Chapter Text
The November wind bit at John’s cheeks, ruffling his hair and slipping under his coat collar as he fumbled his keys out of his pocket. His phone was buzzing in his trousers, but his hands--clumsy in thick woolen gloves--were barely capable of fitting the front door key into the lock, let alone checking a text. It wasn't until he'd dropped his coat onto a chair, put the kettle on, and gone for a much-needed trip to the toilet that he remembered to check his phone.
[Lestrade]
You owe me a fucking pint.
[Sent]
What did he do?
[Lestrade]
Buckingham Arms. 9 o'clock.
[Sent]
It's been a bit of a day, mate. Tomorrow?
[Lestrade]
He accepted a case for the first time in three weeks today, and besides the necessary deduction, he didn't say a word to anyone.
[Sent]
See you at 9.
John entered the pub a few minutes late and found Greg wedged into a corner table, curled around a mostly empty glass with two more full ones in front of him and picking through a half-empty basket of chips.
"Catch up," Greg said, shoving a full pint across the table at John before draining his first and reaching for the next. John took a long pull of the lager gratefully before eyeing Greg up, gritting his teeth, and diving in.
"Rough day?"
Greg snorted before lowering a glare over the rim of his glass at John. They drank in silence for a minute, neither willing to be the first to go deeper. John tried to focus on the rugby playing on the screen over Greg's shoulder, but the resentment and curiosity and frustration rolling off the older man in waves was both distracting and guilt-inducing. Finally he met the glare head-on.
"Go ahead then."
“Stop fucking him around.”
“Jesus Christ, Greg, Mary’s only been dead three months.”
Greg snorted again. “I’d be worrying about that if you’d still been in love with her, or even liked her at that point. Or if you hadn’t been in love with someone else for your entire marriage.”
Something in John bristled at that, even as something else acknowledged it as true. It appeared, however, that Greg wasn't done.
“I can't get him to answer his phone half the time, even when I'm promising an eight. Mycroft says he’s sleeping in his bolt holes half the week and walking the streets all night the other half. You're never with him at crime scenes. He never mentions you. Hell, he never mentions anything. What the fuck is going on?”
“He’s not exactly calling me at all hours either,” John spat, and heard the sudden bitterness in his tone.
“Does he know you want him to call?”
“Christ, Greg, you make me sound like a teenage girl.”
“Christ, John, you’re sort of acting like one. He killed your wife, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you think you’re the one that might need to push?”
John grimaced. “Technically, she killed him first.” He held up a hand when Greg’s eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. I haven’t been trying very hard.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, guilt washing over him, along with the familiar wave of missing Sherlock that had been part of his daily life for so long now that he could hardly imagine a way to make it better. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to do this.”
Lestrade sighed. “Yeah you do. That’s not it. What is it? Is it still the whole ‘not gay’ thing? Because...just...stop hiding behind the bullshit. Either go be with him, or don’t, but either way, he deserves to know. He’s been waiting for you long enough.”
John opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again, all the fight draining out of him. “I know. Fuck, Greg, I know. I know he has.” He sat for a long moment, tracing the condensation on his glass. “It took me a long time to figure it out. Not just me, but...him. I didn’t know. For so long. He’s always called me an idiot, and he’s right.”
“None of that matters and you know it. Are you in love with him?”
John’s voice was steady, and his answer was immediate. “Yes.”
“Well, put us all out of our misery and go fucking do something about it already.”
--
They stayed a while longer, drinking and talking about everything besides Sherlock, and eventually working their way through a couple of burgers. By the time John shook Greg’s hand at the end of the night, he still hadn't decided when to talk to Sherlock.
It was true that John had been avoiding his best friend, and he couldn't even come up with a good reason why. He would never be angry or upset that Sherlock had killed Mary (beaten John to it, really); she’d been seconds away from shooting John when Sherlock had found them and taken her out immediately with a gun he'd had in a drawer since Serbia. Sherlock had looked him over with frantic intensity, not believing John wasn't hurt until he'd thoroughly checked himself. John had just been reaching to pull him into a hug when the Met burst in, and then it had been a maelstrom of police and government agents and statements, and they'd been separated at some point. By the time John was finished, Mycroft’s men had already taken Sherlock back to Baker Street.
