*Sorry I haven't updated in a while guys. I'm quickly losing steam on this project. I know where I want to take it, but I'm not sure how. If you guys have suggestions or anything, please feel free to tell me. Also, for some reason this chapter felt like uploading in italics. Not sure why.
John was having a bad shift at the surgery. A man had come in, and John hadn't been able to help him. His symptoms resembled the symptoms of the flu, but there was a lack thereof certain other symptoms that refuted that diagnosis. He had been able to touch his chin to his chest, so it wasn't meningitis, but there had been a suspicious lack of a runny nose. The poor man seemed to be in such bad condition, but John couldn't figure out for the life of him why. It upset John deeply. He ended up prescribing some general anti-biotics, as the man looked like death warmed over, and let him leave.
After he left, John was consumed by memories of his days in Afghanistan. The faces of soldiers he hadn't been able to save rushed past his eyes in a morbid parade. His shoulder and leg throbbed painfully, and his knees started to tremble. As he sank to the ground, John was overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness and failure. He couldn't help people, he was too stupid. Sherlock would have been able to deduce everything about this man, would have known what was plaguing him. But he was John Watson, a broken ex-army doctor who couldn't diagnose a simple patient. He didn't deserve to live. Those men in Afghanistan, they deserved to be here now. They had family, people who loved them. Who did John have? He desperately tried to conceal his light sobbing.
To his utter embarrassment, it was Mary who found him this way. He brightened momentarily, as he remembered the note Sherlock had left him. Maybe he did have someone to live for. Maybe someone did love him. But the lightness was doused by the realization that he would have to explain this all to Mary. Just last night he had been flirting with her, but tonight, he had Sherlock. Or, he rather hoped he had Sherlock. He hadn't actually discussed things with him yet, as he had locked himself away in his room. He wasn't sure where they currently stood. John was sure, however, that he would now fight for a relationship with Sherlock. How was he going to explain this all to Mary, without hurting her feelings?
"John? John are you okay?" Mary asked as she rushed across to room to where John was kneeling on the floor.
"I…I couldn't…help him" John finally mumbled. "That man is suffering, and will continue to suffer because I can't pull myself together. I should be able to help. I've been trained to help him! But all I could bloody do was give him some medicine that may or may not help."
"John, you can't help them all! It's sweet that you want to, but you're just setting yourself up for disappointment. Nobody, much less a doctor has a 100% success rate! Surely your time in the army taught you that." Mary said patiently, hands placed comfortingly on John's shoulders. She scrutinized his face, trying to see if his face would offer any explanation as to the onset of this craziness. His countenance held a tortured expression. However, there was something else behind that. Something different that she hadn't seen the last few times she had talked to him. Looking past the pain that currently dominated his demeanor, Mary saw the expressions that she had come to associate with love. It was the dullness she had seen often in her own mother's eyes when her dad would go away on business trips. It was the glint around the edges of his eyes that showed part of his brain was devoted to another, something Mary had noticed in the eyes of the brides and grooms of the weddings she attended. It was the way his body seemed relaxed, even in its tensed state, that resembled the posture of her married friends. John Watson was in love with someone, but it sure as hell was not herself. If it was Mary, his muscles wouldn't tense up under his hands the way they were now.
"Who's the lucky girl, John?" Mary asked quietly. Ever since she was a little girl, she had eagerly awaited her Prince Charming. As she got older, and more interested in science, she had familiarized her self with the bodily quirks of love. She had carefully observed, so that when her Prince Charming galloped up on his white horse, she would know. As the years went on, she inadvertently chose a career over relationships, telling herself that Prince Charming was still on his way, that he just got delayed fighting off some unworthy adversaries who would try to take her away from him. Of course, Mary wasn't silly about it. She didn't need to be a damsel in distress; she didn't want to be a silly, weak girl. She just wanted some one to love. She had thought that perhaps John...but no. He was already taken. It seemed to Mary that all the best princes were.
John's head snapped up at the words. How had she known? He was utterly bewildered that she knew, or at least was rather close, when he himself wasn't sure. He was used to Sherlock doing it, but Mary? Was everyone smarter than him?
