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John was furious.
Sherlock had never seen his boyfriend angrier. And they had had their fair share of fights. He thought he had seen John at every level of mad there was, from slightly miffed to silent-treatment-angry. He had an entire room in his mind palace just dedicated to John's behavior when he was mad. But every one of those fights had ended with John forgiving him, and them cuddling together on the couch and mumbling "I love you" against each other's lips.
But this time they were definitely not cuddling, and John was showing none of the usual signs that he'd forgive Sherlock soon. In fact, this was a whole new level of pissed-off-John, and Sherlock wasn't sure he even wanted this to go into his mind palace, because seeing his John in such a state was a bit frightening.
"You complete fucking asshole, you- idiot!"
John had never called him these things before. Usually he used softer terms, like "prat" and "tosser," and occasionally "bastard," but never anything worse than that. Certainly never "idiot." The word was like a gunshot through his chest, making him ache in the worst possible way as he watched John storm around the flat, occasionally glaring daggers toward his boyfriend. The doctor accidentally knocked a beaker off the table in his fury, an important aspect to Sherlock's latest experiment, and before he could think about it, the detective had made a subconscious move toward the kitchen, balking when John suddenly appeared in front of him, jabbing a finger in front of his face.
"Don't," he growled, "don't you fucking dare. This is not the time to be thinking about some stupid fucking experiment!" He shouted the last words, let them echo through the flat before turning on his heel and marching to the other side of the sitting room. Thank god Mrs. Hudson was in Sussex; she'd have had a heart attack. And once again, without properly thinking about it, Sherlock was talking, words pouring from his mouth before he could even register what they were.
"John that was an important part of my-"
He never finished his sentence, because at that exact moment, there was a loud crash and the sound of shattering glass, and as Sherlock regained his composure from the shock of the noise, he saw John on his knees, at the other end of the glass-top coffee table. Rather, what used to be the coffee table and was now partially a pile of busted shards where John's clenched fist had gone through it. Sherlock's heart clenched when he saw that there was blood dripping from John's hand, and he made a move to go to his side before a low voice stopped him.
"Don't." That one word was enough to stop him in his tracks, as well as send the smallest tremor of fear down his spine. "Just- don't, Sherlock." John slowly stood, and shook his hand slightly to dispel any extra glass that had imbedded itself into his fist. His usually open and kind face was hard, and he refused to meet Sherlock's eyes.
"I was just-"
"I said don't," the doctor roared, and Sherlock fell silent. This was different. This was bad. This was so much more than a Bit Not Good. He timidly tried to take a step forward, but John snarled, and Sherlock dropped back onto his armchair. John's head dropped, like he no longer had the strength to hold it up, and he cradled his now injured hand in the other. Sherlock wondered suddenly if his boyfriend had punched the table to avoid hitting him, and the idea sent an unpleasant shiver down his back.
"I can't, Sherlock," he heard whispered from across the room. "I just can't- can't do it. I can't be around you right now." The detective felt as if a bucket of ice had been dumped on him. He once more stood to approach the older man, and this time John actually held a hand out as if to stop him from coming any closer. "Just stay away from me right now, Sherlock." The raven haired man watched in silence as John walked out of the room.
He didn't know how long had passed until his boyfriend came back, but as soon as he saw him he wished he hadn't. John's injured hand was now patched up, and in his other was a small suitcase. Sherlock's entire chest seized up when he saw the bag. He looked questioningly at John, who was avoiding his gaze. "I can't do this, Sherlock," and he was dismayed to hear the strain in the man's voice. "I just can't. Not now. I think... I think I need to go for awhile."
"John," he heard himself whisper, only slightly mad at himself that his own voice wavered. He sounded weak. But as much as he hated that, right now John was more important. And he couldn't leave. "John, please."
John clenched his fist tighter around the suitcase's handle. "I just can't be with you right now." He made his way toward the door, and finally Sherlock gathered his wits and stood, watched as John reached the door, reached for the handle-
"Don't go," he blurted, rushing forward, but stopping before he made contact with John, mostly because he feared if he touched the man right now he'd end up with a broken something. "Please, John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, never again." He stared pleadingly into John's eyes, which were starting to form tears. But whether they were from Sherlock begging him not to go or from the entire situation, he couldn't tell.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said, stepping back finally grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door open, turning and walking down the stairs, away from the flat, away from Sherlock.
