem able to control himself, his voice was louder than he intended, his heart was pounding. Had he developed Tourettes or a brain tumor in the past hour? What the hell was happening? For God's sake. Sherlock seemed scared too. "Just stay here, will you? Just stay."
"I... Of course." Sherlock smiled, uncertain. "Dinner?"
John nodded. He couldn't trust his voice.