Chapter 46
Little more than a week after their night in the pub, John was working late, and he realised that it would be too late to go to the shop if he travelled home first. The fridge in the flat was almost empty, so he decided to go to a shop near the hospital, and to take a cab home for once so he didn't have to carry everything on the tube.
…
Sherlock was on his way home. The case had been another stupid incident of paranoia and misunderstandings. But at least it had earned him enough to pay the rent this week. He stopped at a corner shop to buy cigarettes. He had started smoking about a week ago and was already up to two packs a day. The annoying part was that he couldn't really enjoy it. Every time he lit a cigarette, he felt John's accusing stare on him. Like right now. He could actually see him standing right there across the street glaring at him.
Sherlock froze, his hands still cupped around the cigarette to protect the flame from the wind. John was actually standing across the street, looking at him. But he wasn't glaring. He looked as shocked as Sherlock felt. Sherlock lowered his hands, not noticing the cigarette as it fell to the ground. He was about to call out to John when a bus pulled up in front of him blocking his view. He tried to peer through the windows, but it was too crowded.
When the bus finally left, John was gone.
...
Loaded with bags from the shop, John groaned when he didn't immediately see a cab around. Looking around, a familiar head with black curls suddenly caught his eyes. No, surely it couldn't be... He looked again and found himself staring at Sherlock, his mouth a little open and his stomach making a strange leap. Coat, scarf, cheekbones and pale eyes; it was unmistakably him. Then the bus arrived on the other side of the street, and a cab finally stopped in front of him, so he got in.
God. He had almost forgotten how beautiful Sherlock was. What was he doing there? He hadn't looked like it was his intention to run into him, but then, you never knew with Sherlock's acting skills. Had he been lighting a cigarette? Damn.
In the night, he wasn't plagued by nightmares, but he woke up rock hard. God, he had only seen the man for a few seconds, it really shouldn't affect him so. He got up and took quick care of things in the shower, then left for work in a hurry. The whole day he kept feeling distracted, his thoughts turning back to Sherlock. Why had he ever been so stupid to risk his friendship with the detective? That day, when it had seemed a good idea to give him a hug because he was bored, John had spoiled everything. Of course he had loved Sherlock and had noticed how beautiful the man really was by then. His ongoing exclamations of not being gay had seemed ridiculous in the end, because why would a label be so much more important than the strong bond they had? And thus he had given in to what he wanted, thinking too little of what was good for Sherlock. It was his own fault that the one thing he had never wanted to happen, had occurred. He had ruined their friendship, and nothing could be worth that. Ever since the day he had met Sherlock, his happiness had only increased, until the one day he had felt the need to insult and hurt the man in that fateful row. Perhaps he should contact Sherlock after all. Tell him that it didn't have to be like this, that they could just be friends. Yet, he couldn't be certain that the other man was ready.
…
Sherlock hadn't slept since he had seen John. At first he had tried to tell himself that he had been mistaken. It had been someone who looked like John. Or perhaps he had finally snapped and imagined him there. But a quick online search told him that John was currently working at Charing Cross, not too far from where he had seen him.
Every single day, Sherlock considered walking by the hospital, just in case he might run into John again. And every day he didn't. What would he say? After the way he had left? It had made sense at the time. Making it less painful for the both of them. But he had come to realise that John would not have seen it like that. To him, Sherlock had just run off without any explanation or even a word of goodbye. It was this knowledge that had kept him from contacting John, even though he desperately wanted to. He had hurt him too badly. First with the terrible accusations and then by leaving him in such a cruel way. He had no right to hurt him anymore. He had to leave John alone, and let him get on with his life.
But he just couldn't. Not without at least seeing John again. Telling him that he had been wrong, that he was sorry, and that he desperately wished that they could rebuild at least a small part of what they had once had.
…
A couple of days after he had seen John, Sherlock got a phone call from Lestrade, telling him he had better come to the Yard immediately.
