I can barely breathe as I enter the flat. The place is a mess. Sherlock has thrown paper everywhere. I notice the newspapers littered down the hall. Their headlines beckon me like the trail to the witches cottage. I head down to Sherlock's room.
"Sherlock."
He doesn't answer, but I can hear him shuffling around behind his closed door.
"You right?"
No response. More shuffling.
"Sherlock. I will come in."
I emphasize the will. He knows I'm serious now. I hear the shuffling stop and then recommence as if he's considering his options. Mycroft, not twenty minutes ago had sent me a text.
Sherlock. Go now.
It was hardly informative by any means, but it was enough to make me rush back to the flat, dropping my coffee on the way. Honestly though, one word would have been enough.
"Alright, I'm coming in now."
I placed my hand upon the cold brass handle ready to burst into the room. I took a deep breath at the thought of what I was about to face, but never pushed. Low and muffled sniffles and yelps sounded from behind the door. God, he's crying, is he? My face fell. If Sherlock was crying something was definitely wrong.
"Sherlock, I can hear you. Please." My voice hitched upon hearing the sounds grow louder.
"Please, let me in. Let me help."
"John, I'm fairly busy…" His words dissolved into sobbing. "…Right now."
My heart felt like literal fire itching to escape. The fire was using up all of my spare breath and made me feel like I was choking. God, if Sherlock is showing this much emotion, something must be catastrophic. On that last thought my stomach settled low and heavy as I imagined all that could have gone wrong. There was a lot and I'm not very creative on a good day.
"It's all going to be okay. Tell me what's wrong, okay. I can help."
"Oh God, John. I can't think!"
Instead of the expectant burst of anger I had expected and almost hoped for, I was only pursued by the sounds of more of Sherlock's misery.
"I can help." My voice trailed whisper soft towards the door.
I leaned my head against the cool wood, patiently waiting for his reply, like a therapist would. Well, at least how mine does.
"No. Not this time. I'm not who you think I am, John. You're so good and right, but not me, I'm a fraud."
"No, you're brilliant. No, I know you, you're no fraud, you're spectacular."
I felt the door bump beneath me; he must be leaning on the other side. I felt words well up in my throat like hot flames licking and burning my skin trying to escape. Their burn is familiar and constant. I only just manage to starve myself completely of oxygen to keep them in and safely stoked. It keeps us both safe.
"No, not that. It's you John."
His low voice rises from the ground. So he's sitting now. His spirit is so crushed he can't even stand. I feel the fire burn higher again, searing white heat onto my tongue, and gulp.
"What do you mean?"
"You see, I didn't know what this would feel like, I didn't expect it to feel painful." He drew a deep breath. "And, God, John I promise you it's painful."
Still braced against the door I ran my tongue over my lips. This confession is tearing at my constraints and I don't think I can hold on.
"John, it hurts and I can't think." The words flew softly through the door right to my heart.
Without thinking I opened my mouth and let the flames escape.
"Sherlock, I know it hurts. God, don't you think I know it! Every time you do something amazing, or anything really. How could you think I don't burn whenever I think about you, how it's not like that between us. We're friends at the most. That's it. How can't you see how that burns me to ash. It does! Yes, it hurts more than anything else, so yes, I know how painful it is!"
I closed my eyes and stepped back pinching the bridge of my nose. I had been careless and reckless and he's going to hate me.
I leaned against the hall as I heard a scramble of feet and the creek of Sherlock's door. My head faces my feet, I can't look up and I keep my eyes closed.
"John, look at me."
I can't move. A thin cold hand reaches beneath my chin and tilts my head up. I can barely breathe as I stare into Sherlock's swollen blue eyes. All I see is fire burning deep behind his irises. It hurts to hold his gaze.
"J-ohn." Tears roll from the corners of his face and splatter on his cheeks. "Did you say it hurts you too? It burns you?"
"Y-es. Of course it does."
Sherlock cups my face in his hands, my back stretches fully pressed against the wall. He's coming closer, I can feel the heat of his body as he catches my body in his.
Slowly he leans forward, lowering his head down. I close my eyes on instinct. A soft breath whispers in my ear just before a salty mouth presses against my own. His tears bleed with my own as I interlock my trembling fingers with his. It burns me still, though this time I'm not alone.
The words still drift through my mind.
"Burn with me tonight."