Sherlock followed him. Only to the building's main door, where John hesitated on the front step. Unbidden, a single tear slipped down Sherlock's face, out of John's view, but just as real. "Please stay," he whispered into the night, not sure if John had heard him or not.
But then it didn't matter, because John was off the step, walking down the street, into the dark, and before long, Sherlock couldn't see him anymore.
He stood staring after John's figure for a while, before the cold began to seep into his bones and he was forced to go inside or suffer hypothermia. It would've been worth it for John.
He reached the flat, and very slowly made his way up the stairs to John's room, collapsing on the bed and wrapping himself on the covers. They smelled like him. Sherlock sniffed loudly, once, not wanting to cry anymore, because crying was for the weak.
He heard a slight scuffle outside the window, and was immediately on his feet, hoping beyond hope that it was John making his way home. But it was just a cat, knocking the kid off a trash can, and Sherlock felt the tears want to start again. He held them back though, reflecting on how dark the street outside John's window was, and the fact that if John did decide to come back, he wouldn't be able to see two feet in front of him. With this in mind, he stepped back from the window, walked over to John's bed stand and pulled the cord on the lamp, basking the room in a light glow. Glancing back out the window, the visibility was slightly improved, but not by much.
This was what caused Sherlock Holmes to wander around his flat at two in the morning, turning on every light in every room of the space, making sure that, should John decide to return in the night, he would have a beacon to guide his way.
This was his nightly routine for almost two weeks straight.
•~•~•~•~•
It had been almost two weeks, and John was going mad.
He'd been staying with Harry, but he could really only take so much of her, and being around her made him think about why he was cross with Sherlock. By the end of the first week, he'd felt sick to his stomach, remembering the things he'd said to his boyfriend and the single tear that Sherlock didn't think he'd noticed, but that broke his heart all the same.
He stayed away though, because he was still quite angry. The reason he was so angry, of course, was because Sherlock had used his sister as bait.
Bait. As in, actual bait for a serial killer. One that just so happened to be killing homosexual women in their thirties due to his own failed marriage because of such a woman. They'd gotten to her on time, they nearly always did, but John had been so furious at what Sherlock had done that he'd said some pretty awful things. He remembered calling Sherlock an idiot, and felt his heart clench again.
It had been 11 days, and John missed his boyfriend. So he pulled out his cellphone, the one that had 10 missed calls and voicemails from the same number; Sherlock's. The man had called him every day, but John ignored his calls and texts, more recently out of guilt than anything else. But now he took his time and listened to them all.
The first: "John, I am so sorry. I understand, I really do, if you never want to come home again." There was a pause on the line and an intake of breathe. "Even though I'd really like you to."
The second: "Lestrade called today. Wants me to work on a case. It was an 8." Another pause. "But I couldn't possibly solve a single case without my blogger."
The messages kept going on. "I miss you." "Please come home." "Anderson was an annoying git today, what a surprise." They were a surprisingly almost-pleasant mixture of sadness and just plain Sherlock. It made John miss him even more.
When he finally finished message number 10 ("I've only put one new bullet hole in the wall since you've been gone"), there was one more waiting for him. Sherlock must have called while he was listening to the others. He was quite eager to know what was happening to his boyfriend now that it was nearly 3 AM. He hit play.
"John?" There was a slight rustle in the background, Sherlock moving around. "I, um, I know you're probably not even listening to any of my messages." John was shocked and saddened to hear the slightest hint of tears in his voice. "I know. And I understand, I really do. And I'll never do what I did again. I swear." More rustling, and... Was that a light switch? "I just wanted to say, that..." He stopped. John waited, knowing that couldn't be the end of the message. "The streets outside our windows are so dark at night." Wait, what? "And, I just- in case you came home at all I didn't want you to stumble and trip on anything, so I-" He stopped once more, and there was yet another light switch being flicked. "I turned on the lights," he blurted, "all of them. Every light in the house is on." He chuckled slightly. "The electric bill is getting quite high actually, but its... It's worth it. For you." John felt a lump in his throat as he listened to the detective move around their flat, apparently turning on lights as he went. "They've been on every night, since you left. Just in case. And I know, you're probably still mad at me, I understand completely. You've every right to be mad, to want to stay away." There was a sniffle on the other end if the line, and John wanted to cry, listening to his boyfriend do so on the other line. "But I looked myself. With all the lights. The flat is so bright, John, and you wouldn't lose your way home. You can't miss the glow." He paused once more, so much hesitation in his voice as he finished his message. "I thought I should let you know. It's just- just in case you want to come home anytime soon. Which you don't have to, of course, just if you want to. I- I miss you so much John. I love you."
