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If anybody ever told him that a place like this existed, that it existed in London itself, that a person could live in a place like this John Watson wouldn't have believed it and without a second thought would have forgotten it.
But now standing among a cluster of abandoned houses and before an abandoned house with an almost fallen roof, no windows and a door unattached to the frame John not only had to believe that it was possible, he also had to believe that a man, that Sherlock lived here.
John swallowed the lump in his throat as he was let in by Billy who put the detached door to one side and then put it back in place. They were standing in a space which was a ruined living room. Dust, cobweb, darkness, broken pieces of wood, glass and some battered furniture were scattered around.
"This way sir." Said Billy quietly gesturing towards the doorway on the left. This led to another wrecked room.
There was a table by the door with papers, pens, half eaten food and books. There were two chairs here and there. In the middle of the room was a camp bed.
On it was a lean body on his side with his back to them. He was covered only by a wool blanket. His cloths were hanging on the opposite wall, some of it still wet.
"Couldn't keep your promise for one day. Could you doctor Watson? "
John tried very hard to steady himself. But he couldn't help the pain which suddenly surged through his heart, seeing this man in this surrounding. John felt miserable.
"Did you like the flowers?"
"Should have bought medicine instead." John said swallowing hard.
The figure turned towards them. Billy swiftly put a chair next to the bed, gesturing John to sit.
Sherlock gave John a worn look, he smirked, but feebly. The haughtiness was subdued by the sickness. But it was still there.
"I see you have brought it yourself."
John didn't get the meaning at first.
"One bullet can cure all the sickness in this world." Sherlock drawled.
John looked away. If only I could.
Sherlock gave that all knowing smile that John hated so much. It was getting awkward and John wanted to get away from it all as soon as possible. He went and sat down on the offered chair. As if on cue Sherlock stretched out a hand from under the blanket and laid it on John's thigh.
Before his heart could react to the touch John went in doctor mode. He took the hand in order to take the pulse. The fever was high, the man was burning. He shivered at John's touch. John saw Sherlock's upper body was naked.
All the while Sherlock kept looking at John. Studying him. There was no look of surprise, John never had the element of surprise, at least not for this man.
He touched Sherlock's forehead.
"Since when…"
"Last night." Sherlock replied.
"Did he eat anything?"
"He doesn't eat much." Billy answered, he was leaning on the door frame watching them silently.
"Is there a breathing…"
"Yes." Said Sherlock succinctly.
"Does your chest pain?"
Sherlock gave a warm smile but didn't reply.
John looked at him with furrowed brows. He extended his hand and with some hesitation put his palm flatly on Sherlock's feverish, naked chest.
"Does it pain?" He asked again sternly, applying some pressure.
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and opened again.
"Not anymore."
John tensed and withdrew his hand abruptly and fixed his glare on Billy.
"This could be early stages of pneumonia. He needs to be in a hospital." Billy stared at him blankly.
"This is serious."
No response.
John turned to look at Sherlock who was looking at him with such a fondness that John lost his argument for some moments.
"Can't you just bring in some meds Doctor?" Billy asked tentatively.
How do I make them see reason?
"Sherlock, you're a grown man enough to understand the gravity of the situation." John said determinedly.
"I'm sorry." Breathed Sherlock.
"What?" John asked completely taken aback by the sudden apology.
"Can't leave me like this can you?"
John didn't answer. There's that game again, right there. Trying to read John, his intentions, toying with his weaknesses. He hated it.
"What have I done to you." Sighed Sherlock.
John shot Sherlock a death glare.
What have you done to me? you? A bloody nobody lying on the bed sick, asking for my help, so fucking screwed up that you can't even go to a hospital and you have done something to me? you feel sorry about me? you are the one who is pathetically lying in front of me!
"Leave us Billy." Sherlock commanded and the man obliged.
John tore his eyes from the misty blue ones.
What does he want now?
Sherlock shifted his head on the worn out pillow so he could see John better. He looked at him for a long moment. Then with a sigh and a sad smile he began.
"You're a grown up man too John."
John didn't look at him.
"Don't you see the gravity of the matter?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
John looked at him to start to say something but the look on Sherlock's face stopped him. He was talking about a completely different matter. Their matter.
Oh.
Sherlock's eyes looked bluer today, they bore into John's soul drawing a thin icy line across his heart.
"You see what I am John. You know what I am."
John could only swallow the lump and keep looking on.
"This is all I have, all I can give you." The man added sadly.
"You know there's no way this could work out. It shouldn't. "
Why?
"Don't waste yourself John. There are people who need you."
"You?" John asked abruptly. His eyes searching the cool blue ones.
Sherlock answered with his eyes. He blinked and opened, so John could see longing, desire, need and despair.
"Things don't need to be like this." John said in a quiet voice.
"No they don't." Said Sherlock. "But they are." With that Sherlock looked away.
"Then why did you even let me come close?" John asked without hiding his hurt.
Sherlock looked back at him. His eyes reminding John that he was sorry for it. Who was he kidding? Of course this man had done something to John, that's precisely the reason he was sitting here. It's wasn't Sherlock who was pathetic. It was John.
John's forehead throbbed, his eyes pained. He held his breath to push back the tears.
"Would you do me one last favor John?" Sherlock asked and John saw that the man was in no better state than him.
John thought he knew what this request would be. He would insist on never seeing John again.
"If you find me someday" Sherlock paused and swallowed. He looked away before speaking again.
"Lying dead and cold somewhere. Would you please bury me? Somewhere that you could visit me sometimes?" Sherlock's voice was full of longing, it was broken.
One single drop of tear escaped John's stronghold and then there was no stopping the others. They escaped like prisoners freed after a prison break.
Why is he saying this? Is he going to die? Does he know that? Does he know that he is sick with something else? Oh god it was so much better if Harry's assumptions were right. If he was just trying to get under my roof. I would let him. I would let him all my life, I would do anything to keep him. Keep him from running, from disappearing, from dissolving into the mist again. I wouldn't even ever ask him to take a job. I would take his responsibility for life. Just not this. I can't take this wish. No.
"Are you…terminally…ill…" John said with some effort.
"No John." The man said kindly.
John looked at him questioningly.
"Please take the flowers with you John." The man said pointing at the flowers on the table.
"Keep them in some water, in a vase, next to your bed. They'll live up to their full life there. They'll scent your room. Be kind to them, don't leave them here."
"Why should I leave you here?"
"What choice do you have?"
"Come with me." John said solemnly.
Sherlock looked at him reverently and smiled.
"You should go John."
"At least let me cure you." John pleaded.
"I'll be fine." Sherlock assured.
The conversation had reached its end point. He was told to go. Yet John sat there. Maybe this was the last time he was seeing this man. How could he just leave?
"Don't increase your entanglement with me John. It will only cause you further harm. Leave." Sherlock's voice was stern. His eyes were still longing.
John knew he couldn't go close to the man anymore, he had closed himself again. He wanted to hold onto this moment. He wanted to stay. He wanted to cure the man. He wanted a last kiss. He wanted Sherlock. But Sherlock's demeanour said none of this was possible.
John slowly rose. With one last glance at Sherlock he trudged out feeling his soul was left behind in that abandoned house, with that man, abandoned itself by John.
Sherlock kept looking at the retreating figure and then at the flowers he left behind. He heaved a heavy sigh.