Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.
~Bruce Lee
John
He straightens his spine, squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath as he lets all the walls he built around his heart collapse before he speaks. At least, he tries to speak because his mouth opens but no words come out.
You can still go back, he thinks.
No, you can't, another thought follows it.
Because it's Sherlock and Sherlock knows his father and he knows him too. If John turns away from him now he will lose Sherlock forever. Turning away from his love now would be like choosing Mary over Sherlock when Sherlock returned. Would be like going back to a flat that while comfortable and spacious never felt like home, with the woman he believed at the time that he loved instead of coming back to Baker Street. It would be like proposing to Mary again. Like asking Sherlock to be the best man at his wedding, to stand beside him while he was marrying someone else.
I've never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you.
Get away from me, John! Stay well back!
Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now.
And then there's this.
John, there's something ... I should say; I-I've meant to say always and then I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now. Sherlock is actually a girl's name.
Voice soft and unsure. Hesitating in the way he never had. The pause after 'I might as well say it now'. Sherlock's lips moving to follow with the comment that Sherlock is actually a girl's name but there's something weird about the way Sherlock's mouth is forming words. Because that's not how one speaks Sherlock. Because it wasn't Sherlock that was supposed to leave Sherlock's mouth, it was an...
I…
I love you.
I love you, John.
Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson ... would you mind if we took a moment?
They never said it at loud, never acknowledged what six months undercover in Eastern Europe actually meant. But they both knew what was Sherlock's penance for protecting Mary. A suicide mission that would prove to be fatal to him around the time Mycroft had estimated.
Culverton Smith's voice.
Leave him be.
And then Sherlock's, eyes searching his.
No, it's-it's okay. Let him do what he wants.
He's entitled.
I killed his wife.
Except it wasn't Mary that Sherlock killed. He couldn't predict that Mary would jump in front of a bullet. He couldn't prevent it from happening.
But Sherlock did kill John's spouse. One, that at the time wasn't one, but one with whom John could picture spending the rest of his life. He could imagine themselves growing old together, running all over London, all over the country. Solving cases, chasing criminals, laughing in inappropriate places over stuff only they could understand.
Sherlock killed himself and even over two years since he returned John couldn't bring himself to forgive him for that. So it was easy to say it.
Yes, you did.
But Sherlock forgave him leaving him for someone else and beating him into a bloody pulp. He continued to put John, his safety and what he perceived as his happiness first. Always.
How many times can a heart be shattered and still be pieced back together? How many times before the damage is irreparable? When comes the point when the love and devotion turns into resentment or indifference?
Now, he realises and he closes his eyes. If you will walk away from this room now you will most certainly lose him forever.
He takes another deep breath and opens his eyes as he slowly licks his lips, stepping closer to Sherlock.
He clears his throat.
Stop stalling Watson. Just say it.
But how? What sort of words he should use to make it abundantly clear to Sherlock that he was and still is the love of his goddamn life.
Then it comes to him. So he tries again.
He takes a deep breath and looks into Sherlock's eyes, open wide and unblinking. Steeling himself for the blow he believes is coming…
So John opens his mouth and he knows what he should say.
"Sherlock," he pauses and draws another deep breath, "there's something ..." another pause, "I should say; I-I've meant to say always and then I never have," he pauses again and draws another deep breath. " I might as well say it now," another pause and a deliberate one. "Hamish is actually a girl's name," he finishes.
Sherlock blinks and out of his mouth flies, "No, it's not."
"It was worth a try," John smiles as he slowly reaches with his hands for Sherlock's. "I think that it could work," he adds as his fingers curl around Sherlock's palms. "Sherlock Watson," he whispers softly.
"John," Sherlock breaths out. "I don't… I don't understand."
"I know," sighs John as looks down at their joined hands as he raises them up to their heart levels. "I made it abundantly clear to you before," he grimaces. "I lied. To you. To the world. But above all, I kept lying to myself that from the very moment I met you, you haven't become the most important person in my life. That you still are," he pauses and looks up into Sherlock's eyes. "I love you. I love you, Sherlock," he whispers. "And if you let me I will spend the rest of my life at proving it to you," he adds even more softly. Then, barely audible even to his own ears he adds, "My love."
Sherlock blinks, not a singular blink but several times in a rapid succession before his knees suddenly buckle and he starts falling. But this time, unlike the last one, John is there to catch him before he hits the floor.
He catches him and pulls him towards the bed. Just far enough so they can both sit on it before he pulls Sherlock closer and Sherlock just collapses into him, shoulders shaking, head wedged underneath John's chin as his hands fist themselves into the fabric of John's shirt where it meets with his trousers.
