John hadn't meant to ask. Even as the words were leaving his mouth he wanted to stuff them back in, swallow them and forget them forever.
"If I quit?" Sherlock asked, the thick syrup of his derision condensing on the final stupid, stupid word. He was lying on the sofa, meditating on the greatest game of his life. His eyes snapped open, flicked narrowly at John— What are you playing at, interrupting me?— and snapped shut again, quicker than a camera flash. "Why on earth would I do that?"
John flopped into the armchair that had become his armchair. "Well, someone is strapping bombs on people—"
Sherlock held up a finger. "Wait, wait, we've been over this. What did I say now? Oh yes, I remember." He dropped the finger and finished bluntly, like an axe chopping wood. "I don't care. Really, some sense of honor you have there, soldier. People's lives are at stake, and you want me to quit," he said, almost spitting out bile instead of syllables. "Shut up and let me do my job."
John gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, practiced all the survival techniques he relied on daily to live with Sherlock. "What I mean is that—"
"What you mean is that I'm playing directly into a madman's hands."
Of course he already knew. "It's sick, Sherlock! It's a sick, mad game, and if you just quit, then—"
Sherlock swung his legs off the couch and began to pace in front of the papered-up windows. The setting sun glared bright and golden through the clear winter evening. John had to squint to catch sight of Sherlock's thin shadow flitting back and forth.
"Then I wouldn't even be losing the game, John, I'd be giving up."
John didn't understand this part of Sherlock, the part that let him risk everything— even what wasn't his to risk— when there was a safer way. It should be a logical enough deduction for Sherlock bloody Holmes. "So it's all about the winning then?"
"Yes!" He roared. The sound ripped from the center of that part John didn't know and carried all the power of Sherlock's spirit with it. He stopped in front of John, just where his face cleared from shadow, and pointed down at him like an angry god. "And don't play the innocent with me—you love this game as much as I do. I saw it in your hands the first night. They didn't shake."
"Well, Sherlock," John scoffed, "they're shaking now!" He held them up in front of his face. Exhibit A.
Sherlock wasn't about to start the bad habit of ignoring clear evidence. He dropped the accusatory finger and asked, "Is that why you're asking me to quit? Are you a coward now?"
That's not why John's hands were shaking. They were shaking in anticipated pain. He could feel the final syllables of his self-crucifixion driving nails of hard adrenaline into his extremities. He slammed his hands on the armrests and shouted, "It's because I love you, you bloody fool!"
He fixed his eyes on Sherlock's. Here came the hammer blows. "Or because I want to love you, and I can't."
"You can't," Sherlock repeated. His tone had recoiled from fury to a tense, frozen kind of vigilance, like a knife balanced on its point. He was on guard, and John couldn't have read his face even if his tongue hadn't been distracting him by flopping around in his mouth, maniacally possessed and saying hopeless things. He fell back limply into the chair and rubbed his hand on his forehead to steady himself. His soul had flown from his body— it was in someone else's control now: Sherlock's, God's, a demon's, the bomber's, who knew?
John barked out a short, angry laugh, because Sherlock needed more clues to solve the puzzle that had been at his heels constantly for the past few weeks without him even noticing. "Yeah, I can't," he said slowly and regretfully. "You're married to your work— really— you're a bloody island. You're always alone. I don't know where your work stops and your loneliness starts. Nothing can touch you—"
"No one can touch me."
John stopped short at that cold voice.
"Believe me, John, who you're asking me to be, you wouldn't like him."
"But I could love him," John said, lifting his eyes up again. He felt better—that was his tongue that said those words, said them honestly and proudly and plainly.
"No."
John blinked. "No?" he repeated dubiously. "Just no? Can I get a why, at least?"
Sherlock didn't reply. He looked at John with his head reared back a little—he looked calculating, intense and faraway. He looked like he always did.
After a few empty seconds, John reminded him softly, "And don't just say no again, please. All my cards are on the table." He deserved it. And he wouldn't beg for it anymore, not if he deserved it.
"Do you know the premise behind Lestrade's annoying little drug bust? Did Anderson tell you?"
"No, he didn't, actually. I don't know anything."
Sherlock smirked ruefully. "It was cocaine. Marijuana wasn't enough for me, nor mushrooms, nor any of the other toys that keep small minds occupied." He held up a hand, interrupting John's pained, questioning look. "I've been clean for years now—I've been alone for years now. Ever since I found that the inside of a police file was far more entertaining than that of a syringe or piece. My solitude is the best thing that ever happened to me."
"Drugs don't equal people, Sherlock."
"But they do make the company of the pea-brained more tolerable."
John did the teeth-gritting and the fist-clenching, but this was enough abuse for one day. "Okay, I'm going out. I may not be back for… ever." He began to stand.
But Sherlock did something John didn't expect. He dropped suddenly to crouch in front of John, put his hands on the other man's knees to stop him, and said, "It's a good thing you can't love me." Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against John's. It was so gentle, and it was over so fast, that John felt himself grasping at the minutiae of the memory before the moment had even passed.
"I'm sorry I called you a coward," Sherlock whispered after he drew away. He stood up and left John in a room glowing dimly with the last rays of the sun.
"That's alright," John breathed.
Fin
My thanks to A.S. Byatt, who brought me to peace with my own solitude. I would highly recommend her book Possession to anyone.