Chapter Text
He looked so tiny, lying in this bed. He looked vulnerable, as vulnerable as John had ever seen him.
All the blue shades around him made him look even paler than normal. His eyes were closed and almost translucent, arms lying limply beside his torso.
If it wasn't for the heart monitor beeping silently, in a somehow soothing manner, John could almost imagine that he was just sleeping peacefully. Only he wasn't. He was hurt, badly injured.
And it was John's fault. John was the one who had put him there. John was the one who had nearly beat him to death. In a blinding rage so fundamental that John was horrified by himself.
Tears were burning hot behind his eyes, threatening to spill over any second now, but John didn`t let them. He wasn`t worthy of his own tears.
He had honestly thought Sherlock had deserved all this. He thought it had all been Sherlock`s fault.
Her death, his own misfortune, his sorrow. Everything that had gone wrong in John's life since Sherlock jumped off the roof of Bart's bloody hospital.
But it wasn`t, was it? It really wasn`t Sherlock`s fault. In the end, it was all John`s own fault.
He was the one who wasn`t able to draw the line. To decide between him and her. Her or him. He should have decided long ago. On that ice-cold day in November, almost two years ago, when Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead. When Sherlock appeared out of thin air in this bloody restaurant, right in that minute when John wanted to propose. This was the clue John had missed. This would have been his way out. Out of a relationship he had never really wanted. Out of a future he had never craved. Back to the life they had lived before the fall.
Only it wouldn`t have been enough, would it? John didn`t want to go back to things like they had been before. It wouldn`t have been enough. He wanted more, so much more. He wanted everything.
It had taken John nearly a year after Sherlock`s death, to recognize what it was that he really wanted. That he wanted anything and everything.
And that wasn`t quite true either. He had known all along. He just never had the balls to admit it, to himself and to Sherlock and to all the people around them who knew that they were meant to be together as soon as they laid eyes on them.
They had all known. The woman, Mrs Hudson, the Yarders. Each and every one of John`s numerous girlfriends. People on the streets they had never met before. Everyone had known. And Sherlock bloody Holmes, Mr. Punchline himself, had never corrected them. Not once.
It was always John. John who couldn`t stand the thought that people might think he was in a relationship with a man.
Now, looking back, he didn`t know what he had been afraid of back then. Sherlock Holmes was the most brilliant and extraordinary man he had ever known. John had even told him so, numerous times. He was the most beautiful man John had ever seen, too.
It would have been an honour. People assuming that they were together. People assuming that a man like Sherlock Holmes would want a broken man like John.
Would Sherlock have wanted it? Back then? Would he want it now?
But no, it was too late. Maybe there would have been a chance for them, long ago, before the fall quite certainly. Before the marriage, maybe, even after Mary's death there might have been a chance. But now, after what John had done to him today?
John needed to leave and he needed to do it now. He needed to leave his cane at Sherlock`s bedside and leave this man forever. Because Sherlock Holmes didn`t deserve what John had done to him. He deserved love and happiness. Sherlock deserved someone that treasured him, because that`s what he was, a treasure. And John had nearly destroyed him, had almost killed him. God!
John's hands clenched around the railing at the foot of Sherlock's hospital bed so hard that his knuckles went white. There was a single tear spilling over because John didn`t have the strength to hold it back any longer. He wanted to apologize, for everything he had ever done wrong. For hurting Sherlock, for calling him a machine, for not believing in him, at least not strong enough. For putting him in this very bed, but it was too late. What had happened today? There were no words in this world that could ever make up for what John had done to his best friend.
He needed to go now, because there was no way John would ever leave this room when Sherlock woke up and looked him in the eyes.
Sherlock was like a drug, one that was specifically designed for John and John alone. John had barely managed to stay away from him when he didn't see him every day, but leaving Sherlock like this when he looked at John with those mesmerizing eyes? Impossible.
John looked down at his own hands, still clenched around the railing and his fingers felt numb. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, once, twice, squeezed his hands even harder around the metal that had warmed under his touch. His fingers were hurting now, so he opened his eyes and managed to pry them loose with great effort.
John took the cane that was leaning against the foot of the bed and walked around to Sherlock`s side. Slowly, so slowly, prolonging the inevitable as long as possible. John looked at him one more time, those curls he had always wanted to touch, those beautiful violinists hands, those eyes he could get lost in if only he had gotten the chance.
John leaned the cane against the chair beside the bed. A gesture, a reminder, a thank you and goodbye. An 'I've learned to walk without you. I'll manage on my own now, so don't worry about me any longer.'
“I`m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispered. Then John turned around, closed his eyes briefly to compose himself and walked to the door, hand reaching for the handle to leave the best that had ever happened to him behind and never come back.
“John.” A hint of a whisper, nearly inaudible, but John heard it anyway and froze.
“Sherlock,” John whispered, head dropping to his chest. He closed his eyes and inhaled, held his breath for a few seconds, let it go. “I have to go.”
