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I know.
They were two of the simplest words spoken by the man, and John was starting the hate them more and more each time they passed his lips.
The build to the boiling point had been surprisingly slow. It had taken them months to get to the here and now. The end result was damn near inevitable with the way things had been going. Sherlock, with all of his claimed knowledge of the world had been putting him to the test recently. John had finally snapped at him the moment they arrived home, and the endless arguing had gotten them absolutely nowhere.
The fading afternoon light lit up the dust swirling in front of the windows, passing over Sherlock's form as he lay reclined on the sofa in his midnight black dress shirt and trousers. He had thrown his arm rather dramatically over this eyes by that point, seeming to try to tune out everything John was saying in the midst of their argument. John stood over him with his eyes ablaze. His hands finally settled on his waist. A deep breath was needed for what he was about to ask, for he actually feared what the answer may be. He exhaled a bit shakily.
"Do you even care about me at all?"
"Now you're just being foolish," Sherlock muttered in response. "You're stubborn, John, but don't be an idiot."
"Enlighten me, then," he commanded as his arms crossed over his chest. "Seems to me, from the words of your own lips, that I'm an idiot. I must be slowing you down. So tell me. Do you even care about me at all, or am I -everything we have - just a convenience to you?"
Sherlock slowly sat up to see John better. A flash of hurt appeared over his face at the accusation. John's stomach did a flip, almost regretting the question. John had always let Sherlock know his value to him since the start of their relationship. Not once had he failed to let him know how much he loved him, seizing every opportunity he had. Once, years before, there had been the mistake of not doing so, and then Sherlock was gone. He wouldn't allow for the same thing to happen again.
Sherlock didn't say it out loud all too much, but he said it in other ways. There would be moments in the middle of a case when the pieces were put together, moments when Sherlock would give him this look that said, 'You make me better.' There were other times, too, times when they were out on streets somewhere in full out laughter, and the quick flash of ever-changing eyes would tell him, 'There's nowhere else I'd rather be.' Of course, there were those intimate times, those private lazy mornings where Sherlock would move in closer to John's touch, his soft exhale breathing in his ear, 'I'm utterly and completely happy here.' To him, those moments always sang out as loudly as 'I love you.'
Recently, though, with acts of complete recklessness abound, the question needed to be asked.
Sherlock lowered his eyebrows, his face falling into the stony mask, but he said nothing.
John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I love you," he finally said, letting his hands fall to his sides. Sherlock watched him carefully. "And yes, I'm stubborn, and I'm stubborn for that very reason. I have to be, I mean with -" He cut himself off, his lips pursed in deliberation. "With everything we've gone through, it's impossible not to be. Just answer the question."
"I believe you're already certain of the answer," Sherlock said quietly as he clasped his hands together in his lap.
"No, I'm not," John laughed humorlessly. He inched over and perched himself on the arm of the chair closest to the sofa, His arms crossed over his chest once more as he let his head fall downward, refusing to see Sherlock's face with what he was about to propose. "You know..." He trailed off for a moment. "If you can't answer me this one simple thing, then that says a lot, doesn't it?" He settled on focusing on the rounded tip of his shoe. "Maybe it's time we put an end to this," he said quietly, letting the after-effect of silence wash over them.
The things they had gone through together were almost impossible to imagine, and not once did it ever cross his mind that it would come to this. He wouldn't have given it up for anything, not unless it became necessary. Hell, even after Sherlock came back from his "death" John had forgiven him. They needed each other, always. But sometimes no matter how badly you want something, maybe you're not meant to have it, or worse - maybe you're meant to have it for a short amount of time before it gets ripped from you, like a piece of your soul leaving. Perhaps the leading events meant that time had come once again. He'd gone through it once before, after all.
Had it reached that point, the point of no return? The uncertainty that spread through him annoyingly left him with more answers than questions.
"I wholeheartedly agree," came Sherlock's reply as he stood and started to cross the room.
John reached out to grab hold of Sherlock's hand, stopping him in his place. "Not with the argument, with this," he clarified with a lump in his throat. "Us."
Sherlock squeezed his hand. His voice held the slightest of trembles. "John."
"The way you've been going off the rails lately..." He shook his head.
