Author's Note: In case this was not apparent from the title and the summary, this is set during the second-last scene of The Lying Detective, and is thus very spoiler-heavy. If you haven't seen the episode, close this window now. If you have seen the episode, then you can probably understand why the scene, and the episode more generally, left me very emotional and compelled me to write this. I've written it as accurately as I could, so that this could plausibly be what happened during and after that scene. Enjoy!
It is what it is.
"I cheated on you, Mary."
John isn't looking at him, now. John's gaze is fixed on something by the desk. He's not staring off into the distance; his eyes are focussed, like he's looking at something that isn't there. He is seeing something that Sherlock cannot see. It doesn't take a genius to work out that that something is Mary.
Sherlock doesn't interrupt him, doesn't ask questions. He doesn't need to. He understands it – having conversations with someone who isn't really there. John asked him once, a long time ago, if he carried on talking while John was away. The answer was yes, of course he did, because even when John was away, John was there. John had taken up a permanent residence in Sherlock's Mind Palace. Sherlock knows John, can predict John's actions even weeks in advance. It's hardly a struggle to predict how John might respond to things that Sherlock says.
It's something that Sherlock has taken for granted. He knows what it is like, to speak to someone who isn't there, but he's never had to speak to a ghost. There were times, following his fake suicide, and even more recently, following Mary's death, where he thought that the John in his head would be the only John he could speak to, because John had pushed him away. However, there has always been the possibility, however small, that he could talk to the real John again. John doesn't have such a comfort. John can only ever talk to the Mary in his head. The Mary in real life is gone. Sherlock took her from him.
(Stop. Delete. Mary's death was not his fault. Sherlock did not take her away from John.)
You didn't kill Mary.
John spills his heart out to a ghost that isn't there. In a way, it feels as though Sherlock is intruding on something, listening to words that were never meant for his ears. In another universe, where Mary didn't die in that aquarium, these words would have been heard by Mary. Even though he cheated, John would have wanted to be loyal, to be kind. He would not have kept it from her. He would not have forgiven himself, if he had.
In another world, Sherlock is not supposed to hear this conversation, but in this world, he needs to be here. These words are not meant him, but he needs to hear them all the same. It would not be enough for John to tell this to a ghost in an empty room. John is begging for forgiveness that he doesn't think he deserves. Ghosts cannot offer forgiveness. An empty room cannot provide comfort, or tell him that it is okay.
"That's all it was, just texting," John says, but it doesn't matter that it was nothing more than that. It could have been texting, or kissing, or 'nights of passion' in hotel rooms booked under other people's names: that doesn't matter. It's not about the action, but the feelings behind it, and the quiver in John's voice tells Sherlock all he needs to know about the guilt that is tearing John up inside.
It sheds light on the words in the aquarium, and on the way John had hit him, over and over, in the mortuary. Sherlock had believed that it was because John blamed him for Mary's death, for failing to protect her. Now, Sherlock can see that there was more to it. John did blame Sherlock (he doesn't now, but he did), but part of that came from displacement of his own emotions. He felt guilty, angry at himself, and he put all of that onto Sherlock, because it's easier, it hurts less, to blame someone else.
John blames himself from wanting more than just texting, for still wanting more. Sherlock cannot fault John for that. He cannot fault John for feelings. Sherlock is realising, more and more each day, that feelings cannot be controlled, no matter how hard you try.
There is so much emotion bottled up, seeping through with his words. He hasn't told anyone else this, not even his therapist. John would have told his therapist about the more typical aspects of loss and grief. He would not have told her about the guilt and the anger, the regret and the pain and so many other emotions that Sherlock cannot identify. He has been holding all of this inside since Mary's death, emotions wrapped up in a secret that was tearing him to pieces.
And now that it's out, John just shatters.
Sherlock can count on one hand the number of times he has seen John cry. John is not opposed to other kinds of emotional outbursts – he will shout and yell and hit things (or people) until he feels like he can breathe again – but pain is something that John has always kept hidden away. Even now, even as his body shakes with quiet sobs and as tears roll down his cheeks, he hides his face behind one hand. It's like an emotional display, however justified, is shameful and humiliating. John doesn't like showing this part of himself. If John had been able to, he would have kept this bottled up until he got home.
Sherlock is rarely in a position where he has to comfort people. People don't expect comfort from him, the man known to be cold and callous. Regardless, there's no uncertainty in his mind about the right thing to do.
He stands slowly, a little bit hesitantly. The last time he reached out to John, he was pushed away.
Don't you dare.
Anyone but you.
