Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.
Sherlock set off for Scotland Yard to tell George- or was it Gabe?- about his discovery. Something seemed amiss when he walked alone through the damp streets, a light rain falling on his shoulders. Plenty of people bustled by, knocking his shoulders, but he still couldn't take his mind of John's words.
He wasn't the man who used to run around London full of glee and ambition as well as a slight bit of arrogance. John's experiences in Afghanistan had changed them both. Sherlock felt a bit selfish for claiming John's struggles as his own, but he couldn't take back the heroin he had snorted, nor the words he had shouted.
After giving the news to Lestrade about the thieving ex-wealthy Isabel in a rather lackluster manner, he headed back to Baker Street to think. He had choice words to say to John, but he just didn't know them yet. Sherlock was sorry for all the pain he had caused his friend.
John was thinking similar thoughts from a few miles away. How could he be angry at Sherlock for being weak, when he was also weak? He'd been afraid to take responsibility for his suffering flatmate, and they'd both suffered because of it. Trying to sleep, he tossed and turned, plagued by these thoughts.
Throwing off the blankets, he threw on a coat over his pajamas and a pair of slippers. It was dressed like this that John Watson tore through the streets of London on his way to 221B. When he arrived, he almost didn't knock, but he'd received far too many strange looks for him to turn back and go home again.
Grabbing the knocker, John leapt backwards as it was unexpectedly ripped from his grasp. On the other side of the threshold stood an equally wild-eyed Sherlock, dressed in an equally ridiculous outfit. They stood like that for a moment before Sherlock stepped to the side, allowing John to enter.
Once they were both situated in their respective chairs, John began to speak. Sherlock attempted to cut him off, but he held up a finger to stop the flow of words from the detective's mouth. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I've been a rubbish friend. I shouldn't have left in the first place, but I was frightened. I am, as you said so many times, a coward, a scared little boy, but most of all, Sherlock, I am very attached to seeing you continue to live."
Here, John paused. "Part of me nearly died sitting in that ambulance with you, thinking you'd gone and overdosed. And seeing you in that hospital bed was nearly too much for me to take. Sherlock, I watch people die every day. Some of them die at my hands, with there being nothing I can do about it. I can't bear to watch you die because I wasn't quick enough or because I wasn't watching."
Unable to continue, he gestured for Sherlock to speak. He took a breath, then launched into what might have been the only heartfelt thing John had ever heard him say. "John, I know you have nightmares about what horrible things happened to you and I know that I have not made that any easier. I have been rude and insufferable and hurtful. But right now I'm going to be honest."
"There will never come a time when I don't need you. I will always beg for you to be by my side, but there will come a time when you no longer care for the adrenaline rush that comes as a side effect from working with me. One day you will wake up and realize that you no longer need me, that I am only worsening your condition. These are the nightmares that come to me."
John's eyes widened, but he let Sherlock continue. "I dream that I am killing you, John Watson and I couldn't live with myself if I was. So yes, I took drugs in secret with you slumbering not twenty feet away. I knew you would wake sometime that night and find me, but I no longer cared. You were dying at my hands and it was my fault."
John could take no more of Sherlock's confession and began his own. "What happened to me in that awful place years ago was no fault of your own. I still have nightmares; that is true, but I will always have nightmares. There are certain terrors that time cannot erase. I chose you, Sherlock. I could have moved somewhere else in England that I could actually afford on my army pension, but I chose you. And I will always choose you."
Sherlock clenched his jaw to try to stop emotion, but to no avail. "Sherlock, there is no one I would rather suffer with. Whatever you think you are doing to me, you are wrong. I chose this life, and I would choose it again. I refuse to watch you tear at yourself because you think you are hurting me. I'm a lot tougher than I look, Holmes, and I can handle myself, even against you."
John fell silent, his words echoing in the late night air. The only light in the room came from a small lamp on the mantle. Sherlock's cheekbones cast deep shadows down his face and the flat echoed with quiet. Finally Sherlock spoke, his voice raw and deep. "I never thought you couldn't handle yourself, but I also never understood why you put up with me day after day even though you were hurting. Why add insult to injury?"
"You daft, daft man." John shook his head slowly, a small smile spreading across his face. "You are my release, my drug. Every time we solve a case, that's my high. Watching you work and deduce gets me more intoxicated than hard liquor. And that frightens me, Sherlock. I am in love with you, and I am frightened."
Sherlock didn't think John had meant to say so much, so he didn't respond for a few moments. How could he respond, anyway? The man had just bared his soul, more so than when he had discussed his torture, and to top it all off, he'd confessed his love for Sherlock. Sherlock didn't love John, he simply didn't. It was no fault of John's, but rather that Sherlock had learned long ago that love didn't suit him.
So, when John cleared his throat awkwardly, Sherlock still wasn't sure of how to respond. For quite possibly the first time in his life, the detective was speechless. He opened his mouth to begin, then closed it again, reminding John of so many of their previous clients. At last, Sherlock Holmes found his voice.
"John, I told you long ago I consider myself married to my work. And while there is no doubt in my mind that you are an integral part of that work, I do not love you. I do not form romantic attachments to people, I never have. You are different to me in every way but that. You, John Watson, are my very best friend, the best man I've ever known, but I do not love you."
The gray-haired man nodded, as if expecting this, but still tensed his body as if warding off a blow. It pained Sherlock to see him like this, but it was better to tell him than to lead him on. At least this way, there was a chance of getting him back. John cleared his throat. "I know you don't love me, I never thought you did. But I wanted you to know that I love you. Think about that when you worry about me not needing you."
"Do you want to come back, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice shaky and sounding rather childish, which he disliked immensely. "Back to Baker Street, that is."
John looked up at Sherlock, his expression unchanged. His gaze flicked back to the ground and then along the walls, not quite focusing on anything. Talking more so to himself than to Sherlock, he muttered, "Back to Baker Street."