Sherlock's usual behavior he could handle. The moment a case would pop up, the gears would turn in his head and the focus would be on the prize of solving it with no point in distractions. Always though, they would be in on it together, whatever was happening. They were together and guiding each other. The past couple of months or so, however, Sherlock would jump on something particularly dangerous, and he'd be off in a flash. There were no traces of him or clues as to what he was doing, and John was left alone and terrified, fearing the absolute worst. Whatever it may have been, whether it be the adrenaline, not caring, or something else entirely, it was throwing him out of control of the situations he drove himself into. John knew that if he didn't get a grip, he'd be throwing himself off a cliff - perhaps realistically - and that was something he couldn't deal with.
John closed his eyes momentarily in thought. "Are we worth it?"
"We are," he answered so quietly that his voice barely registered.
John lifted his head to meet Sherlock's silver eyes. "Then prove it to me. It used to be us against the world. What happened to that?"
Sherlock knitted his brow. "It still is."
"No," he said as he let go of Sherlock's hand and swiftly stood up. "It's you running off to get yourself killed while I'm left trailing after. That's what it's come down to," he bit out. His anger was bubbling to the surface once more. "Damn it, Sherlock," he huffed. "This life we live, I know it's not safe, and that's part of the fun. I love it, and I would never be able to do it with anyone else." There would never be anyone else in the entirety of the universe like Sherlock, and the thought of settling for someone else was never something he wanted to think about. He lowered his voice. "It's got to be us, Sherlock, you and I both."
"John, I know -"
There were those words again, the two he'd been repeating throughout the day. Sherlock Holmes knew nearly everything there was, except when it came to their relationship, apparently. Enough was enough. "Well I don't!" he snapped.
Sherlock's face went blank. "What do you want, John?"
"Honestly?"
"As if you'd be anything but," he replied. "You're a terrible liar. I needn't mention the ti-"
John cut him off. "Yeah," he snorted with a nod. "I'm a terrible liar and you're the best one out there. So tell me, was all of this," he said as he gestured between them, "just a lie, too?"
He saw it coming the moment the words drifted from his lips. The Sherlock he knew and loved instantly froze up. It happened sometimes when he had his black moods. In an instant, he would go from a swirling storm ready to take on and analyze the universe to a statue that hid away from the warmth of the sun. John saw the changes in his body as his exterior iced over in a defensive manner that he used on others. It was as if a switch had been flipped when this happened, and John knew there would be no talking to him now.
Sherlock's lips pulled into a line as his bright eyes became cold and calculating. Without a word, he snatched up his coat from the door hanger and he was gone.
Damn it. That wasn't supposed to happen. He didn't mean it, but the words had gotten rolled up and lashed out with the waves of emotion he couldn't control. He sighed as he shrugged on his jacket, opting to leave the flat for the time being. He could have attempted to follow Sherlock, but he had no idea where the man went, and frankly he needed some air. He wandered around aimlessly for a bit, walking through the busy streets as the overhead sky grew darker and colder. He eventually found himself on a park bench watching the fiery sun sink over the horizon.
He half expected a text from Sherlock - one demanding his presence at a crime scene at once, or even one asking for something he could clearly do on his own. He chastised himself for the hope when no such text came. The words replayed over and over in his mind. Words of anger, hurt, and fear came out entirely too jumbled, even for him. He dragged a hand down his face. He didn't want to lose Sherlock, it was the last thing in the world he ever wanted. Was it too late?
When the stars came out to play, he slowly made his way back home, trudging through the bitter wind that had appeared with the darkness. With the stress of the day wearing him out, his mind rambling, the journey home took nearly twice as long as it should have. Baker Street was dark when he got there, all of the lights were off in the flat. That, of course, meant very little.
"Sherlock?" he called out, hopeful as he hung up his coat. No answer.
He sighed. He supposed it was too much to hope for after everything that had been said. He rubbed his hands together to grain some warmth after being out in the chilled air. When that didn't work, he kindled the wood in the fireplace, basking in the warmth the flickering flames gave off as he stood looking utterly defeated in front of the mantelpiece.
What a day, he thought, pressing his palms against his tired eyes, ignoring the stinging sensation felt there.
