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John’s been with his share of women--and men, if he was being honest. He went to uni. He was in the military. John Watson was a rather normal man with normal urges. Or rather, he liked to convince himself those words were true. The truth was, when he woke from malaria to find out that it hadn’t all been a nightmare, that nearly his entire unit had been decimated, that he was the sole, sane survivor, he wanted nothing more than to rewind everything and go back and die with them. Life was given to him in some wicked joke and he heard the laughter daily, ringing in his ears like bombs and screams.
He remembered the faces that greeted the other two men that survived from his unit--two men who had lost much more of their sanity than he had. Those eyes, haunted, lips twisted, tears that stained the faces of loved ones, watching helplessly as their heroes thrashed in the cages of their own minds. It was good that those men had arms opened to them to welcome them home. It was beautiful, as sad as it was to see those men ruined. Their loved ones were there to hold them, whisper away the acts of war, kiss away their tears, piece their minds back together... John, watched them as they all left, one by one, and only he remained at the bus stop, alone with his baggage and limp. Alone, with no one to welcome him home. He was fine with that, though. It was all fine. He wasn’t a hero. He couldn’t even save his own men, so why should he have arms waiting to welcome him home?
John glanced across the room, his eyes trained on Sherlock’s visage, sharp in the low-lighting. How long had he spent in that grungy hotel room, haunted by his guilt, by the desperation to return to the battlefield, to make things right? And suddenly, this man, this gorgeous, brilliant man, crashed into his life and stole him away from his bed rest and counseling sessions and dragged him straight back into the battlefield. Well, a battlefield. Any battlefield would do. He just needed to be out there again, fighting for something, anything he believed in. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes and he’d die saving a life more worthy than his own. This was a promise he made to himself--a promise he meant to keep to atone for the injustice of war. Dr. John Watson was never meant to live, so he would die saving a man worthy of being saved. He’d fight to the death to protect Sherlock Holmes.
There was so much unsaid. So much he felt but words would forever imprison. John watched from across their flat as shadows played on Sherlock’s pale face and the detective shifted to look an article over. There were so many things John felt but dare not name. Sometimes in his mind in hidden places between waking and dreams he’d see their bodies entwined, feel breath against his neck, indistinct murmurs so close they reverberated through his body, but he knew that if he could never put a name to those images, flashes, incarnations of feelings stewing in dark places, far away from his consciousness. They were only feelings, anyways, fantasies only meant to indulge in secretly, never to act upon. They were only meant to be tucked away, to die with him when he died to right his wrongs. There would never be arms waiting for him because he didn’t need to be held, never lips to whisper away war because war would never end for him, never kisses to steal his tears away because there were no tears to cry, never hands to piece his mind back together because only he should piece broken things back together (he was the doctor, after all).
Sherlock shifted and John knew that his staring wasn’t going unnoticed. He couldn’t help it after two beers, really. Sherlock was beautiful. So beautiful it hurt. Sherlock told him not to turn him into a hero, but the detective never said anything about a god. Sherlock was a god--gorgeous, arrogant, brilliant, sometimes morally ambiguous, but always so much more than the world around him. It was, of course, natural to feel drawn to him, to feel the magnetic pull of the detective’s piercing gaze, to feel his body burn with need to just touch, to feel... but John never gave in, because Sherlock was a god, and gods were not to be touched. Gods were only meant to be worshipped.
It was safe to say that John found his cause to die for--a cause he’d bear so much pain his soul would be torn apart for. John knew he’d die and only when his life ebbed away and he knew it was all finally worth something--to be given in exchange for something as precious as Sherlock--would his weary heart be held in comfort of knowing it had done something good, would his dying thoughts chase away the ghosts and phantoms that haunted him and his unshed tears dry up, and would his mind finally be whole again. Only once his soul departed from this damned world would he finally rest in peace.
But sometimes... sometimes, he dreamt of more. Of arms and kisses and whispers and hands. And sometimes, that was enough.