"I imagine John Watson believes love is a mystery to me..."
Sherlock knows what love is. And it is the very person who believes he is incapable of such an emotion - admittedly because that's what he led them to believe - that caused Sherlock's heart to race, for his mind to fill with impossible images as a smile and a slight flush creeps along his features.
Sherlock had taught himself from a young age that love was a dangerous disadvantage. Everyone he had ever tried to love had left him lonely, and heartbroken. Ever time he had ever thought he'd meant something to someone, he was left alone, wondering what he'd done wrong. So he guarded his heart closely, never allowing anyone close enough to damage something so precious and delicate.
But sometimes they creep up on you, and there's nothing. You can do about it. Sometimes they limp into your life, offer their phone and never leave. They take your breath away, they dull the noise, they make you're heart skip a beat.
John Watson taught Sherlock what love is, without even trying.
Love is giving them everything, despite having very little to offer. Love is willingness to sacrifice everything and expect nothing in return. Love is knowing that something that makes them happy is going to secretly kill you inside, and allowing them to do it anyway. Love is staying strong for them, even when you're falling apart.
And Sherlock has felt all of these things acutely. He's knows what it is to be in love, and he knows what it is to have that love unrequited. And it is this, this unrequited love, this adoration, and this sentiment, which nearly becomes the downfall of the great consulting detective.
Sherlock opened his home to John; he shared his space, his work, his mind. He gave John his music, his knowledge, and the thrill of he chase. Sherlock knew it wasn't much, but he offered it up to John, and John shared it with him, became a part of his space, his work, infiltrated his mind, his thoughts. He smiled whenever Sherlock played specifically for John. He seemed genuinely interested in what knowledge Sherlock had to share, and he never laughed at him, or called him a freak. He used words like 'amazing', 'fantastic' and 'brilliant', and he meant them sincerely.
How easy it was for Sherlock Holmes to fall in love with John Watson.
Then Sherlock had sacrificed everything, a life for a life. He stayed silent and still on the pavement, even though John's frantic pleas to let him through were killing him to hear.
"He's my friend, please he's my friend. He's my friend."
Every cell in his body screamed to reach out to John, to hold him close, cradle him in his arms and tell him it's not real. But he can't, so he listens in absolute agony to the love of his life as he falls apart at Sherlock's feet, unable to do anything. He could only hope that his sacrifice had been enough to stop Moriarty and his plan. One day, he planned to return to John. Without John, there was no Sherlock, not really. He left everything he had once been at the foot of St Bart's hospital, and the doctor now knelt by Sherlock's still form. Sherlock left the mystery, the magic. He left alone his conductor of light, the one person able to light up the tragedy that plagued Sherlock's life.
He worked tirelessly hard over the next two years dismantling the network that Moriarty had built for himself. There was nothing left of the Sherlock Holmes the world had known. The man in his place was ruthless; his only concern was his survival. But he also felt the ache, the deep, excruciating pain that tore his insides apart. He missed John, his friend, his blogger, his life. Sherlock could never have imagined how much he could feel towards one person, as if the heavens had opened and poured love and passion into his once empty life.
And the day finally came. Mycroft extracted him from the terrorist cell in Serbia, saved him from the torture, and returned him to London. Home. Sherlock strived to remain aloof and impassive when discussing John with his brother, but in truth, Sherlock was desperate to return to his blogger, to see his smile, to hear his laugh, and to feel the love that seemed to fill him up whenever he was within close proximity of the doctor, or even when he was just thinking about him. John would forgive him, all would be well, Sherlock was sure of it.
He should have listened to Mycroft. He should never have allowed John near his heart.
John had moved on. John had found someone else – a woman, Mary – and had moved on with his life, a life without Sherlock. The worst thing was that it wasn't just a short fling, as was John's previous habit in regards to relationships. No, this was the real thing, John wanted to spend the rest of his life with this woman, this infuriatingly interesting woman who was able to give John everything Sherlock was not. And Sherlock was left lonely again.