"It's okay," he murmurs, and he reaches out slowly until he places his hands on John's arms. John doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away.
"It's not okay," John mumbles.
Sherlock rubs one hand softly over John's arm, while the other slides up to the back of his neck, very, very gently pulling John into an embrace. John doesn't push him away. If anything, John melts into him.
John needs this.
Sherlock won't easily admit it, but he needs it, too.
"No," Sherlock says quietly, "but it is what it is."
There are no other words that need to be spoken, not now. It is enough to communicate by touch. Sherlock's hands stroke John's neck and his arm, and he rests his cheek against the top of John's head. He holds John, and John lets himself be held. John lets himself fall apart in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock can feel a damp patch where John's tears soak into his shirt.
There is probably a socially acceptable length of time for a hug. It's likely that they passed that socially acceptable time at least thirty seconds ago. It doesn't matter. John needs this, and Sherlock will give him as long as he needs. Sherlock owes him that.
(Stop. Delete.)
(Sherlock does not owe him. Sherlock is not responsible. Sherlock wants to do this because he cares for John and will do anything, anything at all to help. This is not out of a sense of responsibility, not out of a sense of guilt. This is out of love.)
Love is a much more vicious motivator.
They remain like that for several minutes while John's sobs slowly start to calm. Sherlock, for once, cannot say for certain for exactly how long they stand there. Perhaps it's because, while he was under the effects of the drugs, he found it harder to keep track of the passing of time. Perhaps, instead, it's simply because his mind is on something more important than his mental clock.
Sherlock doesn't move until John does, and even then, he keeps one hand resting on John's arm rather than pulling away completely. He's not sure if that is for John's benefit or for his own. Either way, John does not try to shake him off. John wipes the tears from his red eyes, and then he looks up at Sherlock and offers him the smallest of smiles. It's barely there, and it's still tinted with sadness, but, more importantly, it is sincere.
"All right?" Sherlock asks, and John scoffs, because of course he's not all right, what a stupid question. He's not okay. He said that already. It is what it is.
That doesn't mean that this is how it will always be.
So, Sherlock corrects himself. "It will be okay," he says. "You will be okay."
John drops his gaze, but nods his head. "Yeah," he said quietly, after a pause. "I will. Not yet, but I will."
Sherlock manages a slight smile, and then John glances over his shoulder, at the doorway through which he has almost left three times already. He lifts up his sleeve to glance at his watch, and though Sherlock's mental clock has not been working for the past few minutes, he knows it won't be long now until Molly arrives.
John knows this too, because he takes a deep breath, and Sherlock can see him visibly try to compose himself. It's one thing for him to fall apart in front of Sherlock. He won't want Molly to see him like this too.
Sherlock's hand is still on John's arm. John still hasn't moved away.
Sherlock hesitates, and then says, "You can stay, if you like. Your bedroom is still yours."
The look on John's face says that a part of him wants to, which is completely at odds with several minutes ago, his willingness to leave when Sherlock told him that he could survive twenty minutes on his own. The atmosphere has shifted now. There's something different about this room, about the space between them. John wanted to leave, before, perhaps because he knew that this would happen if he stayed. Now that it's out, John does want to stay.
But he can't. Not now.
"Rosie," he says, and Sherlock drops his gaze guiltily, because, for a moment, he had forgotten that there was a world that existed outside of the two of them.
"Rosie," Sherlock repeats. "Right. Of course, I forgot."
John dismisses it with a shake of his head. "It's okay," he says, and then he glances towards the door again before looking back to Sherlock. "I'll, um – six 'til ten tomorrow, yeah?"
Sherlock nods. "Looking forward to it," he says, just like before.
Just like before, John replies, "Yeah," but then this time, he adds, "Me too."
Sherlock smiles a little, and John mirrors it, before looking again towards the door. He doesn't move away immediately, which makes it clear that he's reluctant to do so at all. John doesn't want to go, maybe just as much as Sherlock wants him to stay.
Maybe in another universe, John stays. Maybe in another universe, they sit across from each other and let the world around them dissolve. But in this universe, there is a world that exists outside of them. John might need Sherlock, and Sherlock might need John, but there is another person, another life, who needs John too.
"Okay," John says resolutely after a pause. "Okay. I'll see you later."
"See you," Sherlock replies, and then John finally steps back. Sherlock's hand slides down his arm, fingertips brushing the skin of his wrist before pulling away entirely, and John turns to the door.
When John reaches the doorway, he glances back at Sherlock one more time, before dropping his gaze and stepping out into the hall.