They'd seen one another only a handful of times since, and always in the company of others. John had gone on several small cases but they always met at the victim’s flat or NSY or the crime scene, and Sherlock always left right after. John had invited him for food the first three times before he stopped asking, and eventually, Sherlock had stopped texting. John knew he should have kept trying, should have just showed up at the flat, but he was afraid. He was afraid of everything changing.
He was afraid that nothing would.
He glanced at his watch: just after midnight. Sherlock would still be awake. John could do it now, could tell him now. Suddenly nothing seemed more important.
If only it was that easy.
[Sent]
I’m going to stop by in a few minutes, alright? I have something I'd like to talk to you about.
He paused on the pavement and waited for the response. True to form, it came almost immediately.
[Sherlock]
Not home.
[Sent]
Are you out on a case? Do you need help? I’ll meet you.
There was no response, so John reluctantly went home. You’ve waited years, he told himself. You can wait until tomorrow.
But when he went to the flat the next day, Mrs. Hudson told him Sherlock had left for Brussels that morning, something for Mycroft. When he got back from Brussels, John had been working at the surgery, and by the time he was able to text Sherlock, the detective had gone to Manchester on a case. Before he knew it, nearly three weeks had passed. Lestrade had checked in more than once, seemingly as frustrated as John that the conversation hadn't happened yet. Finally, late on the first Thursday in December, he got a text of the type he'd been waiting for.
[Lestrade]
He left here about 20 minutes ago.
[Sent]
Thanks, Greg.
[Lestrade]
Good luck, mate.
One long, expensive cab ride later, John stood on the pavement outside 221B.
[Sent]
I know you’re home. Can we talk?
[Sherlock]
I'm still away, John. I’ll let you know when I’m back.
[Sent]
I’m standing on the pavement. I know you left NSY an hour ago. Unless a burglar’s broken into the flat, you’re there. I just saw your shadow move past the window.
John watched as the dots that meant Sherlock was typing a response appeared and disappeared on the screen twice. Finally, another text popped up.
[Sherlock]
Come up.
John let himself into the flat and took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. There was no greeting as he swung the door open, but he saw Sherlock’s coat hanging up as he stripped his off. “Sherlock?” He hung up his jacket next to the Belstaff and craned his neck to peer into the kitchen.
“Hello, John.”
Sherlock’s voice, nearly inaudible, came from the sitting room. John took a few steps closer and finally recognized Sherlock’s figure, slumped low in his armchair, lit only by the embers of a dying fire. He reached for a lamp, but Sherlock’s voice stopped him. “Leave the lights off, please.”
There was a note in Sherlock’s voice John couldn't decipher. “Are you alright? I have something I’d like to talk to you about, and I'd rather be able to see you.”
There was a long pause, and then: “I’d rather do this in the dark, if you don't mind.”
Somehow, finally, Sherlock had deduced it. He'd anticipated why John was there and was trying to save them both from the inevitable British awkwardness that was about to follow. But John Watson was no coward, and it had taken him a long time to get to this point, and damn it, he wanted to be able to see Sherlock when he told the detective he loved him.
“I do mind.”
There was a soft sigh, and then a lamp snapped on. Sherlock’s face was blank, but there was something about his eyes that didn't sit right with John. “Has something happened? Why are you sitting here in the dark?”
“Waiting for you.” John saw Sherlock swallow. “Text from Lestrade.”
That gave John momentary pause, and then he let out a sigh. “He told you I was coming over. Wanted to make sure you'd be here.” At Sherlock’s brief nod, John let out a short laugh. “Hard to fault him for that. I think he feels invested in this visit. I am glad you're finally home tonight.” He crossed to his chair and sat down, taking a deep breath before opening his mouth to plunge in.
“Please, John. Don't.”
John closed his mouth, and then opened it again to speak. Sherlock held up a hand.
“It won't make either of us happy to have this conversation, John. I'd. Just. Can we not?”
“You don't know what I'm going to say.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, John nearly rolled his eyes. “If you'd deduced this, you'd have told me.”
“No. Not this. And I did deduce it. I've been deducing it for a long time.”
John stared at him. “Then why--”
“Because I've also deduced which choice you would make, and I've been right every time. It will not help either of us to have this conversation. Please just go home, John.”
“No.” John leaned forward in his chair, and as he did so, he saw Sherlock leaning further away. What the hell is going on? he thought, and then he repeated the thought out loud. “I came here tonight to tell you something, and I think we both need me to.”