"Ho-How do you mean?" John stammered.
"You've got that special glint in your eye, John. You're in love." May said simply, the last few words taking on a defeated tone.
"I'm sorry." John whispered sheepishly, "It's just- I've been harboring these feelings for a while now apparently, unbeknownst to myself. I couldn't face them before, but last night I was forced to realize that I've been dating to cover them up, and that none of those relationships could have ever worked because-" He paused a moment, considering the gravity of what he was about to confess,"I am in love. With my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. Who is a bloke." He cast his eyes down at this last revelation, afraid to meet Mary's eyes. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn.
Mary squirmed at the revelation, an internal battle taking place as she tried to come to terms with what she had just heard, and its implications. She seemed to deflate slightly. John looked back up, attempting to meet her eyes, but she was looking down.
"I'm sorry, Mary. I never meant to hurt you." John said as he put his hands on her shoulders. They stayed like that for a minute before Mary leaned in and encircled his torso with her arms.
"Never apologize for love," she said,"and it's fine. It's all fine." John breathed a sigh of relief, and then chuckled at her familiar words. They were the same words he had spoken to Sherlock that first night at Angelo's. Mary pulled away to shoot him a questioning smile, but did not inquire further. then she joked "Just promise me we can still be friends. I've always wanted a gay friend! I hear they are the absolute best to take shopping!"
John giggled and retorted "Deal, but have you seen my wardrobe lately? Go shopping with me, and the only thing you're getting is a load of jumpers!" Mary clutched her face in faux horror, and then they both descended into a fit of giggles. When they finally regained their composures, John pulled Mary into a tight hug.
"Thank You, Mary. For everything." John said. Mary pulled back and smiled.
"Sure," she said, "Now tell me about this, Sherlock Holmes." John gawked at her.
"The Sherlock Holmes. The Reichenbach Hero. The one in the deerstalker. The internet sensation. You don't know of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes?" John said dumbfounded.
"I know that stuff, but those are just the public side of Sherlock, the impersonal, unflattering side. I want to hear about the real Sherlock. Your Sherlock." Mary explained. John beamed at her.
"Well, he's brilliant, for one. He's crazy, but that's part of what I love. He's just...so alive. The papers made him out to be this cold, unfeeling, icy man who only cared about solving a nice murder. Hell, that's the side most people see. They're blinded by preconceived notions and jealousy. Sherlock made me feel alive when I cam back from... from the war. Before him, I was in a constant battle with myself over whether or not to commit suicide. I spent everyday thinking about how easy it would be to just end it all, and not have to worry about money, or my limp, or my alcoholic sister who walked out on her wife. Then I met Sherlock, and I had excitement. I had a partner to look after. I had a purpose. He helped easy my money problems, devised a plan to show me that my limp wasn't near as bad as I thought, and made it so I wouldn't have to depend on my sister. Sure he gets on my nerves and can be a right git. But he's my git. He pieced me back together when I was broken, and I can never thank him enough for that. He cared enough to forge a friendship with me of all people, and me alone. But most importantly, he makes an effort for me. He doesn't let anyone change him, but he changed for me. Plus he's bloody gorgeous and has a nice arse." John concluded his monologue with a chuckle and a grin. Mary couldn't help but smile all the way through his explanation. At his last sentence, she smacked him playfully on the arm, and then stood up.
"Come on, up you go," she said as she reached an arm down to help him up, "you better finish your shift so you can go back to your boyfriend!" She giggled at the last word. John waved as she left his office, then sat down and prepared for his next patient. The bad memories from earlier were completely forgotten. They had been replaced with thoughts of Sherlock and of shopping trips with Mary. The latter caused him to giggle more.
By the time the end of his shift rolled around, John was exhausted. The breakdown from before had been more draining than John realized, and he hadn't slept that well the night before. So John splurged and took a cab home. John much preferred walking back to the flat, as it saved money and, if traffic was really bad, time. John tried to avoid taking cabs as much as possible. He usually only took them when he was with Sherlock.
