Allie: Okay so I just finished season one of Sherlock and holy fuck I'm flailing. Can't wait for season two…even though I know what happens in TRF… (tumblr is a great place for spoilers) but anyway this story is going to take place right after The Great Game…minus the fact that Moriarty comes back…we'll just pretend they left after Sherlock got the bomb jacket off John.
Warnings: Slash, little bit of angst/hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: Nope, all this awesome heart-wrenchingness belongs to the great BBC, Gattis, Moffat, and SACD.
All Right
Sherlock slammed the door to 221B behind him, lips pressed into a thin line and a crease in his brow. John was staggering into the living room already, his hands shaking as he collapsed into his chair, taking a deep breath. "Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, standing in the doorway.
John slowly nodded, "I think I've been through worse. Are you?"
"You've been through worse," Sherlock breathed before glaring at John, "Jesus, John you had a bomb jacket strapped to you, you could have been killed."
"And I could have been killed in Afghanistan; in fact, I was shot in Afghanistan, I almost died then." John replied, "So I say again, are you all right?"
Sherlock stared past John for a long moment before moving to sit on the couch, pressing his fingers to his lips. He thought for a brief time, "No, I'm not," He said softly, staring at the wall across from him, "I'm not all right." He said, shaking his head before looking at John, "I could have lost you. I've…never been so scared before." He whispered, "I don't think I've ever been scared before."
"You were scared…to lose me?" John asked.
"That's what I just said, no use in repeating it."
"Why?"
Sherlock sighed, clenching his hands into fists, "Just forget it." He huffed, standing up quickly and marching to his bedroom.
John sat on the couch for a moment longer, a little confused as to what has just occurred before standing and following the younger man into his room. He flicked on the lights to see Sherlock curled up on his bed, his back to the door. "Sherlock?" John said softly.
Sherlock's back tensed, "What?" He replied harshly, "I'm trying to sleep, John."
"In your shoes?" John asked, noting that the detective had not changed out of the clothes he'd been wearing.
"Yes." Sherlock snarled back and John sighed.
"Sherlock-"
"Just leave me alone." The man snapped, whipping his head around to glare at John.
If the doctor didn't know any better he'd say that the man had been crying, "No, I won't." John replied.
The detective looked confused for a moment before his face settled back into its emotionless mask, "Fine." He said, turning back over.
"Sherlock," Why was he saying his name so much? "It will be all right. We're both fine. We're here, we're alive-"
"But don't you get it, John? We almost weren't fine. You almost died."
"But I didn't."
"But if you had-"
"But I didn't." The doctor said firmly, sitting beside his flatmate on his bed, "I didn't. I'm here. We're here. It's all right."
Sherlock breathed out heavily through his nose before laying himself out flat, looking over at John, "Okay." He said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
John hesitated for a long time before he reached his hand down and cupped the detective's hand in his own. Sherlock's eyes went wide as he looked at John. John said nothing as he stroked Sherlock's hand with his thumb, not looking at the younger man. "I love you, you know," John said finally, still not looking at Sherlock, "Not in the way that I would love a woman, or that you love the Work, but I love you. I suppose I love you in a way that one loves another he simply could not live without."
Sherlock looked away from John and stared at the ceiling before letting a ghost of a smile trace his lips, "I suppose I love you too then." He replied, and gripped John's hand just a little bit tighter.