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “John. I need. Please. Turn around, go home, and come back tomorrow. Come back tomorrow, after you've slept and realized your mistake. Just don't--”
“I love you.” John watched Sherlock’s shoulders sag, and then his eyes opened again, slowly, and they were unreadable. “You haven't deduced everything,” John pressed on.”I love you. I want to come home.”
“John.”
The pain in that one syllable was so palpable that John finally understood that this conversation wasn’t going well. He opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock held up a hand. “Please, John. Please stop now before--before there’s no going back. You can still choose to get up and go home, and--and I’ll delete this. Come back tomorrow, John, please.”
John sat dumbly in his chair, shaking his head a little. “But. Sherlock, no. No. That isn’t the choice I want to make. I choose you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock barked out a bitter laugh, and anything good that had been left in the atmosphere was gone. “I've lain here at Baker Street month after month, year after year, alone. You've never chosen me, and you're not choosing me now. I'm just what's left.”
No one had ever said anything to John that felt more like a punch. He fisted his hands in his hair, desperately trying to figure out what was happening, and Sherlock kept talking. “You have spent the last several years--all of the years, really, since we met--choosing anyone and everything that wasn't me. I know I pushed you away the very first night, but there were a thousand moments after that where you could have. Had me."
Sherlock stood and paced to the window, staring out into the evening darkness of the street below. “I never wanted--this--with anyone. Never believed true affection could have a positive outcome. So I tried to show you. No, I have shown you. Many times. So many times. I have told you--in fact, I have told you in front of people. I...I know I am not an obvious person, I know I deride sentiment, that I turn away from it. But not with you. Never with you. I thought you were the exception...to all things. For me. But then you got married, and I stood next to you while you did it. Because I wanted you to be happy, because I loved--”
To John’s shock, Sherlock’s voice broke, and he took a few shaky breaths before turning back to meet John's gaze. "I thought I could wait forever. I thought I would always trust you. But I couldn't, and I can't. Not with this. I have died for loving you, and I have killed for loving you, and it's gotten me here.
“I do not think I can be...here...any longer."
John tried to swallow around the horror and self-loathing and despair rising up in his throat. "What does that--what does that mean?"
Sherlock's gaze slid sideways to the window, unfocused. "Mycroft always has work for me. I'll take...one of the quieter options, this time."
"Away from..." Me, John tried to say, but the word lodged in his throat with everything else.
"London," Sherlock said.
But all John heard was You, and what could he say to that? What counterargument did he have that was worth anything? Sherlock had come back for him--twice--and John had given him nothing but pain in return. And now that he was ready--eager--desperate to give him everything, his time had run out.
"For..." Ever? His words were failing him completely.
Still Sherlock didn't look at him. "No. Long enough for me--long enough to--"
Delete. "Delete. This." For John, just speaking the words was like putting a sword through his own gut.
"I've never deleted anything having to do with you."
"But you will. Now."
"Delete it--or stay away. Yes."
John had been shot in the desert. He'd watched his best friend jump off a roof. He'd killed people and hurt people and been hurt and nearly killed more times than he could even comprehend. He'd been betrayed and lied to, neglected and abandoned, and watched love die and destroy. He remembered every minute of every time.
So it was with complete confidence that he could say that nothing in his life had hurt him more than this moment.
He loved Sherlock. Sherlock clearly loved him. But it was not their time, would now never be their time. He had destroyed it at last; he had pushed even Sherlock to the end of what he could bear. So this impossible, frustrating, beloved genius of a man would go away and...delete. The love. And even if he came back after that, could John bear it? The knowing? He knew from vast experience that his strength and his ability to bear things was severely limited when it came to this.
He let his gaze skitter over Sherlock: his beautiful, beloved face; the pale expanse of his neck; his impossibly long fingers. His rigid form, completely motionless and so close that John would only have to lift a finger to touch. Twice before, John had thought he was seeing Sherlock for the last time. On the tarmac, he’d stepped away after only a handshake. Could he leave Sherlock (forever) without...something?
As if he sensed John’s thoughts--oh, hell, of course he did--Sherlock took a deliberate step away.
John had been a surgeon; he knew the human heart couldn’t actually wither inside your chest. He wondered if his heart knew it. “Are you sure?” He rasped, barely audible. He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock’s immediate, infinitesimal nod.
"I'm..." Sorry? Was there even a point to saying it? It had never been a more inadequate word than at this moment. How do you apologize for causing the destruction of two people?
There seemed to be nothing left to do but leave.
So John did.