The words were like a kick in the stomach to him, leaving him gasping for air. His lips parted, attempted to form words, but it was futile. Everything was futile at the time, it seemed. Sherlock watched him, his eyes empty, yet filled with hope. Hope that John would reply, hope that John would say nothing and just rush forward into his arms, hope that if words were exchanged they were deep and meaningful, and not just masked excuses to leave. His eyes said all of this. Eyes like faded blue forget-me-nots that burned into people's minds, prying. With those eyes he could take down the entire royal family, John was sure. Although they were probably his best weapon, they were also his biggest weakness. Even when they were heavily guarded and steely, John could see what he thought, other people didn't, but John did. They were open to him, as Sherlock stood there, looking at him, hoping. They were open and so trusting, so very trusting that John would never hurt him. He did not see it, but a strong, glowing bond passed from eye to eye between them. It was not unlike dreams he'd had before, except then he could see it, and comprehend his own feelings, but now…. His eyes closed off his soul from the rest of him, the celestial field building between them breaking. "I can't."
John clasped his hands into shy fists, looking down, away from Sherlock. "I know." The crack in the other man's voice surprised him. He looked up, guiltily into Sherlock's eyes. Their silver irises shining with the fresh tears welling, and the way he clenched his jaw and bit his lower lip, it was all too much. John stepped closer, involuntarily extending his hand towards Sherlock's face. "Don't." was all he could say, "Please, don't." Sherlock shook his head, blinking, causing the tears to roll down his face, trying to form words without his voice shaking. John tried to look away again, but Sherlock's hand against his chin, pushing his face gently upward stopped him. "How can you do this to me? Hardened criminals who can act better Sir Ian Mckellen have tried and failed, so how did you succeed? How?" Sherlock laughed through the tears, still pleadingly gazing at John. He lost it then, unable to even keep his steady grip on John's face.
Watching Sherlock cry was like watching a building collapse, and in a way, that building was his tough outer shell. When Sherlock cried, he threw down door to his closet of secrets, and everything that had ever hurt him or worried him came out all at once. Sherlock collapsed into John's shoulder, expelling tears uncontrollably. John could think of nothing to say, nothing that would comfort him except saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." over and over again. It was becoming obvious that time had not been kind to Sherlock, and John had become part of the group of people who made it that way. He muttered a curse into Sherlock's hair, giving up with the words because he knows they do nothing. He didn't mean to hurt him, not at all. He wished Sherlock hadn't ever found the note, and that it could have just stayed hidden, yellowing with age and blending in with the old wood. He wished he could have found someone else to live with, someone like Anderson, maybe. Someone he could inwardly hate and hold polite, forced conversations with. He hadn't expected someone so unusual, so wonderfully strange. He especially hadn't expected someone who could understand what went through his head even when he didn't speak or show it on his face. He absent mindedly stroked the back of Sherlock's neck, silently appreciating the smoothness of the skin there. Sherlock's cries subsided, he relaxed into the touch gratefully.
The moment was beautiful, at least, in his mind. The room around him that had felt so cold and so empty when he first walked inside that day felt cozy again, warm again. Dark walls surrounded him still, so much like Sherlock's mind, which he was wrapped in, like a dark silk blanket. John lost his heart in that moment; he completely ignored the existence of time and other people. He lifted Sherlock's face in his hands, gazing into the clear eyes still wet with tears. He almost spoke, almost told Sherlock that he was beautiful, and almost told him that he loved him. He could have, and perhaps it would have changed something…but he knew deep down that nothing would have changed at all. Sherlock's forehead touched his, interrupting his thoughts. His eyes continued to shine, like great luminescent stars in the darkest night. There were no words to describe him for John. No phrases, paragraphs, or even the most profound poetry. Sherlock tilted his face sideways, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of John's mouth. He hesitated slightly, pressing another to the spot between John's ear and jaw muscle. His lips lingered, to feel the pulse that beat so quickly.
John resisted, his thoughts coming back to him as if from nowhere, but it was a rather hopeless resistance. "Sherlock, please. I-I….." the detective's curious gaze silenced him. Sherlock wordlessly pulled John's phone from his pocket, texted at an incredible speed, and then tossed it behind him. "What did you just…?" John attempted to peer behind him to see where the phone had gone, but Sherlock kept their eyes locked. Sherlock looked into the sunlight leaking through the curtains just behind John's head. It hadn't occurred to him how much time he'd spent with Sherlock at the apartment on Baker Street, but it mostly certainly was sunset. John turned about to watch it, his own face shining brilliantly in the sun. A smile, small though it was, crept over his features, and lit up his eyes. He turned to look at the man beside him, who was lit up and glowing as pale as the moon. Sherlock looked back at him; leaning so close that John could feel the heat radiating from his face. He touched his lips to John's shyly, as though testing icy waters. The sun which had been shielded by the clouds earlier that day shone its golden light onto the city, it was indeed beautiful, but John didn't see. The sun held little comparison to the moon, after all.
A/N:Anyone remember that beautiful moonlit shot from the un-aired pilot? Gotta love it. I'm thinking that maybe it's time Mycroft and Harry get their own narratives. It's also probably time for a mystery…..What do you guys think?