A/N: Once again thank you for the lovely responses! Sorry this chapter took so long to write, I had a bit of writer's block after such loaded previous chapters. Enjoy 3
The space between them filled with an expectant silence. The words John needed to say rattled around in front of his tongue, clicking against his teeth in frantic attempts to escape. John moistened his lips, smacking them loudly to alleviate the quiet. He sank back into his armchair, resting his head upon the back in hopes of reducing the tension creeping through his shoulders. He fidgeted to make noise, tapping his toes on the wooden floorboards, drumming his fingers along the armrest, anything to keep the oppressive muteness at bay. He sighed heavily, the springs in the chair creaking in response to his full-bodied exhalation. He hoped that Sherlock would get annoyed at his pointless movements and finally speak. He was shocked when his efforts were successful.
"John, what do you need to say? If you've forgotten, my patience will far outlast yours while we sit in silence. Before you, the majority of my life was, in fact, silent."
John raised his head to look at the man sitting across from him. Sherlock rarely spoke of the time before he met John, unless the information pertained to a case. For Sherlock to willingly refer to his past was, in short, quite significant. John sat up, placing his elbows on his knees in a hunched position. He felt less exposed this way, as he began to expose his heart to the tempestuous man seated before him.
"Sherlock, I just need to talk through this, okay? You can stay silent if you'd rather, that's dandy. Just let me talk a bit, ta?"
Sherlock kept his body lax, seemingly unaffected by John's words. But as John continued, Sherlock mirrored John's pose, resting his elbows upon his knees, his chin nestled in the crook of his thumbs, fingers peaked against his mouth.
"Sherlock, I've been a mess since – since you fell. I meant those words I said at your grave, the ones you repeated back to me last night. I'll play detective for you – you were there. You heard me say those words. Sherlock, why? Why the bloody hell didn't you let me know you were alive? I- I was alone again..." John shook his head, knowing his words were selfish. With his head down, he continued through Sherlock's laconic state.
"And now what? Now, you're back? Simple as that? I don't know where to go from here Sherlock. I'm just as lost now as I was when you were gone. Ironic, I suppose, isn't it? I waited for this, damn near prayed for this, and now that I've got it I dunno what I'm going to do with it."
The painful irony was not lost on Sherlock. John continued.
"What are we doing, Sherlock? I know some things don't need labels, don't fit into tiny boxes that feeble minds configure to sort out life. We floated in that space the entire time we shared this flat. Flat mates, best mates, shag mates – all of those things defined what we were for the people around us. I quit trying to convince people I wasn't actually gay -" At that, Sherlock gave a quick, warm laugh that sent heat running down John's spine. "And I still hold to that, Sherlock. I don't wank off to men, I don't date men, I don't shag men. I just -"
John trailed off, sighing with the effort of this conversation. He supposed it would be easier to accept the label, to agree that he was gay in all references of the word, move on with life. Not like it even matters anymore these days. Hadn't he just told Sherlock he had foregone fighting the accusations? But he needed to make his point clear. He purposefully locked his gaze with Sherlock's.
"I'm not interested in men, Sherlock. There's only ever been one man."
John smiled, remembering the last conversation that had revolved around misunderstanding the use of plurals, when Sherlock had stated he did not have friends. John had been so hurt, so taken aback by Sherlock's callousness, until Sherlock made it clear he had used the plural, insinuating he had only one friend – John.
John still had no reasoning behind their friendship. He ventured to guess it was a symbiotic relationship of mutual requirement, each man freely providing something the other needed. He had instantly been drawn to Sherlock's tenacious character, awed by his deductions, overall enthralled by the enigma that had been the consulting detective. Sherlock had given him not only the ability to reside in the city he loved, but to live in it, to experience London as he had never dreamed he would. In the beginning, John assumed Sherlock had kept him around as a willing pawn in his insane cases, accompanied by John's ability to successfully pay rent each month. Along the way, it stopped being about the cases or the rent, but about the two men chatting over tea or decorating the flat for Christmas. It became about Sherlock and his doctor. About John and his consulting detective. Two halves of the same, albeit wonky, whole.
John realized he had lost himself in his nostalgia as his chin slipped off his fist. His eyes refocused themselves to find Sherlock staring intently, seemingly frozen, entranced by John. When he noticed John had recovered from his reverie, Sherlock smiled.
"You were saying, Doctor Watson?" John heard the gruffness underneath Sherlock's light tone. He wondered if it was from passion or annoyance. John grimaced, swallowing audibly.
"Ahem, yes. Well, as I said, there's only ever been one man, Sherlock. I cannot define myself as gay because, ah, I just can't. I'm not interested in any other man but you. The women were lovely, no doubt. But I've only ever truly -"
he paused a moment to gather his wits about himself.
"I've only loved you, Sherlock. Whatever you are, whatever you've done to me, I cannot undo it. It won't go away. I can shag a hundred women, nothing would change, it was never about the sex. I haven't seen or heard from you in two years, yet you walk back into my life like a flaming, no pun intended, beacon and I am a moth immediately drawn to you. I can't fucking stop it."
"Do you want it to stop, John? Because I'll go. I'll leave you to your life, leave you with Mary and the flat and all my possessions. I came here last night only to witness your well-being. I never intended for -" Sherlock broadly gestured to some invisible thought "-for this. I regret nothing from last night, John, please know that. I merely regret hurting you again. I'm truly sorry."
"Sorry, what? No, dammit Sherlock I don't - I don't fucking know what I want! I want to go back to before you fucking decided to launch yourself off a building to be a goddamn hero. I want to go back to being shot in the shoulder and gimping 'round London and fighting with Harry and not knowing how glorious life is with you. But Christ if I don't bloody want you here with me too. And I can't have it both ways, I know. I know -"
John and Sherlock were both sitting forward in their respective chairs, teetering on the edge, holding on to the armrests as if their lives depended on it. Sherlock stood with precise movements. John's eyes followed his movements, until Sherlock was looking down over him. Sherlock's supple, slender fingers grazed John's cheeks, cupping them gently. John was apprehensive about this, no good could come of this moment, he felt it in his gut. He opened his mouth to protest whatever Sherlock was proposing, only to have Sherlock press a forefinger to his lips.
"Hush, John. Do you want me to go? It will not be forever. But I will go in haste if it's what you want."
Something inside John's brain snapped, shards of thought puncturing gray matter, tearing through blood supply, demolishing synapses. He breathed out the words he swore he'd never say, cursing the day he walked into Bart's with fucking Mike Stamford. The word flowed from his lips so fluidly he swore he almost meant it.
"Yes, go."
With a curt nod, Sherlock straightened his posture. He left nothing to guess, nothing to deduce, nothing to question. He simply grabbed his coat off the sofa. As he crossed the threshold of the flat he concisely stopped mid-stride to turn to John, lips barely parting as he said "Goodbye, John" once again.