Sherlock did not let on how he was truly feeling to John or Mary. After watching them pull away in the cab, he walked back to Baker Street. After giving Mrs Hudson the shock of her life, receiving a very stern lecture and then a tear-filled hug, Sherlock was finally able to take himself up to 221B. It was only after he had closed the door behind him, that he allowed himself to break.
He could feel the tiny fractures spreading throughout his body, a physical and an emotional pain coursing through his veins, over his skin, throughout his entire being. He felt as if his chest was being squeezed, struggling for air. He gasped in as much air as he could, but his lungs burned with every mouthful, and each breath out became a heartbroken sob. Tears streamed down his face, burning trails of heat over his cheekbones. He stumbled forwards, trying to steady himself on the arm of the sofa, eventually giving up and just siding to the floor. His hands wove themselves into his curls, tugging painfully; trying to ground himself amidst all of this emotional pain he was experiencing.
John Watson was not his. He never had been, and now he never will be.
Warm arms wrapped around him, the smell of freshly baked bread, and a warmth that Sherlock had always associated with home surrounded him. Above him, Mrs Hudson stoked his hair, gently shushing him, calming him down with her voice, talking about nothing and everything.
"I know dear, I know. I'm so sorry."
It was with these words that Sherlock resigned himself to a life alone. There would never be anyone else but John.
Kind, beautiful, strong John, who forgave Sherlock, but only after believing that he was seconds away from death. Sherlock laughed at John's reactions, but secretly he was reveling in what John had just admitted to him. Of course, it was by no means a declaration of love, but Sherlock had never been expecting one, but the admission put them on back on track to the friendship they had had before Sherlock had thrown himself off a building.
But then John had asked him to be his best man. Best man at the wedding of John to someone who was not him. But most importantly, John had said that Sherlock was his best friend, and had acted surprised when he realized that Sherlock didn't know this. How was Sherlock to know after all? All of the time they had known each other, John had constantly contradicted the assumptions of other people – including Sherlock himself – in regards to their relationship.
"I'm not his date."
"Colleague."
"We're not together."
And after all that Sherlock had put him through, why did John still hold him in such high regard? It was baffling.
Of course, Sherlock consented to be the best man, how could he refuse John anything? He set to work with Mary planning the wedding almost immediately. In truth, he wanted the whole event to be finished and done with as soon as possible so he didn't have to endure the pain of planning John's wedding to someone else for much longer. If this was how he felt now, Sherlock had no idea how he was going to feel about the big day itself.
But John would be happy. Sherlock reminded himself of this everyday, and it was this thought that kept Sherlock from running away and avoiding the whole thing altogether.
Sherlock knew that Mary suspected him. She obviously realized that Sherlock loved John, but Sherlock was determined to ignore this. So, apparently, was John, who chose to believe that Sherlock was simply in denial about them losing their close friendship. John had tried to reassure him of this on the case of 'The Bloody Guardsman', but Sherlock couldn't stand to listen to John, who obviously didn't actually realize what Sherlock was experiencing. At least that conversation Sherlock could walk away from, so he did exactly that. The topic was never brought up again.
Sherlock stood by John's side at the altar, as he married Mary, as they became Dr and Mrs Watson. He tried not to imagine himself in Mary's place, repeating the vows back to John, promising to love and cherish him for the rest of his life. He cast his eyes towards the floor as John recited his vows, and tried not to imagine that John was speaking these words to him. He tried to ignore the pain in his chest that felt like his heart was shattering like glass into thousands of tiny pieces that were cutting up his insides. He tried to look happy for the newly married couple.
John will be happy now.
He pretended not to see the pity in the eyes of their shared friend's and acquaintances.
He managed to solve a murder whilst delivering his best man's speech, and saved the life of Major Sholto. Whilst John attended to the Major, Sherlock excused himself to practice the waltz he was to play for John and Mary's first dance. He had taught John how to waltz, had savoured the opportunity to hold him close, because he knew that at the end of the evening, John would return home to Mary, and Sherlock would be left alone again.
Sherlock tried not to picture himself and John waltzing around 221B as he watched the newlyweds dance as he played.
