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John sat on the edge of his bed and pressed his hands against his eyes, attempting to blacken his already dark room. He could hear Sherlock moving about downstairs, pacing and pacing, back and forth, until finally the man gave in and climbed the stairs. John had been down, mood shifting between dark and nothing the closer he got to the (sort of) anniversary. They’d not had a case for nearly two weeks and John had taken to locking himself in his room, only leaving to eat or use the loo. The steps stopped outside his room (a surprising action seeing as Sherlock usually just burst in) followed by a tentative knock on the door.
“John?”
He debated with himself for a moment. Did he want to see Sherlock? To have Sherlock see him like this? He supposed the detective would find out sooner or later, no matter how well he hid it.
“Enter,” John finally answered, his voice flat. The door opened, flooding his room with unwanted light.
“John? Are you all right? You’ve been rather distant these past few days, barely even leaving your room. You’re not ill are you? No, that’s not it. You haven’t been--”
“I’m depressed, Sherlock,” he blurted out to stop the rambling. “I thought that was rather obvious.”
“Depressed?”
“Yes, Sherlock, depressed. It’s just… Mary, she… she may have been a liar, but she was still my wife and, in a way, I did love her. I’m a widower, Sherlock. I lost my wife.” John rubbed his hands over his face then pressed the heels of his palms back against his eyes. “And my daughter,” he added quietly.
“Your family,” Sherlock offered softly.
“Yes. I lost my family. Six months. They’re gone, and I just--” his voice broke and he shook his head, taking a deep breath to force away the threatening sobs.
The sight of his friend in such a state made something crack in Sherlock’s chest. He made his way over to the bed and carefully sat down next to John, eyes on the side of the doctor’s head as the man struggled for control of his emotions.
“You’re not alone. I hope you know that.”
John let his hands fall to his lap eyes on the floor.
“I may not understand just exactly what you’re going through, but I’ve been there; depressed. I… I’m not going to compare situations, that’s careless and unkind. But…” he reached out and placed his hand on John’s forearm, not sure if the touch was welcome or not. “I am here for you, John. Anything you need. If you need to talk, I can listen. If you need silence, I will oblige. If you need comfort… I’m more than willing to provide it. Anything to lessen your pain, anything to help you. You’re my… best friend, John, and you shouldn’t be depressed. You’re not alone.”
John looked at Sherlock’s hand, it’s warmth seeping through the fabric of his sleeve. Heat radiated up his arm from the touch. His throat felt tight as he lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes, a pained smile on his face that caused Sherlock’s chest to tighten.
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiled, a weak thing that slipped as he studied John’s face.
“You’d rather be alone,” he observed.
John’s eyes fell, the flash of a smile from Sherlock’s deductions a fleeting expression on his face. He nodded, and Sherlock’s grip tightened fractionally on his arm. Sherlock brought his other hand up and guided John’s head back up.
“I’ll be just downstairs,” his voice was gentle, a tone John hadn’t thought possible of sounding so genuine from his friend. “There will be tea when you join me. We can talk. Or not talk,” he added after a twitch in John’s expression. “Just downstairs. Tea,” he smiled softly, “I’ll be on the couch.”
Sherlock waited for John to nod, a quiet “okay” mumbled between them, before he stroked John’s cheek with his thumb.
“You’re not alone, John. Remember that. I’m here for you, always.”
He leaned in (ignoring the hitch in John’s breath) and pressed his lips to John’s forehead. Then, just as quickly as he had come, he was gone, with John staring at the space he’d left behind. The door was left open, just a crack but enough for the dark room to be lighted once more. The door left open for words or silence, for comfort.
John stood and headed to the door, then froze with the knob in his hand. Did he close it, or did he join Sherlock downstairs? Was it just pity, or something more? Did Sherlock really care? Of course he did, a voice countered, he died for you, killed for you. He lo--
John shook his head, tightened his hold on the knob, and made his choice.