Sherlock looked around John's flat, remembering the man had told him his skull remained. John was in his room, busy getting dressed since Sherlock had shown up while it was still dark outside, claiming Lestrade had an important case.
"Important" was a relative term, but Sherlock had wanted the chance to look around John's flat without being observed, and now he had the ability to do so.
There were signs of John's relationship with Mary, but none to indicate the level of commitment they seemed to exude in person. Sherlock wasn't sure if this was because John liked having his space clear (unlikely, considering how he had lived with Sherlock) or if it was an indication that things may not be as easy between the couple as they seemed (desirable, but inconclusive).
Sherlock found his skull and went to pick it up, smiling slightly. He opened his mouth to say some small words of welcome, but then several sheets of paper, held together with tape, fell out.
Sherlock looked at them curiously, bending down to pick them up. He turned the sheets over and was surprised to see his own name, written in John's hand.
The door to John's room opened and Sherlock whirled around, placing the skull back where he found it and slipping the note into his pocket in one fluid motion.
"Alright, let's go." John said, rubbing his face with his hands. Sherlock smiled.
…
It turned out Lestrade's case wasn't quite as urgent as Sherlock had made it seem, and John sulked for most of the cab ride home. Sherlock considered apologizing, but he thought John was being a bit childish crossing his arms and refusing to talk, so he remained quiet.
They pulled up to Baker Street and John was halfway out of the cab before he realized the problem.
"Oh," he said, pausing with his hand on the door. "I'll just go home, then."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "You may come in."
"Right, yeah, but…" John looked up at the window, and Sherlock fancied he saw a bit of longing in his eyes. "I just want to go back to sleep."
"There is still a second bedroom here." Sherlock replied. "And I will be studying this case; I can use your assistance when you wake. It will be simpler if you stay."
John nodded and, since Sherlock had already paid the fare, shut the cab door and followed his friend into what used to be their shared space.
Sherlock watched as John trudged up the second set of stairs and waited until he heard the bedroom door close – then he pulled the letter out of his pocket and reclined on the couch, eager to read.
Sherlock,
Why? That's the biggest thought running through my mind, the question that is tearing me apart. Why? Why did you say those things? Why did you call me? Why did you – the word here is hard to make out, but Sherlock managed – jump?
I've tried to answer it a thousand different ways, but I can't. You are always so logical, but that wasn't logic. I heard your voice. You were in pain. Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?
You're not a machine. I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry I said a lot of things, and I wish I could tell you face-to-face. I wish I could show you that I mean it, that I was wrong and I'm sorry. I just want you back.
Damn you, Sherlock. You're my best friend. You saved me. But then you had to go and do this one your own – you had to let Moriarty get to you. Didn't you see I was there with you every step of the way? You held a gun to my head and I barely even flinched. What the hell, Sherlock?
You never talk. That's the problem. I mean, sure, you talk all the time, but never about anything important. I've lived with you for a while now, and I still don't know so many things. Why are you and Mycroft always fighting? Why don't you talk to your parents? What did you do at university? Why did you start – and stop – doing drugs? I know you better than anyone, and yet I feel like I don't know you at all.
I gave you everything, Sherlock. You were my whole world. And you knew it, too. All those girlfriends – you couldn't get the names straight, but that's because you're an arse. I should have been better, but I wasn't. I came at your beck and call, and I was grateful. I was doing something with purpose again, and you are fascinating. Watching you work is better…well, it's better than anything.
And you just left! One phone call, and then you're gone. I had to watch, Sherlock. I watched you – here the handwriting got incredibly shaky; John was obviously upset – I had to witness that. I felt your lifeless wrist.
I've lost so many people. You know that. You know that and STILL you did what you did. Why did I have to lose you too? This is so much worse, worse than anyone else. And it doesn't make sense! You weren't in danger – how could you be? You're more brilliant than anyone else. I heard it in your voice. You were making a choice, and you chose to go. You tried to smear your own name, lied to me, and then you were just…gone.
I miss you, you idiot. You stupid, stupid man. Did you forget I have a gun? I've had to lock it away to stop myself from using it. But why would you care? You might even support it – after all, suicide was the right choice for you.
I want to believe you're alive. I can't imagine a world without you in it; that's not a world I want to know. I'm scared of what's going to happen. What's going to happen to me. And who's going to stop the criminals now? Lestrade? I can already hear your laughter.
Come back, Sherlock. That's all I want. Take everything else, rip me apart and take me piece by piece – all I ask is that you come back.
Please.
Sherlock can tell there was a pause here, because when John starts writing again his letters are a little more pronounced.
But you can't. I've seen your grave, and all that's left is a slab of black marble. 14 letters – Sherlock Holmes – that's it.
Damn it.
I was going to be with you forever.
John
Sherlock let his hand fall, setting the papers in his lap. His mind was racing. He'd known John was his friend, of course, but he hadn't realized until this moment just how badly John had hurt, or how much Sherlock had meant to him. Sherlock's stomach tightened painfully at John's suicidal thoughts – would he really have considered it?
Yes. Sherlock's knowledge of his friend answered. He'd seen it when they first met, the lack of appetite, psychosomatic limp, trembling hand, and general apathy toward the world. John Watson's PTSD and depression had been a flashing light above his head for the mind of Sherlock Holmes. At first Sherlock had tried to fix John just to see if he could – then he continued to fix him, because he wanted to. He needed his army doctor, whole and well once more.
And then I broke him again.
Sherlock lifted the letter and reread it, his eyes lingering over certain passages. John's parting words, in particular, left quite the impression on Sherlock's mind.
I was going to be with you forever.
They'd never talked about the future. Sherlock had always assumed he'd die early – it wasn't until he'd met John that he considered the alternative. But then, John was so very normal. Surely he would have left Sherlock at some point, found Mary or another woman eventually and settled down, started a family. Sherlock figured they would drift apart, once John was ready to slow down.
Slowing down was not Sherlock's style.
Sherlock laid on the couch for hours, reading and rereading the letter until he had it memorized; then reading it some more. John had said nothing of it after Sherlock's return, perhaps considered it unnecessary, no longer relevant.
Sherlock's mind started to do what it did best – analyze. He slipped into his mind palace and navigated his way to a single room: John's room. His best friend's smiling face greeted him as he opened the door, and Sherlock starting stitching together the data.
All those moments before his fall, the times of high energy and adrenaline, looking at each other in the hallway – obvious chemistry.
John's jealous reactions, hidden behind caring friendship – what normal friend would count the number of times Irene texted him? Territorial male reaction; maybe it wasn't consciously, but John considered Sherlock his.
Absolute confidence and trust; as John said, Sherlock had held a gun to his head and he'd barely flinched. His questions are honest, not mocking, and despite Sherlock's predilection for doing the right thing for the wrong reasons, John sees him as good. Complete belief in a man everyone else labeled as wrong.
This letter.
And since his return, the increase of physical contact, John assuring himself Sherlock is alive. His equal or greater preference for Sherlock's company over Mary's – easily forgetting he no longer lives at 221B, still willing to follow Sherlock on cases, forgetting to call…when they're together, Sherlock is the only one John sees.
All these details and many others came together in Sherlock's head, leading him to the only logical conclusion:
John Watson is in love with me.
A/N: I know, a bit shorter this time. I hope you liked it, regardless!