I'd Be Anyone To Be At Your Side.
"I'm leaving."
There are only so many words a person speaks in the course of their life. There's no way of gauging exactly how many each person has. Saying peoples' names alone can take up reams and reams of words that could be used to say other things. Like Don't go. And I never meant to say that. Or I can't live without you.
The thoughts running through Sherlock's brain as the back of John Watson's head began to move away from him were too random and unstructured to be of any use. He had calculations of how many words a man would say in an average lifetime. He thought about the mechanics of hearing and speaking, how the body was controlled by the fleshy organ between his ears, behind his eyes. My eyes are stinging. Don't think about that. Say something! He thought about all the wasted time, about the months and months of sitting in the same room, day after day. Wasted words hanging unsaid in the air around them.
"Fancy a take-away?" He'd say, quiet, unobtrusive. The only person whose voice didn't grate entirely against his nerves. Never grated. Was always a quiet joy. He remembered all the times John had looked after him, had held him when he pushed himself too far, though Sherlock had always pushed him away. How he regretted ever thinking of pushing John away.
"Tea?" John's endless cups of tea. Hot, with a dash of milk and two sugars. And his meticulous cleaning up after himself, making sure the cup was clean and ready for the inevitable next pouring out of Earl Grey with a dash of milk and two sugars. He smells of it all the time. Sherlock was continually aware of the stains on the ends of John's fingers from him braving picking up the still-hot teabag from the scalding spoon.
"Oh Sherlock!" John scolding him for any number of misdemeanours that had seemed necessary at the time. The harsh tone tempered with expecting nothing less and obvious affection. Sherlock thought of the time where John listed things that didn't belong in the fridge. Nicotine patches, removed body parts, toxic chemicals, expired milk. Sherlock never listened. More wasted words, more things that could have been said, that could have been listened to.
He had begun changing the moment John had stepped limped through the door at Bart's. Something about his obvious self assurance and stoic demeanour had changed the way Sherlock spoke to him. His reaction when Sherlock instantly gauged everything about him, and yet nothing important. Sherlock had become something more than a consulting detective, more than a genius and sociopath, more than a lonely man. He had become a human being. He had begun to see and feel things that without John's presence he would have merely dismissed as Dull.
The first time he sat and watched day-time television would have been dull. The first time he noticed John had already left for work at the clinic would have been dull. The times he had lain awake at night wishing he knew what to say would have been dull.
Sherlock thought of all the words he hadn't said. All the times that he could see that little something behind John's eyes. All the times he wanted John.
John Watson. The man who was so strong, and yet so gentle. A man who had survived one war, and thrown himself into another just to follow him. A man who no matter how hard to figure him out eluded Sherlock. He was so real and easy and malleable, and yet so strong. He had stayed through everything. And now he was leaving.
No. Do something, say something. Don't go. I never meant to say that.
"I can't live without you."
The words hung in the air, almost palpable. Filled with all the other words Sherlock would never bring himself to say.
It was enough.
John stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly and faced the man he had put before himself again and again. Their eyes met, and all the trust and longing was still there, tinged with something else.
There was so little space between them that it took nothing for Sherlock to step towards John and close the gap, never breaking his gaze. He tipped his head to the side and placed John's lips against his own. John held him close, desperation colouring the kiss, as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, a silent refusal to let him leave. Yet more words unsaid. Too soon, forever too soon, John put his hands on Sherlock's chest and pushed him slowly and firmly away. Please, not now, please. Sherlock felt his eyes stinging again. John looked down and removed himself from Sherlock's grasp, heaving a sigh.
"I can't, I just- can't."
John turned and left. For the last time.
And all the words that were never said were gone. And Sherlock never wanted to speak again.