AN: Hey guys. I don't exactly know where the inspiration for this one came from. It was one of those late night things where I just had a lot of angsty Johnlock feels. John's chapter will be up within a few days.
Sherlock swallowed tensely as he watched the grainy video feed on the monitor in front of him. He shot his older brother a murderous look, only to have Mycroft return the glare tenfold. Why was he showing him this, a video feed of John in their flat at 221B? The man sat alone in his favorite armchair and stared blankly at the wall.
"When did you have a camera installed Mycroft?" he asked bitterly. "Or, more importantly, why?"
"Why, Sherlock? Why? Really?" his brother returned.
Sherlock sighed. It wasn't exactly his most eloquent comeback.
"Look at him," Mycroft continued. "He does that every evening. You're going to lose him if you don't stop acting like a prat."
And that's when Sherlock saw it. He leaned in towards the small screen. Yes, it had just been a flash, the quick glint of metal, but there was no denying it. A handgun rested in the lap of John Watson. His index finger stroked the trigger absentmindedly. The doctor's muscles were tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes unfocused. Sherlock drew in a breath. Surely, it couldn't be. Surely the good doctor would never—
John placed the gun to his lips. The movement was subtle, not a violent barrel-to-teeth action, but it spoke volumes to Sherlock Holmes. It showed a man who was tired, a man who was on the verge of giving up. It showed him how lost he had left his only friend.
For the first time ever, Sherlock was ashamed of himself.
"As well you should be," Mycroft interjected, reading his brother's emotions. "You're being selfish."
Sherlock felt the look of disdain darken his features. How dare Mycroft berate him about John? He knew nothing of the situation. He couldn't come back, not yet. The timing wasn't right. And he voiced just as much to that irritating gnat that shared his blood.
"Oh come off it, Sherlock. The right time for you will be too late for John. It's time you stopped hiding like a child and face your problems."
"What do you care of John and my problems, Mycroft?" he hissed. He had never taken his eyes off the video feed. He was watching John's every movement, waiting for something dreadful to happen but hoping with every fiber of his being that it wouldn't.
"I care when your narcissistic actions push a desperate man to committing suicide! You care for John. And for the life of me I can't figure out why, but he cares for you. Now I don't care that you have to hide form the rest of the world but there is no logical explanation as to why you have to hide from Dr. Watson."
Sherlock sat there as his brother scolded him. He felt a flush of embarrassment color his face. He was confused as to what he felt for John Watson. Not confused in the sense that ordinary people, dull-witted people, are. No, Sherlock knew what he felt, but not what it implied. He cared for John. That was true. Currently, he felt so worried about the man's well-being he was actually a little nauseas. The pang in his chest as he watched John walk away from his grave all those months ago was a clear indication that his friend had become more than his friend.
But that complicated matters and so he hesitated. He'd had to falsely confess to the only person who had ever believed in him that he'd been a fraud. He'd had to discredit himself to the one man who hadn't shied away from his… eccentricities. How could he go back to him after that?
"He doesn't want to see me," Sherlock muttered.
"For goodness' sake, Sherlock, does that look like a man who doesn't want to see you?"
Sherlock tried not to let his emotions show, as they were weak points, and he'd be damned if he let Mycroft see his weak points. "I lied to him. I'm not who he now thinks I am." He let his eyes stray from the screen to the floor.
"You won't know what he thinks of you unless you ask him," Mycroft countered. "Look, Sherlock, we could go all ten rounds about this. I just wanted to make you aware of what your decision has led to. Do with it what you will."
Mycroft strode from the room. Sherlock watched him go. Then he looked back to the monitor. John had lowered the gun, but it still sat in his lap, looking menacing. Sherlock sat there a moment more before he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his phone. He opened a message to a number he had often looked at, but hadn't sent to in months.
Angelo's. Twenty Minutes.
SH
Sherlock watched the screen and the blurry form of John as he waited for him to receive the message. There was a fuzzy ding from the speakers and the doctor jumped. He picked up the mobile device sitting on the coffee table and there was a moment of utter silence. Sherlock held his breath. John sat, completely frozen, for a full minute before he dropped the phone. The sound of plastic clattering on the floor seemed to shake him from his shock. John was standing in a flash. He moved quickly towards the door, off camera, but Sherlock caught a muffled shout that made him give a hopeful grin.
"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out. Don't wait up!"
Sherlock got up and switched off the monitor, but not before casting one last glance to John's favorite armchair, and the handgun resting forgotten on the cushion.