Sherlock. John groaned as he realized that he would most likely need to stay up so they could have a conversation about their-ugh-feelings. Perhaps a cuppa will do the trick John pondered. It took a great deal of will power to fight the sleepiness that the soft, warm interior or the cab, combined with the emotional and mental fatigue, was inducing. He couldn't fall asleep yet. He really needed to talk to Sherlock. John hoped he would be able to coax the fickle man out of his room. If he could stay awake, then, if he was lucky, John might end up in Sherlock's arms tonight. It was a pleasing thought.
As the cab pulled up to 221 Baker Street, John noticed the door was slightly ajar. Alarmed, he jumped out of the cab and tossed the driver what he was sure was too much money, and rushed to the door.
" Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock?" John yelled. When he received no answer, he continued to the steps, and started the seventeen step dash. It occurred to him as he was climbing that the elderly lady was away at some family member's house until tomorrow afternoon, and therefore, should not answer his call. Sherlock, however, should be up in the flat, and therefore should acknowledge John's call. The fact that he didn't worried John. He reached to his lower back before mentally cursing at his own stupidity for having left his sidearm in his room in the upstairs of the flat. He prepared himself for what could lay on the other side of the door. John barreled through and immediately ducked and rolled to behind the closest couch. He cautiously peeked out from behind the couch, but saw nothing out of the ordinary, aside from a mess near the entrance to the kitchen. Coiled tight like a spring and ready to strike, John crept out from behind the couch and maneuvered towards his room. He made his way up the stairs, burst through the door of his room and grabbed his fire arm. He checked all through his room for signs of invaders. When he was satisfied that his room was untouched, he made his way down the stairs to Sherlock's room.
He cleared Sherlock's room using his military training to check for intruders who may still have been in the flat. He found Sherlock's room mostly empty. Most of his clothes, his portable science equipment, and even his violin were all gone. Even the skull, which Sherlock had moved into his room recently was mysteriously absent. A bolt of trepidation shot through John. What was going on? Nothing of value had been taken, so a robbery was unlikely.
"Sherlock?!" John called again, praying to whatever Supreme Being or Divine Power that was listening that Sherlock was somewhere close, safe from whatever malevolence had invaded their flat. John quickly cleared the rest of the flat, but found nobody. He ended in the kitchen, wondering about the mess and the few pieces of broken glass from a broken pane from a nearby window. That is no doubt the product of a Sherlock experiment John assured himself. He sank into his normal seat at the kitchen table. He hung his head in his hands in frustration. The detective was nowhere to be found. Maybe Lestrade had called him away on a longer, overnight case, one in which Sherlock figured he would need his violin. But surely, if that were the case, Sherlock would have sent him a text? John checked his phone. Nothing.
John decided to shoot Lestrade a quick text.
Greg, did you send Sherlock on some overnight case? JW
As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, he saw a note on the table. He sighed as he picked it up. John was getting slightly annoyed at all this secrecy. He unfolded it and read the familiar script.
My Dear John,
I have decided to leave, as living together as flatmates now is impossible. I love you, and cannot change that. Since you do not return this affection, I will go. I won't force anything on you. I just want you to know that even though this rejection hurts, I could never hate you.
Always with love, Sherlock
John felt his gut wrench. For the second time that night, his knees gave out beneath him. This time, however, he wasn't strong enough to keep him at a genuflection. He fell down to the floor and curled up into a feotal position, as if he could curl up tight enough to keep his insides from gushing out.
Since you do not return this affection, I will go.
How could the brilliant deductor not see that John was madly in love with him? "B-but Sherlock," it came out no louder than a whisper, "I love you, Sherlock." It was the first time he had said those words altogether. It felt good to get out, but did not help his current predicament. Pain swept through him as he realized that Sherlock was gone. It was obvious, the misunderstanding. Sherlock had only looked at the front of his note, and saw the no. He then was pained as John now was, packed and left. In his anger, he must have made a mess and forgotten to shut the doors properly. This was all John's fault. He had been trying to be funny, or cute, or hell John doesn't even know what, and he had gone and ruined it all.
John curled up tighter, hoping that if he stayed this way, then maybe, just maybe, he could keep his heart from being ripped out.