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John blearily stretches his arms out, having suddenly awoken from his dream. He blinks, gathers his bearings, then rolls over in search of the man beside him.
The bed is empty.
Sighing, he flips to his other side, checking the baby monitor for movement; Rosie’s fast asleep, Sherlock isn’t there. 2:34 a.m, his phone reads, and he pads down the stairs into the sitting room.
Sherlock is curled up in John’s armchair, arms around his knees, head bowed. His breathing isn’t erratic — not crying — and his hands seem to be steady — not drugs — yet John can’t make out much else of his body language.
He moves to the front of the chair, fingers combing through soft curls in an attempt to make the detective look up. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Sherlock only releases a shaky exhale and digs his fingers into his knees. The knot of concern pulls tighter in John’s chest.
“Sherlock, love, what is it?”
A moment of tension hangs in the air before Sherlock looks up, eyes red, face wet and John’s heart cracks just a little bit. “Why do you love me?”
There goes the rest of it.
John is taken aback for a moment before he sputters, “Sherlock — I — what?”
“Ever since I’ve come into your life, all I’ve managed to do is cause you distress.”
It briefly occurs to John that maybe he should be sitting for this conversation, but instead he continues threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair — in a way that he hopes is — soothingly. “Sherlock, you’ve— ”
Sherlock casts his gaze down again, hands still clenched tightly into his knees before shaking his head and cutting him off. “No. No, there are. . .” he breaks off for a moment, gathers his bearings, “there are three particular instances, John; number one: when I died, number two: when I came back, and number three: when I killed your wife.”
John sucks in a heavy breath once he’s finished, hands stilling. He closes his eyes, unwanted memories flashing through his brain.
————
Number one.
“Goodbye, John.” His voice is steady, too steady; it’s almost resigned, as though he’s come to terms with what he’s about to do.
“No. Don’t.” John commands — begs, pleads — and the line goes dead and no, no, no, please God, no.
He falls.
“Sherlock!”
————
Number two.
He’s alive.
He’s alive, and he’s here, in the flesh; being witty and stupid and smiling and he’s alive.
John hates him.
He shoves him to the ground, snarls at him with two years of trampled down ferocity, tears at him with nights of pain and anger, claws at him with every emotion he’s held from that day until now.
He barely registers the feel of arms on his shoulders, pulling him away. He barely recognizes the swirling dizziness inside him that itches to do it again.
He does see the barely contained look of betrayal on Sherlock’s face. He looks away.
————
Number three.
She’s gone.
Another one of the people he loves: dead, and this time, she can’t come back.
And Rosie? She’ll grow up without a mother, without her love and care, without her protection.
He sobs, tears wrecking his face and groans wracking his body. A hand reaches out for comfort and he looks up, fire in his eyes, pure rage dripping from his voice.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
————
An exhale. He opens his eyes again, head spinning as he subconsciously attempts to regain his balance.
Blue-green eyes meet his before they flit away again, and John realizes that his hands are no longer in Sherlock’s hair, that they’re flexing at his sides.
“You’re angry.”
Hands relax at his sides, itch to comb through Sherlock’s hair again. Instead, he sighs, pulls at invisible threads on his pajama bottoms. “I was.”
“No, you’re angry now. I re-entered those suppressed memories to the front of your subconscious and your first instinct was to move away from me.” His voice is sharp, shattered, like broken glass.
“Sherlock, I was reliving old memories— ”
“Well, clearly they’re still fresh, given the reaction you just had.” He’s defensive now, curling tighter into himself, leaning his head against the chair and staring up at the ceiling.
There’s a minute — John counts — of silence. He wants to wrap his arms around the man to comfort him, but that wouldn’t help anything; if anything, it would be seen as a way to placate him. He remains where he’s standing.
Finally, Sherlock looks down, taps a staccato against his calves. “You had every right to be angry.”
“What?”
