Inspired by Neil Gaiman's quote 'I don't really know what 'I love you' means. I think it means 'don't leave me here alone.'
I don't know what happened here, other than today has been a long day.
Sherlock doesn't even know why they were fighting - he hadn't really been paying that much attention to what John was talking about, just humming in all the right moments with the expressed purpose of avoiding conflict. And yet here he was, stood in the living room with a mug gripped in a white knuckled hand watching the doctor pace backwards and forwards, waving arms and words around in his fury.
"Do you even listen when I tell you not to run off like that? Do you have any idea how it feels to watch you run after an armed criminal when you're completely defenceless?" John was very angry, that was clear. His teeth were worrying his lip to the point it looked like it was going to bleed and his whole body trembled with nervous energy, entirely unable to stay still.
Ok so running after a serial killer without backup probably hadn't been the brightest idea he'd ever had but it had paid off hadn't it? The criminal had been brought to justice and the only cost had been Sherlock's broken arm (which incidentally he was furious about, he should have been able to dodge the bookshelf that had been thrown at him); he didn't understand what John was taking issue with.
"I couldn't just let him get away!" He defended, aware that he sounded more petulant than he would wish.
"You could have been killed Sherlock! Do you have any idea what that would mean?"
And if he was honest, the answer was no. His death wasn't something he had thought about much once he had gotten off the drugs - he toyed with death on an almost daily basis. It hadn't stopped him before.
"You'd have to find somewhere else to live?" He suggested. He wasn't really sure what made him say it and he knew as soon as the words were out that it was the worst possible thing that could have passed his lips. The doctor went rigid, everything stilling in the wake of such surprised fury before he took a measured step backwards, away from the detective.
For the first time ever, Sherlock hadn't got a clue what he was thinking.
"That's what you-" He cut himself off with a strangled growl of rage. "Do you have any idea what you do to people? How poisonous you are?"
On some level Sherlock knew that John was just lashing out because he was hurt or worried or stressed but in the moment he couldn't quite register that, since his mind - his unstoppable mind - had just run straight into a brick wall.
The detective knew with perfect clarity that he didn't fit with the rest of the world, it was his unique viewpoint that allowed him to make such brilliant deductions but this estranged nature also meant that he was alone; all his life he had been friendless and he had perfected a mask so that no one would know that it actually bothered him.
But it did.
There were the select few of course. No matter what happened he would always feel something towards Mycroft, love or loathing, it was hard to tell. Mrs Hudson was like a personal sun, a small bridge to the real world and she was the best support he could ever ask for. Before John, Lestrade was probably the only person on this Earth that Sherlock would have called a friend and he was fairly sure that the Inspector didn't even really like him all that much. Needed him, sure. Respected him, possibly. But like? That was something that was less easy to define.
And then there came John. Sweet, brilliant John who offered companionship without cost, never asking for recompense for everything Sherlock dragged him through, even having the guts to come out of it smiling. If he had been of such a belief, the detective would have thought him heaven-sent. And Sherlock was still managing to chase him away.
The doctor was picking up his coat, shrugging into it with jerky, angry motions that any fool could read. His face was a study of bitter anger and resentment, interlaced with flecks of hurt and... regret? Sherlock's heart twisted in a way he was oh so unfamiliar with.
"Wait!" He called when John headed for the door without sparing him another glance. "Don't go." It sounded pathetic but what did he care? He never cared what anyone thought about him - except of course the one person that mattered, the one person that was about to walk away from the only real friendship he'd ever had.
"I need to be away from you," was the only reply John gave and then he was gone, ignoring the pleas that followed him all the way to the door.
Sherlock didn't move for a very long time, waiting until the tremors had bled out of him and the exhaustion swept in with warm, heavy arms and then continuing to stand there. John had just left. John might not be coming back.
'Don't be foolish. Of course he'll come back. This is his home,' he told himself, trying to comfort himself in the way he had always had to as a child.
'Didn't mother say the same about her husband?' The self-loathing side of his brain was waking up now, offering barbs and taunts, cutting at every defence he tried to build.
In time he made it to his room, dropping his body onto the mattress like a dead weight and burying his face in his pillow so he wouldn't have to see this world that seemed determined to punish him.
"Why did I say that?" He mumbled quietly, the pillow making the words entirely unintelligible, not that there was anyone there to hear them. "Please don't leave John. Please."
When Sherlock heard the front door opening and John's footsteps on the stairs the next morning he didn't think he'd ever felt so relieved.
It's not great, it's not even good. But there you have it. I was feeling the need for angst.
Once I have my exams out the way (just one more guys!) I fully intend to do a lot more writing. I kind of want to get into Sherlock, explore the characters. I've loved the show from the beginning but I never thought about writing it before now. It's something to play with anyway.