Chapter Text
“The very notion of falling in and out of love. Preposterous.” Sherlock mumbles to himself, though he knows the non sequitur will not go ignored, and doesn’t look up from the stack of files he’s standing hunched over. They had once been meticulously (incorrectly, according to him) ordered, but are now in despairing disarray.
“Hmm?” Greg glances up from his computer screen, blinks a few times and frowns at the mess.
With an impatient huff through his nose, Sherlock hooks one ankle around the leg of a chair, pulls it to him, letting the metal feet shriek as they drag across the floor, and slumps dramatically into the seat, knocking a stack of files over with him as he drops. Some small part of Sherlock needs a response, anything to fill in missing data. The more clinically logical part of him, the part that keeps his heart on lockdown, hopes the awkward silence will prevail, that his fears will not be confirmed. He does not make eye contact with Greg.
“Oi! Watch it!” Greg’s protest is only half-hearted. They’ve been at it for hours. Days. A small eternity. He’s more than once thought about lighting a cigarette, conveniently forgetting it, and letting fate have its way. What had started out as a very bored Sherlock demanding perusal of Greg’s cold files has quickly devolved into a series of interconnected blackmailing cases. What’s more, Greg suspects (because he’s actually not the idiot Sherlock makes him out to be) he is witnessing, first hand, Sherlock in some sort of emotional crisis. At the very least he’s working out the finer points of avoidance. What Greg can’t figure out is why Sherlock’s strop has taken up residence in his office rather than the tatty old couch at Baker Street. Unless… “Surely not,” Greg thinks to himself.
“I’ve already read those.” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand and leaves it at that. They continue in relative silence a few moments longer as Greg returns his attention to the tedium of his computer screen without further addressing Sherlock’s outburst. Sherlock thinks it may be possible that his comment is forgotten; Greg is an idiot (though decidedly less so than many of his colleagues) after all. And Sherlock did spontaneously, and not entirely unintentionally, distract him with the files.
Sherlock decides he doesn’t really want Greg to respond. He doesn't want to put to words this terrible, gnawing suspicion. He definitely doesn't want to discuss it with an outsider, even someone like Greg, who he almost considers a friend. But he knows he can't discuss it with the one person who might actually provide some insight. It will be devastating. A death blow for certain.
He can't.
He won't.
He tosses the file aside, presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and inhales ragged and deep through his nose.
“I didn’t fall out of lo-” Greg’s voice cracks on the word. He clears his throat, sips his tepid coffee with a grimace, and continues without leaning to look around his monitor at Sherlock. “There was nothing quick about the end of my marriage.” He does glance up at the sound of Sherlock shifting in his chair. “‘Falling’ implies sudden. It wasn’t.”
Sherlock cocks his head just enough that he catches Greg’s eyes in his peripheral vision. He’s being studied. Scrutinized. It’s mortifying, and he suddenly understands what it is to be on the other side of his own methods. He attempts to school his features into some semblance of casual disconnect, but knows he’s caught out because Greg is standing, stretching, and dragging a straight back chair up next to him. As Greg sits backwards on the chair, his arms crossed over the back, Sherlock drops his chin to his chest, closes his eyes and exhales in frustration.
“So…”
“No.” His intent is to sound cutting, his usual abrasive, disagreeable self. He grimaces as he berates himself in his mind, because he knows all Greg is seeing is vulnerability.
Undeterred, Greg presses on. “John, is it?”
Sherlock doesn’t have to take this speculation, this invasion of that which is most precious. Doesn’t have to tell Greg a thing. He thinks he should just stand up, scatter the files, knock his chair over, make as dramatic a scene as possible, and storm out. That’s exactly what he should do. Wants to do.
He can’t.
He can’t make himself go.
Instead, he stays still, breath caught in his throat, eyes cast down to his hands in his lap. His hands that are trembling and fidgeting with a button on his jacket, and apparently moving of their own will. He can’t still them, no matter how hard he tries.
“I thought,” Greg clears his throat. He’s uncomfortable.
“Good,” Sherlock thinks to himself. He relishes the fact that he’s not alone in his misery.
“Uhm,” Greg tries again. “What’s her name? That nurse… Mary, yeah?”
Sherlock scoffs. “That’s done.”
“Done?” Incredulous, Greg leans closer. “He was talking about buying a ring. I thought…”
“Do you not understand the definition of the word done? Over. Through. Terminated…”
“All right, no need to be an arse about it.” It’s obvious Greg is confused and struggling as he tries to apply this new information. “He never mentioned. When?”
“Ages.” Voice dripping with disdain, Sherlock drags the word out attempting to convince Greg, himself as well, that the current topic of discussion is tiresome and beyond his scope of caring. Greg, to Sherlock’s dismay, laughs in response. Laughs.
“Ages?” Still chuckling, Greg cards his hand through his hair. “You’ve only been home, what, a month? Before that he was planning his proposal.”