John allowed his tears to fall as the message reached its end. He wouldn't leave Sherlock in their flat alone, not after this. He hastily scribbled a note to Harry, that he had to go home and he'd be round sometime that week to pick up his things. He hurried outside, tried hailing a taxi, but because it was late, there were hardly any to be found. And so, thankful he'd decided to leave his belongings at Harry's, John started to run. Toward Baker Street, toward home...
To Sherlock.
He wasn't sure how long he ran, and he proudly ignored the stitch in his side as he practically skidded to a halt at the end of Baker Street. Even from such a distance away, he could see what Sherlock had been talking about. He found it near impossible to believe that they truly had that many lights in the flat, but the evidence was right in front of him.
The glow spread from every window out onto the street, making the street lamps cast shadows across the sidewalk and the road. It was so bright, just as Sherlock had described, and John was filled with a feeling he couldn't explain; a mix between happiness and sadness and fondness that Sherlock would do this for him. He walked the rest of the way to the front door, squinting in the bright light as he opened it and slid inside. He was careful with the door, making sure it shut silently, then snuck up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky fourteenth step. When he finally open the main door, the one to their flat, he was expecting a mess; experiments strewn everywhere, newspaper clippings, the usual things that John had to clean up.
But no. Everything was almost exactly the way he'd left it, aside from the figure huddled up on the couch, dark curls touching his knees as his body shook with the force of his tears. Sherlock hadn't even noticed John had entered.
The doctor walked slowly across the room, falling to his knees in front of Sherlock. He pulled his head out of his arms, staring at the man before him, automatically trying to stop his tears as he saw his boyfriend for the first time in 11 days (1 hour, 27 minutes, 31, 32, 33 seconds). But as Sherlock lowered his knees from the couch, John pulled his hands away from his body, held them in his own strong ones. He brushed small kisses across the palms, the knuckles, his fingers. Sherlock watched in awe as John looked up at him, tears falling freely from his cornflower blue eyes.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "So sorry I've done this to you. I never meant for it to go on like this, I didn't mean-" he took a deep, shuddering breathe. "I didn't mean to hurt you like this."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, John, I'm sorry. It was my fault, your sister, I shouldn't have-"
"It doesn't matter," John interrupted. "It doesn't. Harry is fine, that's what matters. I overreacted and I'm so sorry." He pulled himself up onto the couch with Sherlock, releasing his hands and cradling his face instead, touching their foreheads together. "I love you so much," he breathed, and Sherlock twisted so he could fit neatly into John's arms as he leaned back on the sofa.
"I love you too," he said against John's jaw. "Please..."
John looked down at him. "Please what, Sherlock? Anything."
Sherlock pulled himself in closer. "Never leave me again." The doctor nodded, nostrils slightly tickled by the curly hairs under his chin.
"Never."
Sherlock hummed happily, snuggling up against John, basking in his warmth. He heard and felt a slight rumbling and looked up at the man above him.
"What?"
"I asked what we were going to do about the lights," John smiled. "Mrs. Hudson will be furious you've run the bill up so high."
Sherlock scowled, causing John to chuckle slightly. "We can deal with the lights in the morning."
And so the two occupants of 221B Baker Street fell asleep, entwined with each other, bathed in the bright light that had, in that moment, brought them back together.
"Every light in the house is on
The backyard's bright as the crack of dawn
The front walk looks like runway lights
It's kinda like noon in the dead of night
Every light in the house is on
Just in case you ever do get tired of being gone
Every light in the house is on."