It doesn't take long for the moisture of Sherlock's tears to penetrate the fabric of John's shirt and instinctively John's arm tighten around Sherlock's shoulders. It's not a reaction he expected but he does understand it.
Oh, my love, how tightly you kept it locked at the bottom of your heart believing that you will never ever have a chance to have it. Not even allowing yourself to even hope for it. Saving the words of your love until the final farewell but covering the love confession with a joke because you couldn't bring yourself to say it.
"My love," whispers John into Sherlock's hair, allowing his hands to rub hopefully comforting circles over Sherlock's back while Sherlock wraps his arms around John's middle. "My love," he repeats rubbing his chin gently against Sherlock's chair as he gently starts swaying them gently from side to side. "My love," he whispers before he presses a soft kiss into Sherlock's hair, smelling minty scent of John's own shower gel which Sherlock used this morning to wash his hair. "It's okay, my love."
"It's not okay," mumbles Sherlock into John's shirt.
John sighs and whispers, "No. But it is what it is."
The pauses to take a deep breath and then whispers, "It is nonsense, says reason. It is what it is, says love. It is calamity, says calculation. It is nothing but pain, says fear. It is hopeless, says insight. It is what it is says love. It is ludicrous, says pride. It is foolish, says caution. It is impossible says experience It is what it is, says love."
Sherlock's shoulders start shaking even harder.
"My love," he says softly, he's still rubbing Sherlock's shoulders as he does. "My love. Sherlock, my dearest love. It's okay, my love, it's okay."
Sherlock
My love.
My love.
Sherlock, my dearest love.
It's okay, my love, it's okay.
I love you.
I love you, Sherlock.
And if you let me I will spend the rest of my life at proving it to you, my love.
My love.
My love.
Sherlock, my love.
He has to be dreaming it or imagining it. John confessed his love to him.
It can't be real. John loves him, he knows this much, as a dear friend but not as a lover. He just can't. John's friendship is all that he has and the most he's allowed to have. He can't have John's love, he can't.
Maybe in a different universe, one in which he didn't take a head dive from a tall building and left John alone with his grief for over two years he would be allowed to have more of John's love. But not here.
It has to be a dream. A hallucination caused by the mixture of chemicals that affect neurotransmitters and are messing with his head. His heart is trying to beat out of his chest and he can barely breath. Perhaps he's having a heart-attack. A massive one because he did screwed himself over with the amount of drugs he took in the past few weeks.
Maybe he's dying.
"I love you," John whispers into his hair.
Perhaps he is, but it's such a blissful way to go. One through which he's accompanied by John's love. He's dying in the arms of a man he loves and as much as it hurts that he's leaving John he can't remember feeling more happier than this.
John loves him. For this brief moment before everything will fade around him John loves him.
It's a pity that he has to die, that he won't see Josie growing up, like he didn't get a chance to see Daisy. But John will take care of Josie for him, he will tell her stories about him, he will tell her the tale of her mother's bravery and what kind of an idiot her grandfather sometimes was. She will be fine. Katie will be fine. John will be fine, eventually. When Sherlock died for the first time he was alone but he's not alone now. He will have Katie and Josie and with Josie will come Mummy and Daddy, Hudders too, they won't let John fall again into overwhelming grief…
"I love you, Sherlock," says John. "I love you. You were my whole world, you still are and you always will be. I will spend the rest of my life at proving it to you that you are worth it," he pauses. "You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known and you still are. You deserve the world, Sherlock, you deserve happiness, you deserve your dreams becoming true. It's just me who's utterly unworthy of you…"
It cannot be. He's dying, it's his death and he doesn't want John to put himself down while he does. It's his dying hallucination and he wants it to go without it.
Fuck it.
"You were mine too," Sherlock whispers. "I didn't plan for it," he admits. "One day you were handing me your phone, the next you killed a man for me and before I realised what happened you became the centre of my world, John. Such integral part of me that I could barely remember myself from before meeting you. Your mere presence in my life changed me. Made me a better man. No one ever before made me wish to become the man they thought I was. But you had. I love you too," he sniffles. "I love you more that life itself," he sighs. "It's a pity that I'm only allowed to have this now."
"What do you mean?" John asks softly.
"I'm dying, John," sighs Sherlock.
John's reaction is nearly immediate. His hands leave Sherlock's back and moving to straighten him up.
Sherlock immediately grieves the loss but he allows John to pull him upright. At least now he can look into John's eyes. John has such a beautiful eyes and if Sherlock could be allowed he would spend the rest of his life gazing in them. It's not that he has a lot of it left anyway.
John's right hand steadies his shoulder, keeping him upright while John's left hand goes to Sherlock's carotid artery. He's taking Sherlock's pulse and he's frowning.