“Five weeks, three days,” Sherlock corrects him. Greg looks at him in dawning shock and he reaches what is clearly the correct conclusion based on the implications at the same moment Sherlock realizes exactly what his admission means.
“Y-you… You and John?” Greg blinks, his stunned expression slowly melts into something softer. Knowing. A bit devious. “Finally sorted yourselves out?”
Sherlock is blushing. He feels the heat rising, and there’s not a thing he can do to stop it. He’s not even embarrassed that Greg knows. He’s not embarrassed to be associated with John Watson in any way. And he’s definitely not embarrassed that Greg obviously assumes Sherlock is responsible for wrecking John’s plans with Mary. It’s worse. Oh, it’s so much worse than that.
Greg is looking at him expectantly, waiting for details. A happy announcement, perhaps. Sherlock has to sit on his hands because if he doesn’t he’s certain he’s going to pull that damned button right off.
“She left.” Sherlock attempts once more to derail Greg’s focus.
“Wha- who? Mary? She left John?” Greg shakes his head with a huff. Sentiment. “That’s… Do you know why? I mean, beyond the obvious?” He gestures to Sherlock with a quick wave of his hand and an innuendo laden wink.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and flops his head back, slumping down in his seat with all the theatrics he can muster. “I believe her exact words were, ‘he never assaulted a patient because he was desperate to see me.' And then she was gone.”
“Gone? Just like that?” Greg looks disbelieving, and Sherlock thinks maybe, on occasion, he should give him more credit.
“Just like that,” he repeats, his tone a touch too chipper. He doesn’t want to recount the whole sordid story. Greg is grinning like an idiot. He’s going to have to tell the whole sordid story. Sherlock covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow and groans.
“C’mon, gimme.”
“Why do you care?” Sherlock actually whines.
“Seriously?” Greg laughs again and throws his hands up. “Just start with this… When did John know?”
“When did John know what?”
“Sherlock. Be serious.”
“Always,” Sherlock thinks to himself. “John has always known his own heart. I’m the one who ruined it. Ruined everything before it even had a chance to start.”
"About the time he moved in. The first time,” is what he says instead.
“Poor bastard,” Greg shakes his head. “And you?”
“After the meeting with Moriarty at the aquatic center,” Sherlock lies. He worries his lower lip between his teeth and wills Greg, who is watching him with narrowed eyes, not to question it. Not to press. Because the truth, well, truth is terrible. It’s terrible and he knows he won’t survive the explanation.
“Why do you look like someone's just kicked your puppy?” His face is etched with concern, but Greg admirably keeps his tone light.
“I…” Sherlock covers his mouth with his hand shakes his head. “Please,” he begs silently, “please don't make me say it.”
“Sherlock, is this about what you said before?” Greg’s voice is gentle, quiet. He lays a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock can't bring himself to shrug it away. “Do you think John is having doubts? Is he…”
“No!” It's sharp and emphatic. Sherlock forces himself to sit up, and shakes his head with vehemence. He doesn't doubt John in this. Could never. “No,” he repeats, and this time it's a whisper. “Me,” and his voice breaks with the admission. “It's me. I don't think I…” Sherlock can't continue. He fights the ache in his chest that seems to be growing. Expanding. Consuming. Choking.
Greg exhales slowly. He's bracing himself to ask the ugly question he doesn't really want to know the answer to. “Did John force hims…”
“No! What? No. If anything, I…” Sherlock clenches his hands into fists. He will not tolerate Greg thinking ill of John Watson. He will not allow it.
“Easy, Sherlock,” Greg makes a placating motion with his hand. “You understand why I have to ask?” Sherlock stares at him, slowly releases his hands, and barely manages to nod.
“There is obviously something I'm not understanding.” His hand is still on Sherlock’s shoulder, so he squeezes lightly. It's meant to comfort, but it feels condescending. Sherlock does shrug him away this time. “You have to help me out here. Have you ever had feelings for John?”
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. How can he explain to Greg what he could never tell John? That he doesn't believe in destiny, or anything really, but he believes with all that he is that he was born with a piece missing from his heart (not the physical one, the sentimental nonsense one), and that only John is capable of making it whole? Instead, he growls. “Yes, of course. Don't be dull.”
“Then, what changed?”
He knows the exact moment his ability to love John died. It was as real as death. And that's what he'd felt. Grief. Cavernous, tormenting grief. He'd mourned the loss, mourns it still. But he can't tell John, because he can't watch him break a second time. He can't be the cause of John Watson’s heart breaking a second time. Because this time, the damage will be irreparable, he has no doubt of that. “Me. I changed.”
Sherlock can see his own grief resting heavy on Greg’s shoulders. “When? When did you…”
“Just before our love got lost,*” he thinks. Sherlock closes his eyes against the tears he feels forming. He's done this to himself. To the both of them. “I never should have come home.”