Then he made one deduction too many, and any hope he had harboured turned to dust. Mary was pregnant. Both she and John were to be parents.
So Sherlock removed himself from their lives. He took time to nurture his shattered heart that he knew would never be whole again. He lost himself in Lady Smallwood's case, merely the excuse he needed to convince himself to turn back to old habits. Even angels lost their halos sometimes. But how else was he supposed to let go?
One month. He had spent one month away from John. He was exhausted; he felt paper thin, translucent. And most importantly, he was alone again. He had not sought out John, but John had not sought him out either. But why would he? John did not feel for Sherlock as Sherlock felt for John. John had a wife now, and a baby on the way. John didn't need him anymore.
John's happy now. John doesn't need you. John doesn't care.
He repeated this to himself every night before succumbing to his exhaustion.
John found him eventually. No, not found. That would imply that John was looking for him. John stumbled across him in the 'drug den' whilst out looking for another person. He was furious with Sherlock, and Sherlock felt shame seep through him for disappointing John, not that he was going to let John know that. So he continued to act aloof and unconcerned with John's opinion. John was happy now and didn't need him.
Except John didn't seem happy. Why? Sherlock was confused. He had done everything in his power to ensure John's happiness, so why did John not seem so?
Maybe John was missing the thrill of the chase, the feel of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Yes, this seemed the most likely thing. So Sherlock let him in on the Magnussen case, involving breaking into his office with a fake engagement to Mary's maid of honour. John looked affronted on behalf of Janine, but Sherlock could not have cared less. He did not care for Janine, just as John did not care for Sherlock in that way.
And then he was shot, by none other than Mrs Watson. Sherlock could never have imagined this outcome. As the bullet entered his body, Sherlock felt himself falling, and leaving John Watson for the second time.
He nearly let himself be taken by the darkness engulfing him, but John would be in danger if he left, and nothing could be allowed to happen to John. It is with this thought, provide by his inner-Moriarty, that spurred him to get back to the surface of consciousness and live. He fought hard, and he fought for John, he needed to keep John safe.
Revealing to John that his attempted murderer was actually his wife was the hardest thing that Sherlock had ever done in his life, because he knew it was going to hurt John. So Sherlock sat with them both, he stayed clam, he was the strength when John could not be strong, despite the fact that he was bleeding internally, but that was okay, because John needed him, and Sherlock would not let him down.
It was only another stay in the hospital and several months away from Mary that Sherlock finally managed to convince John to forgive his wife. She could make John happy, John loved her, she loved John and they were expecting a child together. And now Mary could also provide John with adventure and the sense of danger that he had so obviously been missing before. They were perfectly suited to each other, and Sherlock was redundant. The couple reunited at Christmas, which was horribly cliché, but if it made John happy, Sherlock was not going to complain. What he was going to complain about would be the pitying looks both his mother and father gave him every time he was within a close proximity of the former army doctor. Of course they knew, Sherlock could not hide anything from them, he had never been able to. His parents meant well, he knew that, which is why he still felt slightly guilty about drugging their punch, but he had important business to attend to.
And then came Sherlock's final sacrifice for the man he loved. Sherlock shot Magnussen. It was the only way to ensure Mary's safety, and thus the safety of John and their unborn baby. Killing Magnussen was the only solution. So Sherlock gave up everything, his freedom, his entire life to keep John safe once again, and pulled the trigger.
Whilst being detained, Mycroft came to visit Sherlock to discuss their options, like there was a choice. Sherlock knew there was only one option available to him, as Mycroft had mentioned at Christmas. Sherlock would have to travel back to Eastern Europe to complete an undercover, and fatal mission, with no chance of returning. Sherlock accepted. There was nothing for him here. The work didn't matter anymore, not when John was not a part of it. He didn't have anyone, not even John.
He waited patiently on the tarmac for the Watsons to arrive, knowing full well that this would be his last conversation with them. A heavily pregnant Mary reached him first. They exchanged pleasantries before she moved aside so John could take her place. Sherlock dismissed his brother, pleading to let him have some privacy during their final moments together. Mycroft knew what Sherlock was planning to do; he knew Sherlock was finally going to tell John. After a quick look of surprise, Mycroft lead himself and Mary away from the two men so they could talk in peace.