Without warning, there were two large hands on his shoulders, and for the briefest of heartbeats, his breathing stopped. The hands moved gently, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know who they belonged too. Like a bloody cat, he thought as he relaxed into the touch, letting his arms fall to his sides. Unable to bear with looking at him, John kept his eyes comfortably shut, his breathing deep and even. The hands on his shoulders moved closer to his neck as they massaged the stressed tendons there with reassuring movements.
"I don't know why you insist on going to that park," Sherlock's voice rumbled.
Too many times in their relationship he had asked 'how', and now wasn't the time to add to it. It wasn't the most important thing. Instead, the questions circling his mind included, 'Where are we now?' and 'Where do we go from here?'"
"Your gait changes slightly for a temporary amount of time due to the harsher terrain," he explained as if he were asked anyway. His hands paused momentarily. "John, I... I apolgize for what I've done, what I haven't done. The things I've said and left unspoken."
"How very vague of you," John mused. He expected Sherlock to have an utter look of annoyance plastered across his features. Opening his eyes, a simple glimpse in the mirror revealed a much different story. Sherlock stood behind him, his face fixated on the floor with a sorrowful frown. In the years they'd spent in each others company - whether it be as friends or something more - he had only seen that expression one other time, and the memory swept him up in a whirlwind as Sherlock's hands began moving again.
Sherlock's hands slowly moved across his shoulders and down to his biceps, slowly easing the tension out of his body. "I realize my actions have been misguided," he said dolefully, "and I apologize."
John chewed over on his lip before shaking his head just slightly. He closed his eyes. "Are you saying that so I won't leave?"
Suddenly, Sherlock's wiry arms were over his own, wrapping around his chest in a warm embrace. Sherlock was hugging him, he realized, and his eyes flew open, staring at their reflection in the mirror. John could count the number of times Sherlock had stood and actually hugged him on one hand. To say he was surprised was a bit of an understatement. Yet, there he was, standing in 221B, embracing him front to back in an almost protective manner. Warm firelight flickered across their bodies.
"I'm saying it because it's the truth," he murmured, tipping his head down just slightly and resting the corner of his lips against John's temple. "I'm saying it because - despite what others may believe, perhaps even yourself - I do in fact love you," he confessed. John moved his hands carefully under Sherlock's long limbs, turning them upward to grasp onto the detective's arms. "You are important to me, and I care for you more deeply than words can express." Sherlock's embrace tightened around him.
They stayed that way for a few moments, just the two of them standing in the quiet. The atmosphere soon shifted between them in the blink of an eye. "But that's not what this is about, is it?" Sherlock asked in a whisper. "No, no, it can't be. This is something you feel, this is a guttural instinct for you. If it weren't, you'd have said so some time ago." John watched in the mirror as clarity swept across his eyes. Sherlock pulled his head away from John's, turning it to get a better look at him, his brow furrowed. "You think i'm going to do it again," he stated with a hint of surprise in his voice. "That's it, isn't it?"
John's hand tightened their grip on the man's arms as he let his head fall in defeat. A harsh breath escaped through his nose.
"I'm not a mind reader, John," Sherlock said quietly.
"Could have fooled me," he muttered.
"John." Sherlock moved slowly and turned John's body so they were facing each other. He reached out and encircled John's wrists with his hands, holding them in a light grip. "I made a promise to you, did I not?" John nodded. "Then what makes you -"
"I'm not you," he blurted out. Sherlock closed his mouth. "It may be easy for you to be able to see everything in seconds, to be able to read what you need, to have this knowledge of everything around you. But I don't have that luxury, Sherlock," he said eventually. "You keep running off, and leaving me out of the picture, just like you did that night before..." He stopped himself before he got too far, not wanting to stay on the subject of the fall. He licked his lips. "How am I to know what's going on? How am I to know that you're not off dead somewhere, or if you've changed your mind about that promise you made? How?" John blinked at him.
"My intentions were never meant to worry you," he insisted quietly.
"Your actions. You said they were misguided," he reminded him. "Explain."
