Sherlock falls back on the floor, leaning against the couch and fidgeting with the note in his hand; his own breathing is echoing in his head while John's cries of pain are a muffled sound in the distance.
"Tell your friend". It's my fault. Mary's dead because of me. It's my fault.
- I'm sorry. It's me. It's my fault. I'm sorry.
John brain freezes while a pang of fear and anxiety jolts through his body: in an instant, he's kneeling beside Sherlock, yanking the note out of his hands. His expression changes, like something more important came up and everything else is just background buzzing.
- No, it's not. Sherlock, look at me.
- I ruined everything.
Bullshit.
The doctor stands up, shifting his weight to lean on the good leg and wiping tears from his face.
- No, I won't accept this.
- There's nothing to accept, it's not an opinion, it's…a fact.
John grabs Sherlock's elbow and forces him on his feet; he looks straight into his eyes and grabs the lapels of his jacket with both hands, shaking him slightly.
- No, it's not! Don't fall for this, it's not! This is…this is…
Sherlock's right hand tightens around John's forearm.
- …I need you Sherlock. I need you to stay rational and cold. I never thought I'd say this but…I need your indifference. I need you to solve this and I need you to stay focus and lucid, to insult people and risk our lives. I don't…
His voice breaks: John closes his eyes and lowers his head, fists clenching tightly around the fabric, while Sherlock breaks the silence with a loud sigh.
- John, I really do not master the art of hugging, so I don't really know what to do next.
The doctor chuckles but somehow his friend's reaction triggers him more pain than relief: he starts crying again and he loosens his grip.
- I don't… I don't blame you Sherlock. It's not your fault. Don't blame yourself either; you have nothing to feel guilty about.
Sherlock is staring at him with a pleading look, following his every move.
Are we talking about the same thing?
- I can't help it. Tell me what to do, John.
The doctor grabs the back of Sherlock's jacket, pulling him close: the detective falls into his arms, wrapping his right one around John's waist while his left is holding his head, fingers lazily stroking his hair.
- I'm sorry.
- I know. You have to help me with this or I'll lose my mind, Sherlock. I'm serious.
They stay like this for a while, with Sherlock still clumsy in his movements but strangely comfortable and John's face pressed against the detective's shoulder. When John's breathing slowly comes back to normal, Sherlock takes a small step back, looking at him: he doesn't have to ask.
- No, I haven't called the police. I wanted to call Lestrade but I saw…the note and…I came here.
- Smart move, John. Can I? I mean…the…
Sherlock clears his throat and John stares at him with a puzzled look.
- Crime scene?
- Yes, that. I'm sorry, I don't know the protocol in these cases, I've never-
- Sherlock. Please. Don't do this.
###
Grieving is a tricky process, John Watson knows that more than anybody else: there are infinite ways to cope with a loss, infinite ways to handle and dilute pain, but he knows that it will never go away.
John is familiar with the wave of panic and utter sadness that overwhelms you and reminds you of what you've lost, that catches you off guard and takes your breath away; he knows how to handle the emotional impact of death, knows that life goes on anyway.
John's father died when he was fourteen and his world changed drastically in no time: his mother went through depression and his older sister decided that alcohol was the only solution so he suddenly became an adult, the responsible one, the kid that helped the neighbors after school to scrape together some extra money.
He didn't used to cry in front of his family or even his friends; he cried alone, at night, screaming into his pillow until exhaustion took hold of him.
And when you decide to become an army doctor there's no choice left, you have to get used to the concept of death: you have to come to terms with the fact that it will surround you, it will become a shadow looming over you and it will eventually cripple you.
John knew that too and tried to avoid comradeship as much as possible: he didn't want to get involved in his colleagues' and patients' life, he wasn't looking for friends, he was there to help. He wasn't even persuaded by the idea of fighting for his country, he wasn't – isn't – the "war for peace" kind of guy, he just believed in his duty as a doctor. No friends, no involvement, no harm.
And then Sherlock Holmes happened, and when he "died" John wasn't ready: for once in his life he felt like a deer caught in the headlights; he asked himself many times what made Sherlock different from any other person in the world, and he got an answer months after the accident.
Actually, it was Mary's answer; it was her theory on how John saw his friend as a constant, as someone who would be there the day of his death, someone invincible and somehow immortal.
John dismissed the thought with a snort but he slowly get used to the idea; besides, it was the only one that made sense, the only one that explained that void in his heart that not even Mary was able to fill.
The thing that John never managed to grasp was why on earth he didn't cry for his best friend's death.
Well, he did, actually, if you count random tears and choked sobs now and then, but every time he tried to fight back, he succeeded in keeping a straight face for months and now, sitting in the back of a cab with Sherlock Holmes by his side, he's wondering why again: what if Mary's death released the pain, what if this tragedy helps him to finally cry and scream for Sherlock's death? What if all this could actually, gruesomely, help him recover?
Did I just go into hyperventilation because of Sherlock's death? Did I just-
- You're staring.
John jumps on his seat, eyes wide open.
- Oh, shi- I'm sorry, sorry. I was…thinking about…life?
- Are you asking me? – Sherlock smiles.
- No, I was. I was thinking about-
- Even if you're right, what's the problem with it?
The doctor purses his lips and frowns, staring at Sherlock.
- I'm sorry, what?
- The emotional dam that bursts.
- How do y-
- What's the harm in it? It happens, it's not uncommon. You've been through many rough patches in your life and this reaction actually makes a lot of sense. Don't over-think it John. Over-thinking is what brought you there in the first place. Nobody's judging you.
A dumbstruck look spreads across John's face: mouth slightly open, his voice stuck in his throat.
- I don't…I'm not…how?
- Don't worry about it. You're welcome.
Still don't know what to do with them, I'm slowly building up the customary tension for a possible slash though, just in case. If it happens - and it might happen in the next story, who knows (seriously, I don't) - , it won't be easy, I don't want it to be one of those things where John suddenly forgets about Mary and "oh, there's Sherlock, let's be together!". I want them to suffer (I'm horrible).