“I died, John, and though this may sound vain, it broke you. And then I came back and pretended everything would be normal, though I clearly knew it wouldn’t be, and expected you to be fine. And then, then , with Mary. That night, I just had to be so arrogant, so cocky, and she kept warning me, ‘Sherlock, stop it,’ but I couldn’t because of my stupid need to be bloody right all the time and then she shot me and Mary took the bullet that should have been mine and that?” He pauses again, taking in another breath, “That killed you.”
Fingers clench again, briefly. He clears his throat, then says, “It did.”
Sherlock nods jerkily.
John’s chest aches at his stoic — hurting — demeanor. “But, I hurt you too, Sherlock.”
Quiet again before a soft, “Yes.”
He takes the plunge then, crossing the short distance and perching on the seat of the armchair, waiting for Sherlock to continue.
“Mary,” he breathes, and that hits John like a bullet to the chest. “When I came back from—” a sharp breath, “—when I came back, Mycroft told me that there was a possibility I wouldn’t be welcomed. I brushed him off, initially. But I saw you, and you were happy, and I was hurt. I. . . I didn’t know why, then.”
“Do you know now?”
Sherlock nods again. “I was in love with you, even then. And of course, I wanted you to be happy. But I wanted you to be happy with me.”
John rests his fingers on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“But you chose her. She was someone you had willingly opened your heart too, and I don’t want to be someone who you have to be forced to love.”
John doesn’t miss the subtle change from the past tense to the present, at that final sentence. After a minute or two, it becomes clear that Sherlock isn’t planning on speaking anymore, judging by his pursed lips and furrowed brows.
“I’m sorry.”
Sherlock looks up then, searching his face for a moment. He shrugs, quirks the corner of his mouth in a bitter grin that drips with irony. “It is what it is.”
“No, it really isn’t.” And then John tilts Sherlock’s chin with his index, holding his stare. “I love you. I always have. And I’m so, so sorry for being such an idiot five years ago, for being too emotionally congested to. . . to talk to you. To let you know how much you meant to me.”
“And Mary.” Gentle fingers stroke through unruly curls once again. “I thought. . . I thought she would be my only chance to fall in love again. And I didn’t want to leave you, never wanted to leave you, and I thought by being around you, being with you, even then. . . I didn’t realize, Sherlock.”
“You never were good at deductions,” he snaps, but it’s less angry than it is tired, sad.
“No,” John sighs, “I guess I never was.”
The only sound in the flat is their breathing, until Sherlock says, “I’m sorry, too. Truly.”
“I know, love. I know.” He feels Sherlock nod, curl into him slightly.
“Do you know why I love you, Sherlock?”
A tentative pause, then a small shrug. John presses his lips into his hair, smiles a bit.
“I love you because you’re brilliant. You’re stubborn and witty and arrogant and kind and gentle— don’t scoff, you know it’s true, look at how you are with Rosie. I love you because it’s the only thing that makes sense to me: to love you. Because who is John Watson without his Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock looks up at him, quirks his lips. “I’d be lost without my blogger.” (‘I love you,’ he says.)
“I know. Bed?”
John stands, holds out his hand and Sherlock pulls himself up, keeps a hold as they climb the stairs.
Sherlock hovers by the bed, briefly unsure. John smiles gently, fingers tugging at the tight knot of Sherlock’s dressing gown, sliding the slippery fabric over his shoulders; it hits the ground with a soft thud.
John climbs onto the bed, raising on his knees until he’s at Sherlock’s height, pushing one hand into his hair and curling the other around his neck. He pushes their foreheads together, waiting to feel the slow exhale of Sherlock’s breath on his lips.
“Okay?” he murmurs. John presses a gentle kiss to the corner of his detective’s mouth, then one to his cupid’s bow, and another to the tip of his nose.
Sherlock whines a little in the back of his throat. “Yes.”
“Okay.” John falls onto his back, and Sherlock follows, nuzzling his face into the soft part of his stomach and winding his arms around his sides.
“Thank you, John.” It’s muffled, soft, but John hears it anyway. He brushes hair away from Sherlock’s face, a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Of course, love.”
It’s 3:21 in the morning: doubts have been quelled, though not for the last time; but they’re happy — finally — and cliché as hell, and they find that it doesn’t matter.