"So, here we are."
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
"That's the whole of it – if you're looking for baby names."
"No, we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl."
"Oh. Okay." Sherlock smiled, he could just picture her now, a tiny, blonde haired girl, a perfectly formed figure with deep blue eyes and a smile that could melt hearts. Sherlock imagined for a moment what it could be like to have a family with John, but it hurt, knowing the reality he was facing.
"Yeah. Actually, I can't think of a single thing to say.
"No, neither can I."
"The game is over.
"The game is never over, John but there may be some new players now. It's okay. The East Wind takes us all in the end."
"What's that?"
"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me."
"Nice."
"He was a rubbish big brother." They both smiled, John refusing to meet Sherlock's eyes.
"So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?"
"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe." Sherlock ignored the images of Serbia that flashed through his mind, focusing only on the man before him.
"For how long?"
Sherlock looked slightly above John's head so as not to meet his eyes. John obviously still hoped that Sherlock would be coming back alive. Sherlock could not bear to reveal the truth to him. "Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."
"And then what?"
"Who knows?"
Sherlock took a deep breath. If he didn't say it now he never would.
"John, there's something ... I should say; I-I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." Sherlock looked to John, saw him staring expectantly back at him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mary, her red coat accentuating her pregnant form, reminding Sherlock of everything John wanted and could have, just not with Sherlock. Sherlock wanted John to be happy, and he knew that he could not do that. So he changed his mind at the last moment.
"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."
John laughed, and Sherlock felt a spark of pride for being the one responsible for that laugh. The stored the sound in his mind palace, knowing that he would replay t to himself over the course of the next few months, and if he had he way, it would be the last thing he remembered before he took his final breath.
"It's not."
"It was worth a try."
"We're not naming our daughter after you."
"I think it could work." Then at least there would be somebody in the world with the name Sherlock Watson.
They laughed together for a few moments, before Sherlock offered his hand to John.
"To the very best of times, John."
John took his hand after a moment of hesitation. Sherlock felt the warmth of John's skin seem through his palm. He wanted nothing more than to pull him into a tight embrace and keep him there forever. But John Watson was not his, and therefore he did not have the right to make suha request of him.
Instead, Sherlock turned and boarded the plane, making his way towards certain death. He allowed the tears to flow freely as the plane took off, there was no-one here to judge him now. HE bought his hand up to his lips, the one John had held not moments before, and tried to imagine the feel of his skin, to imagine that it was John's kiss goodbye. But after only a few moments of tense silence, Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by a man offering him a phone.
"Sir? It's your brother."
"Mycroft?
"Hello, little brother. How is the exile going?"
"I've only been gone four minutes."
"Well, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed."
"Oh, for God's sake. Make up your mind. Who needs me this time?"
"England."
And with that, the plane turned in the air and began descending. Sherlock looked out of the window and saw the familiar redof Mary's coat, and the figure beside her that must have been John.
John.
Sherlock took in a gasp of air.
John.
He was going home, he was going back to John. He buried his face in his hands and tried to keep the tears at bay, only one thought echoing around his mind.
John.
"Everyone I've ever loved has left me lonely
Every time I let it go I'm high and dry
Every time I think I'm one and only
I find myself alone not knowing why
All the mystery and the magic
You light up what once was tragic
And I know that I will miss you when you're gone
I could never have imagined
All the heavens pour with passion
But I know that I will miss you when you're gone"
When You're Gone – Paloma Faith.
I love Paloma Faith's music, but this one just stuck with me, and I could imagine it for John and Sherlock.
I'm not very experienced in writing Johnlock, but I am experienced in loving someone who doesn't love you back. So this fic has been very therapeutic for me, and I hope it was okay to read as well. Any and all feedback is appreciated. Thanks to my amazing friend Jennie who proof-read this for me, and supports everything I do, all my love to her.
Thank you xxx