Disclaimer: Nothing mine.
A.N. I claim all the – probably numerous – faults. Thank Ennui Enigma if it's readable.
They talk deep into the night. Sherlock has many things to confess, and John wants to know everything he missed. He won't, of course. Sherlock keeps omitting the unsavoury bits. Every failure, every misstep. He feels compelled to be perfect for John. His friend has always hero-worshipped him, no matter what the detective said. Disappointing him is simply not an option. Otherwise he'll lose him that much faster, won't he? It's bad enough that John has drifted towards a life with someone else. If Sherlock proves himself unworthy it will spell the end of any contact.
The sleuth supposes that he should thank God for small graces (if God existed) that the engagement is not yet a reality. He can't actively break them apart, but it won't stop him from wishing that she'll follow the pattern and decide that John is not what she wants after all. Women have proven themselves so very fickle again and again- lucky for him. Their idiocy seems to have no bounds. Renouncing to John, really? Spontaneously? If it didn't suit his needs so wonderfully, Sherlock would have suggested that someone clearly needed to have power of attorney over John's girlfriends long ago.
The doctor feels a bit like a child, getting to hear all these marvellous adventures. There's the bitter sting of I-should-have-been-there, but Sherlock has already justified himself and won't take kindly to being scolded about it again. It won't stop the wishful thinking. It's true that Sherlock has apparently bypassed all need for backup (and where would that leave John?...He can still fill in for the skull, right?). For his friend's sake, John dearly hopes that he's being honest because the prospect of Sherlock somewhere, alone and hurt, is haunting. Even seeing him now, safe, alive, and home, and hence aware that no lasting damage happened and all hurt is in the past.
The doctor soaks it all up – every word, every image – and for once wishes he had his friend's abilities. So he could delete everything else – or almost – (why had he ever thought that the solar system was a must?) and keep just a Sherlock – back folder to save every second of this forever in all its glorious details. Small chance of that given that he's starting to miss things even now. He doesn't want to, but he's so sleepy...That's when it dawns on him. He can go to sleep. He'll find Sherlock here when he wakes up. His life is not a nightmare anymore. He gives into human requirements and retires to the bedroom with, "Goodnight. You go to sleep too; It won't hurt, you know."
Sherlock knows, of course. It's safe for the first time in years. He could sleep without having to worry about being discovered, or attacked. He could relax. Instead, he just hurts. He wanted to stop John from going to sleep. He has no excuses though. Just that he needs him to a painful degree – he needs every second he can get before John leaves – and that's not something he can voice. He could watch John sleep, he supposes, but then he wouldn't be able to remove himself from the room and being caught by a newly awakened John 'being a creep' just after his return will only remind him everything that's wrong with Sherlock and hence hasten the separation.
So he partly follows John's suggestion. He doesn't sleep – that's beyond him at the moment, with all the ugly feelings raging through him. Instead he goes to his scarcely used room. He can let go there. Take all the soon-to-be-lost sadness (John is in love with someone else – bad enough to want forever with her) and – quietly, because he can't disturb John's sleep, can't be annoying – allow it to flow. In another life, he'd be playing his feelings out on the violin, but waking John up with a mournful song now would only make him annoyed or worse, bring up questions he can't answer. So he cries, hateful as it is, because he doesn't know what else to do.
A nightmare wakes John up. He's completely disoriented. What is the dream? What reality? Did he dream up Sherlock's resurrection again? Did Sherlock come back (impossible? Merely improbable?) and his stupid brain conjured the reality it's used to? [reinstated because it's the other option John wonders about – Sherlock comes back John dreamt that he was dead - true] Before his neurons can implode (Sherlock would quip about it not making much of a difference) he quietly slips into the sitting room. Sherlock isn't there, nor in the kitchen, and for a heart wrenching moment John is sure that the reunion is a dream, or a delusion, or something else of the sort. Did Mary even call before? Does he really need sectioning? Maybe they'll sedate him and let him sleep his life away. If he's lucky he'll continue the dream of the Return.
But it felt so real that he just has to check every last place. He quietly opens Sherlock's door – something he's rarely done. What he finds steals his breath away. Maybe he's still dreaming. He has to be, because this is what he has blamed himself for not noticing – what he must have missed – countless times before. Sherlock, all alone, eyes glistening with silent tears. If he can turn this into a lucid dream, he can will its course, right? He can be there for Sherlock. He can comfort him. He can stop him. So Sherlock isn't back, but for a dream it's good enough.
A soft gasp greets him, and Sherlock rolls over, trying to hide his tears. John will be upset, and Sherlock has no excuse ready. He's just being stupid. Pitiful. Weak.
"Don't shut me out, Sherlock, please," the doctor entreats, "I just wish to help."
"How can he help when he's the one wanting to get away from me?" The sleuth reflects bitterly. The detective can't beg for what he needs lest he lose everything. But he cannot deny John. So he turns again and chokes out, "I'm sorry." He is. For everything.
"Don't be. Tell me what's wrong. I'll fix it, I promise." That's how things should have gone. John's so earnest now. If only it could have been true. He instinctively caresses his friend's cheek in a comforting gesture. The sensory input shocks him. Either this is a stunningly detailed dream, or... it can't be. Sherlock would have no reason to be this sad if he was really back, right? He's not going to lose his friend all over again, is he? He can't.
John's words break something inside him and Sherlock whispers, "Stay." It could be – will be – restricted in meaning as much as he wants, later, hinting at nothing more than momentary weakness. Probably acceptable.
"Of course I'll stay. I'll stay forever if you need me," John assures, and whether this is delusion or truth it doesn't matter because he means it.
"No you won't. You mean to get engaged," the sleuth blurts out bitterly, before he can realize where he's treading (more than dangerous a subject), but he has never taken well to being lied to. He wants to recall his words. There's no way that John won't read his feelings now. He'll be disgusted, angry, or disappointed – or all of the above.
Before he can, though, his friend replies, " I – meant to. I don't fare well alone. But I'm not alone anymore, am I?" It might sound cheeky, but it's more desperate for confirmation than anything else. Incredible as it is, he's not misunderstanding things.
Sherlock really needs him. Sherlock's jealous and hurting. "You're not. I'll be. Would you really rather have me than your lover?"
"When haven't I, Sherlock?" John counters. He's going to be brave and try his luck. These tears were hints enough. If he's wrong, he'll have to assure him that things won't change between them, but this Sherlock won't want to forsake him. "Though in an ideal world I wouldn't need to separate the two," he presses on.
"What?" the sleuth chokes out, hoarsely.
"I've loved you since...God, it feels like forever. Everybody noticed but me, but even my idiocy has boundaries," the doctor admits. Sherlock had mentioned it too, so long ago. It can't be news to him, can it?
"Don't lie," Sherlock half orders, half pleads - harsh, desperate. He would fall for that lie. He would let himself be played until John snorted about how pitiful Sherlock has become.
"I'm not lying!" the doctor bites back, shocked. Maybe even a tiny bit outraged at the accusation.
"If you really love me, prove it," the detective challenges. [reinstated because this is Freud in all his glory, as Sherlock unconsciously implies that he loves John, so John loving him would be Sherlock being loved in return; and John notices that. Or am I wrong and the implication is impossible?]
He said love me back. It's shocking, and amazing, and John's mind is too giddy to properly wrap itself about the notion. Maybe Sherlock is not returned after all. Maybe John's just died and this is heaven.