Silence behind him, for five seconds, six, seven, then: “Don`t.” In a trembling voice so tiny, it broke John`s heart.
John looked up at the ceiling and tried to calm his now racing heart.
“Please, John,” Sherlock whispered and that gave John the strength to turn around and face him.
Sherlock looked even more vulnerable than before, one eye black and swollen, a cut at his left eyebrow. Sherlock`s eyes were pleading and they were beautiful and so, so blue and nearly glowing in the strange light of the hospital room, despite the broken bloodcells that mad his left eye look almost black. John`s lips pressed together on their own volition. He wanted to talk, but his mouth refused to open and anyway, his heart was in his throat and wouldn`t let a single sound through his windpipe.
“I`m sorry, John,” Sherlock whispered. “I`m so sorry.” Sherlock`s voice was urgent now, but still so weak.
It took John a few seconds to register the words Sherlock had said and when he did, he couldn`t believe what they were saying. Sherlock was apologizing to him, the man who had beat him to a pulp.
“What?”
“Please, forgive me, John.” Sherlock was pleading now and there were tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over. John`s own tears started falling now and he felt them hot and wet on his cheeks. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, but couldn't be more than ten seconds, really. Sherlock's brows furrowed.
“You`re crying," he stated, voice a bit stronger now.
“Yeah,” John nearly gasped.
“Why?” Sherlock looked curious. Actually curious.
“Why? God, Sherlock, why am I crying? Seriously?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, tilted his head a little. He really didn`t understand.
“Because… Sherlock.. because I did THIS to you!” John opened his arms helplessly, feeling exasperated.
“John, you had every right…”
“No Sherlock, stop it, stop it right there. I had absolutely no right to lay a hand on you.”
“But I killed your wife.” The pleading tone was back in his voice.
John stared at him and his heart clenched in his chest so hard it actually hurt.
“No,“ he said fiercely, ”you didn`t.”
John stepped carefully closer, until his thighs met the edge of the hospital bed.
“Listen, Sherlock.” John took a deep breath. The things he wanted to say, needed to say, were going to be the hardest he ever had and they didn`t come easily.
“I hurt you… I…,” another deep breath before he continued, whispering, “…I nearly killed you today.” John wasn`t able to meet Sherlock`s eyes, but he could feel the full attention from the man in front of him so he soldiered on.
“There are no words that could tell you how sorry I am. There`s nothing I can do to make this undone.”
“John.”
“No, Sherlock, please, let me say this.” John still refused to look into Sherlock`s eyes, because he would never be able to say those next words, if he would look into those ever changing eyes.
“There is only one thing that I can do, Sherlock. I`m going to leave. I`m going to take myself out of your life and never come back, because that`s the only way to keep you safe from me.” A little whimper escaped John`s throat and there was another single tear rolling down his cheek, but he needed to finish this.
“You`ve been my best friend since the day we met. You've saved my life, more than once and in more than one way. And now I`m going to save yours.”
John stood there beside Sherlock's bed, staring into thin air. His blood was rushing in his ears so loud that it overlayed everything else. He tried to get up the strength to turn around and leave Sherlock behind for the last time in his life when suddenly there was warmth against his fingertips and then he felt Sherlock`s hand slide into his own, holding onto him carefully.
John looked down at their joined hands incredulously. They had never done this before, well not when they weren't chained together by handcuffs.
Sherlock`s hand felt warm in his and it felt right. Completely right.
John took a deep breath before he gathered the strength to look up into Sherlock`s eyes and his chest clenched once again. Sherlock was crying silent tears and he was shaking his head slowly.
“No, John,” he whispered, “don`t do this to me. I don't want to live without you. I've had that long enough and I didn't like it.”
“But I can't just stay and risk hurting you again, Sherlock.”
“You won't.”
“How do you know that? What about the next time you piss me off? What about the next time I've had enough and just snap?”
“You won't,” Sherlock said again and squeezed John's hand harder. And then something shifted in Sherlock's gaze. There was something so vulnerable in it, but there was more. There was understanding and forgiveness and something else, something John didn't catch right away.
John stared into Sherlock's eyes for a long time, trying to find out what it was that he couldn't grasp until he felt Sherlock's thumb stroking the back of his hand carefully and then it hit him like a bus.
It was love.
Sherlock looked at him like a man who was deeply and utterly in love.
John's brows furrowed and he felt tears pickling in his eyes for the third time that night. That was impossible. How could Sherlock love him when he had just beat him to a pulp? How could he have feelings for him after everything John had done to him?
John took a step back and then another until Sherlock's hand slipped out of his own and he saw Sherlock's gaze shifting from understanding and forgiveness and love to irritation and then hurt and then desperation. Sherlock's tears started falling again about two seconds before John's did.
“I'm sorry,” John whispered before he turned around to leave the room.