"You must realize that I'm not an easy man to live with, nor love. Still yet, you choose to do so." He bit his lip as if lost in thought. Slowly, his hands moved from John's wrists to his own smaller hands, wrapping his fingers around his palms. "I suppose subconsciously I've been pushing you with my actions, stretching you to see how far you'll go, for I fear that one day you'll come to your senses and..." He trailed off almost like his voice had been torn away from him. The silence spanned between them for several moments. He tore his gaze to the floor. "If you want to leave, I won't stop you."
John just stared at him. Sherlock's face had become a mangled mess somewhere between a beaten man and a lost child. He was still upset, but at least now he knew why. If there was anything he learned from Sherlock, it was that if the source of the problem was found, it could be solved, no matter what. "I don't want to leave," he told him gently.
"Then don't," came Sherlock's quick and somewhat shaky reply. His hands squeezed John's. "I am sorry," he said eventually before meeting John's gaze. "I'm sorry."
John's thumbs drew circles around the tops of Sherlock's hands as he nodded.
"As for the rest," Sherlock began, once again back to his calm and collected self, "I suppose you'll know that I won't break my promise the same way I know that you won't run off with some scathing woman with flaming blue hair."
A bark of startled laughter escaped him at the prospect. As the action overtook him, Sherlock seized an opportunity by quickly ducking down and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Pulling back, his face had softened considerably, his eyes warm and focused on only him. John let the corner of his mouth tug upwards at the sight.
"The universe in itself is unpredictable, as well as the actions of those who inhabit it. So many ideas can be set into motion, and the chaos is thrilling. Yet I have one constant in my life, one gravitating presence reigning me in without fail, and it's you," he noted softly. "No matter what may happen in this life, no matter what this ever-changing world will throw at us, there's always you. Always." He squeezed his hands again. "And that's how I know."
He was still upset, but the anger was shrinking away, melting with the fire. The sheer open honesty in which Sherlock had presented himself took him by surprise, so much so that he was unsure of how to respond. He glanced down at their hands and realized that Sherlock was absolutely right. They were each others constant, no matter what happened between them. Glancing back up, he smiled.
Sherlock moved one of his hands to cup the side of John's face. "Do you want to go to bed?" he asked as his thumb smoothed over his cheek. "You've been exhausted since the moment you've arrived home, perhaps longer."
The blaring ringtone of Sherlock's phone interrupted them, but Sherlock didn't move.
"Your phone," John managed. "Might be important."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "The most essential element to my life is standing in front of me in an all too comfortable red jumper," he said. "Everything else can wait."
John inclined his head. "Go on," he urged.
Sherlock did as he was asked, answering the call with his free hand without ever letting go of the other. John listened in, but anyone who knew Sherlock would have known the prospects on the other end of the line. He talked quickly and eventually pocketed his phone.
"Case?"
"Yes," he replied. "But you never answered me. Do you want to go to bed?"
The idea certainly wasn't unwelcoming after the day they had. But staying in? That just wasn't them, and it could be just what they needed. John let go of Sherlock's hand and walked over to the coat hanger. "Come on," he said as he slid his jacket on.
Sherlock eagerly threw on his coat and scarf, all the while talking about how brilliant the case was. John watched him closely. The way his eyes lit up and his pure enthusiasm, he remembered, drew him to Sherlock in the first place. It was one of the many things he loved about him, no matter what anyone else thought. He found himself grinning stupidly by the time Sherlock appeared in front of him.
"What is it?"
"Nothing. Just." He cleared his throat. "Picturing you with 'flaming blue hair' is all."
Sherlock lowered his eyebrows partly in confusion, and John took the moment to pull him down by his scarf, stealing a kiss. "I love you," he mumbled against his lips.
"Yes, I know."
John pulled away and sighed. "Now you're just blatantly trying to annoy me."
"Of course I am," he grinned. "Is it working?"
John rolled his eyes at him.
Sherlock rambled on the entire time in the cab, and they were halfway to their destination when the flowing string of words came to a sudden stop.
"I..." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I love you, too."
They stared at each other for a moment frozen in time. It never failed to amaze him at the speed Sherlock's mind would shift its gears. This was what he wanted, what they both needed. No matter where the road may take them, they were on it together, and as long as they were together, they would always steer each other in the right direction.
John rested his hand on top of Sherlock's in the space between them.
He smiled softly. "I know."