Title: I'm Sorry
Pairing: Sherlock/John (more or less)
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock is broken after the Fall, and John's not there to fix it.
AN: I was listening to Cough Syrup by Young the Giant on repeat while writing this, so I suggest you give it a listen. It goes quite well. *unbeta'd*
He would wake up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. His arm would be outstretched, reaching for something, someone, that wasn't there. His mind filled with images of Moriarity blowing his brains out and John standing on the pavement below, his hand extended upwards, he would close his eyes and try to fall into a peaceful sleep. But the sleep wouldn't come, and when it did it was anything but peaceful.
Three months. It had been three months since that day, the day of his funeral. He had stood by, hidden behind trees, as the fake body was buried. His eyes weren't on the casket, however, but on John. His shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, back into his old military habits. It was familiar to him, a small piece of comfort when there was nothing left in his world. Mrs. Hudson had been wiping her eyes beside him, full of the same emotion that Sherlock himself had grown fond of. But now it wasn't so sweet. Now it was pain, caused by him, and that didn't settle right.
He wasn't a man of emotion himself, but a man of logic. His logic had told him that faking his death, leaving everyone in the dark, disappearing for a while, was a good idea. It would throw them off his trail, possibly for good, give him time to find out more about who was hunting him, and in turn, who he was hunting. His heart, though, said something different. Usually silent, it now told him that this was wrong. It was wrong to leave them all like that, to leave them searching, waiting, hoping. He knew John hadn't given up, and he wouldn't. "Please, for me..." he had said. "Don't...be...dead." There was that part of him, and Sherlock didn't know how small a part, that believed he was still alive.
For years, the idea plagued him. There wasn't a case that went by or a single sleepless night when the idea didn't break through to the surface, permeating his every thought, making his deductions slow and inaccurate, his problem-solving messy and haphazard. Tell him. He would push it back into the depths of his mind, aggravated with his inability to control his own stream of consciousness. Tell him you're alive. But it wasn't that simple. He couldn't just appear at the flat, suddenly back from the dead. Some one would see him; they would have the place bugged of course. Not to mention John.
He couldn't think about John. He couldn't think about him because when he did all the memories resurfaced and he saw all the times where he treated John like shit and brushed off his friendship and told him he was an idiot and he hated himself because it was such a lie; John wasn't an idiot, he was brilliant. He had a heart, and he could understand people. Hell, he understood Sherlock better than anyone. He put up with his antics and tantrums and his stubbornness because he loved him, and the love was something Sherlock didn't deserve. He would give anything to go back and do it over, to show John that he was important, special, wonderful, that he was more than a sidekick or a colleague, but a friend. His only friend.
When it became too much, when all he could think about was John, when he had finally resorted to disguises and spying and following him around, when he was losing him mind and losing control, he gave in to his heart, despite the aching pleads from his head. Against every ounce of his better judgement, he had to do something to put his mind at rest. To give John a hint, some hope, any reassurance, was to ease the guilt that had plagued him for two and half years. So he did it. He wrote those two words on that scrap of parchment, stuck it inside the unrecognizable envelope, and slid it through the mail slot under the cover of darkness to lift the heavy burden on his shoulders. Just two words.
I'm sorry.
AN: I hope you enjoyed! Reviews are much appreciated as always 3