"Your pulse is elevated but not drastically," says John softly. "What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asks in concern as he looks into Sherlock's eyes. "Are you hurting?"
"No, I'm not," sighs Sherlock. "But this can't be real, John. It just can't. So the only explanation I have is that I'm dying."
John takes a deep breath and presses their foreheads together. His right arm is still resting on Sherlock's left shoulder while his left hand cups Sherlock's chin.
"You're dying and I'm in love with an idiot," John breaths out. "But you're my idiot, my love," he adds fondly as his right hand slide down Sherlock's arm, making Sherlock shudder, until his palm rests over Sherlock's and his fingers slide under Sherlock's long-sleeved undershirt as his left hand slides from underneath his chin towards the back of Sherlock's neck.
Then unthinkable happens. John's thumb and forefinger pinch Sherlock's forearm a little above the wrists. Hard.
"Ouch," Sherlock yelps as he attempts to pull away from John but John's hand on his neck is holding him firmly in place. "What that was for?"
"Reality check," whispers John.
What?!
"If you're dying then so am I," adds John. "And I know that I'm not. Trust me, Sherlock, I'm a doctor."
What the hell?
"I know that you are," says Sherlock feeling utterly confused.
"Are you with me now?" asks John fondly.
"Yes," answers Sherlock unsurely. "Am I?" he asks John. "John?"
"Oh, Sherlock, my love," exhales John as he tilts his head and Sherlock can smell tea on his breath.
He breaths it out against Sherlock's lips millisecond before his lips press against Sherlock's and then it hits Sherlock. If this wasn't real he wouldn't be able to smell John but he does. Tea, minty shampoo and just a hint of John's generic aftershave.
It's real. John mouth is pressed against Sherlock's lips and he's kissing him. John is kissing him which means that…
My love.
I love you, Sherlock.
My love.
… it's real. John loves him, John is in love with him. John. Is. In. Love. With. Him.
He can have this. He can have John as his lover. He can have John's love and he can openly show his love for John.
So he presses his lips against John a little firmer, puckering up to draw John's bottom lip between his. John tastes like tea and cheese sandwich, like home, like eternity he's now allowed to have.
It feels like death followed by a swift resurrection because John loves him. John's mouth is moving against his, John's tongue is flicking gently against his lips, delving deeper in Sherlock's mouth.
Pulling away.
No, he cannot allow it. He chases John's lips with his stopping only when John mouths something against his lips.
My love.
"My love," Sherlock echoes. "My John, my love," he mumbles against John's lips. "I love you, my love."
"I know," whispers John against his lips and he smiles into the kiss.
There's something in there but he can ask John about it later, it can wait. This cannot.
So he lets his hand reach for John's face as he leans forward because he wants to bury himself into John. Into the warmth and light and peace that John is to him. His love, his John, his perfect John. His other half, his partner, his best friend, his lover, his John.
His head begins to swim and reluctantly he pulls away from John because he doesn't want to faint. If he had, he would be missing this wonder that's kissing John.
They breath against each other, their foreheads are pressed together, arms wrapped tightly around each other.
This is heaven. Not that he believes in God. But there has to be some metaphorical place of utter happiness and joy that one can access in moments like this.
Perhaps that's why it just slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself, "Marry me."
As soon as it leaves his mouth he wants to kick himself in the head or maybe stuff his foot into his mouth for not having control over it. People don't do that, they don't confess their love for one another on nearly the same breath as they ask their loved ones for spending the rest of their lives with them.
Idiot.
"Oh, God, yes," John breaths fervently against his lips before he surges forward.
They tumble backwards on the bed, with John above him. Something tumbles on the floor too, he has no idea what and doesn't really care.
It's not exactly the most comfortable position because their legs are dangling over the edge of the bed at a weird angle, Sherlock's at the very least do. He quickly rectifies it though, pulling himself higher towards the middle of the bed. John follows suit, with his mouth and his body, pressing Sherlock against the mattress.
He was wrong earlier because this is heaven. John on top of him, a solid, comforting weight all over his body and the exquisite feeling of John's penis against his own, even though the restraining fabric of two pairs of trousers.
John kisses his lips, his cheeks, kissing away the traces of tears. His hands roam all over Sherlock's body, from his knees, up his torso to his arms and face and into his hair.
Sherlock feels drunk on love and pleasure because John is where Sherlock always wanted him to be, with him and he loves him so much that his heart might break into pieces.
Then the benediction comes against the side of his left ear.
"My love," John whispers into it.
"My love," Sherlock echoes. "My John, my love."
"Oh, my love," John sighs against the place where Sherlock's jaw meets his ear. "My brilliant, beautiful, precious love," he kisses the same place again.