John Watson held people at a distance. It didn't make sense to most, but it started with a sparrow. When he, as a young boy, had found a sparrow's egg, kept it warm until it hatched, fed the bird till it was strong enough not to die in his absence; when he had let it go, hoping maybe to see it again. It ended three years later- a dead sparrow, with that one scar on its foot, dead on his windowsill. He'd forgotten about the sparrow. He'd stopped caring. And so it had died.
John didn't love a person unless he was willing to love them forever. Sometimes he missed, and then his cousin had committed suicide, citing bullies in her note, citing depression (chemically proved in an autopsy), citing a lack of desire to live any longer. He knew better, though. He knew that he'd loved her, completely, after she'd helped Harry up and cleaned her scraped knee; that he'd stopped caring a few days later, when his father had taken a hand to his sister, and he'd forgotten about his cousin in favor of defending his sister.
It was why he never gave up on Harry, this quirk. She didn't deserve to die, not because of him. Medical school, because that was as near as he could get- helping people, physical reassurance, reminding himself that he was alive through the fact that he held no love for any of them.
John loved himself, for one second, after he'd successfully saved his comrade on the battle field, and as he tamped that down, pushed that away, a bullet tore through his shoulder. That was when he realised that even he was not exempt. And he loved himself again, just a little, as he lifeblood poured out on the sand, just enough to keep him alive through the infection that followed, the raging fever that left him weak as a kitten, through discharge and being sent home.
"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" He couldn't afford someone who would think he was cute, or dote on him because oh you're a soldier, you're so brave, you fought for this country. It was so hard not to love people like that.
But then there was Sherlock Holmes, brilliant and bright and uncaring, calling John an idiot, and- yes, this was perfect. No one could fall in love with this man, he thought, and agreed to move in with him.
It was only when he felt the wrench of the gun shoot through his shoulder once again that he realised he'd messed up. He'd fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes, but this time- he'd saved him. He'd actively saved him. John swore to do it again.
That isn't to say he didn't berate himself when Sherlock fell from the roof of Bart's and John became achingly aware of the fact that the warm feeling that was Sherlock's friendship no longer tightened his heart. And he screamed Sherlock's name, and the ache of losing Sherlock nearly knocked him over- he did hit the ground, in fact, but he was too late- for all the people he'd saved, he couldn't save Sherlock Holmes.
"You were the best man, and the most human- human being that I have ever met. But please, there's just one more thing, one more- miracle, for me, Sherlock. Don't be- dead. Would you do that for me? Just this once..."
He turned away. He had been too late to save Sherlock, too late to stop it. But he refused to stand over his grave and beg. Begging never brought back the dead.
And he left, unaware of the eyes following him, the ache of friendship nestled beneath another's breastbone, holding onto John Watson's life, refusing to let him go- refusing to let John slip away from Sherlock Holmes.
A/N: Sooo... I think I was supposed to be doing homework. But then this happened.