A/N It's been a little too long since post-Reichenbach angst, am I right? Well, here you go.
Thanks to Natalie Nallareet, Fayet, ThisDayWillPass, 3star, and DandyLeonine
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXVIII. Sorrow
I'm sorry.
The words pound themselves into Sherlock's skull, repeating over and over, a torturous mantra that burns more than any heat, burns with pure icy cold, furious, bitter cold that grips his chest and snakes into his throat, freezes the tear ducts that he can barely remember the existence of sometimes, creates an ache deep in his head and his heart, a pain that he wouldn't ever imagine himself capable of feeling.
I'm so, so sorry.
He isn't sorry, of course. It's an absolute lie, because he would never take back his actions on the rooftop, not for anything. He did it to save John, and, even though the doctor himself would undoubtedly hate him for thinking such a thing, the life of his flatmate is infinitely more essential than his happiness. It's a selfish thought, but Sherlock is a selfish man, and he knows that now, knows it clearer than anything. It stabs him every time he catches a glimpse of John, on the CCTV screens tucked around Mycroft's house—of John crying, John's voice cracking when he talks, John sitting alone in the flat and staring into space, just staring… those moments are the worst, the staring moments, because they seem like they'll never stop. Sherlock will freeze, every scrap of his attention consumed by the nothingness playing out before him. The tension in John's neck and forehead, the deadness of the hazel-blue eyes that are usually filled with such vivid life… it was a full fifteen minutes, once, before the army doctor finally heaved a sigh and stood up, walking away, out of view of the camera. And every second of those fifteen minutes felt like an eternity, because Sherlock was screaming—not aloud, never aloud, but in his mind, over and over, begging John to hear him.
I'm here, John. I'm here and I'm thinking about you and I've never stopped. And I know that I'm on your mind, it's obvious, it's so blindingly obvious, because nothing else could make you look so destroyed… we're thinking about each other, isn't that enough? Isn't that enough to know?
But John didn't know. He doesn't know, and that's Sherlock's fault, Sherlock's decision. Mycroft's made the offer several times—if you want to talk to him, it could be arranged—but he's denied it every time, and he's still figuring out why. He wants to see John again, God knows he wants to. But he's not ready. Not ready because Moran isn't dead yet, because he still isn't ready to believe that Moriarty himself is ended.
But, beyond that, because Sherlock isn't entirely sure that he wants to return at all.
There's no reason, after all, to believe that John would want him back.
Because he destroyed John. He tormented him, and he's aware of it, despite himself, he doesn't regret it. He knows he made the right choice as clearly as he knows that the man he loves more than anything else in the world will think the opposite. And he can't risk that anger.
He'd rather see John tortured than let John hate him.
Selfish bastard.