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“Sherlock. Sherlock! Wake up, you lazy git.”
The sleeping detective groaned, shaking his head to clear away the last of his nightmare and bringing himself back to reality. There were no birds singing, and the world around him felt cold and dark. He felt no desire to move, nor to be awake, but it seemed he didn't have a choice. He waited for a few moments, just to see if ignoring the other man in his bedroom would convince him to retreat, but no such luck. He didn't feel the bed dip in front of him, but he could sense his friend’s presence all the same. He turned his head, out of the safety of his pillow, to look at the shadow in the room, before shutting his eyes tightly once more.
There stood the small ball of light that was John Watson. The one bright spot in Sherlock’s life, and the most luminous star that could ever grace the dark sky of the detective’s existence. He had this way of casting a glow onto everything around him, fixing that which was broken and battered until it was like new. Sherlock Holmes’ own conductor of light; compact, durable, forever reliable, whether it was to shoot a cabbie or order their takeout for the night. Sherlock didn't know what he’d do without the man. The one good thing he truly had…
“What,” he mumbled, turning his face back into his pillow, feeling the weight of reality settle onto his shoulders fully. “What could you possibly want?”
He heard the smile in John’s voice. The inflection that told him the doctor’s lips had hooked up at the corners, that near-smile he did when Sherlock was being an idiot. “You've got stuff to do today. Time to get up, lazy arse.”
Sherlock grimaced, burying his face deeper into the pillow, as if in doing so he could shut out John’s words. “Don’t want to,” he muttered. “Sleep is better.” That was, of course, if you didn't count the nightmares. But really, anything was better than going out and having to deal with the pity on everybody’s faces when they looked at him, the unasked questions just begging to be released into the air. He vacantly took note of his cell phone chiming.
His friend laughed. “Coming from the man who never rests. Come on, up now. Lestrade will be expecting you.” John reached for him, but Sherlock flinched away, to the other side of the bed.
He really didn't want John to try and shake him awake. Thinking about it left behind this feeling of coldness and being hollow, left behind a sense of… Something. He didn't like to think about it. And he didn't want John to touch him, so he sat up, grumbling. He scowled at John, who smiled victoriously and exited the bed, heading toward the door. But as irritating as the man’s presence was, despite the empty feeling it invoked in the detective for John to be here, he didn't really want him to leave. “Are you going?” His question hung unanswered in the room for a brief expanse of time, before John turned to face him again.
“That depends. Are you offering to let me watch?” There was a small smile gracing his features, the one Sherlock had grown accustomed to recently, one that said who's the idiot now? Sherlock glanced down, noting belatedly that his chest was bare, and he huffed a breath of indignation. He glared daggers in John’s direction, pointedly ignoring the heat he felt spreading across his face.
“Of course not. Forget it. Kindly leave.” Sherlock turned away, but not before he saw the frown on John's face. He did that a lot lately, frowning; it didn't suit his face at all. It made him seem older than he was, the wrinkles on this face seeming to deepen and darken. It sometimes made Sherlock uncomfortable, but he learned to deal with it. He didn't hear the door open or shut, but quiet was in John's nature, so Sherlock wasn't concerned.
The tall man crossed the room, ,pulling a set of clothing from his closet before dressing himself. He could see light streaming in from the window, criss-crossing in patterns across the floor and his skin. After pulling on his trousers, he began to button up his shirt, going to stand in front of the mirror where the light could no longer reach him. He scrutinized his reflection as he stared into his own eyes.
Anyone would (and could, he thought angrily) see that he hadn't slept well in several weeks, from the darkness that rested beneath his eyes, bags that had formed back when the nightmares did. They would see that he was constantly agitated, because his hair was a mess from running his hands through it more often than he could count. It made him angry, knowing that now more than ever before, everything about him, what he was feeling, what he was going through, was stitched with steel thread onto his sleeve for the world to see, when before he’d been the embodiment of calm and cool and collected. He’d been himself.
He scoffed, turning away from the stranger he faced in his reflection. Sherlock went to stand by the window, just in time to see the remainder of a London sunrise, as the bright orb that was the sun finished making it’s journey above the horizon. The darkness was fading fast, and the sky was a bruise of dark blue and purple, tinged on the edges with the yellow and orange that made the whole thing mix into a collage of color that even Sherlock could admit was beautiful, though he did so only grudgingly.
It only occurred to him then that John would've loved it.
~*~*~
John was usually pretty quiet when he went on cases with Sherlock, allowing him to let the genius work and occasionally praising his deductions like he always had.
Lestrade greeted him with a false half smile and an air of concern, which Sherlock immediately waved away. He didn't have time for that nonsense, not when there was a murder on hand. Donovan and Anderson were even less tolerable than usual, though for the most part they gave him a wide berth (Lestrade’s doing). Sherlock ignored all of them once he entered the room, turned off his emotions again, just for the moment, so he could figure out how the newest body had found it’s way to where it was.
A typical locked door murder. The man was of medium height, compact, dark haired. He was a carpenter; his fingers still had splinters left from his last day at work and there was sawdust on his trouser legs and shoes, as well as traces of it leading to and around his desk. He'd been shot in the head; the gun laying by his side suggested suicide, but the angle was all wrong, and there wasn't nearly enough blood on the floor; the entry of the bullet would've scattered it all over his hand. His left hand was dominant; the muscles were slightly more pronounced, but the gun lay forgotten by his right side. A quick rifle through his pockets and wallet revealed that he'd recently received a rather large check. The fact that it was still on his person suggested this wasn't a crime of jealousy or thievery. There was a ring missing off his left hand that had been gone for several days; he was married, but someone had taken it. Why?
Sherlock glanced at John then, who was standing quietly in the corner, watching the proceedings. Silent. As always. But the doctor shrugged, before looking haphazardly around the room and pointing to the desk.
Sherlock saw an assortment of items; an unsharpened pencil (left by a colleague, the man prefers pens), a pocket-size book (small scale blueprint pages), a business card for a crisis hotline, and a photograph. There stood the man, his arm around the waist of a taller woman. There was a small post it note stuck to it, a number that had been handled many times, due to the smudges of the pencil, and someone who knew the victim personally, as they hadn't left a name. An admirer then, possibly a lover…
It only took a few more minutes to find the murderer. The victim had been paranoid of natural disasters (thus the crisis hotline number), and had built a disaster room under his office in his home (blueprints), which is where the young woman that killed the man was hiding. His mistress; she'd wanted him to leave his wife for her. She'd taken his ring several days earlier, perhaps to allow herself to thing he'd done exactly that, and he’d never noticed; likely because she was his secretary and often held onto his jewelry while he work in the wood-shop. Obviously he'd found out, tried to end things, and she'd killed him. A crime of passion. Typical.
"I didn't mean it, I loved him!" The woman was in tears as Donovan led her away. "I loved him, I swear!" She was desperately reaching out to anyone who would believe her, trying to make someone believe her words, but when she met the detective’s eyes he didn't see her sadness or tears. He saw another woman, repeating the same words, over and over, while he looked on in shock…
Sherlock shut his eyes and minds against her pleas, pointedly avoiding John’s gaze in the corner.
Lestrade came up behind him, quietly asserting himself to the taller man’s side. Sherlock could feel him fidgeting next to him, clearly uncomfortable, and wished suddenly that he’d go away. “Nice job you did, mate.” Sherlock could feel the awkwardness radiating off him in waves. “Never would've realized she was hiding in his panic room.” Strangely enough, John spoke up as well, though he hadn't done so in a very long time.
“It was brilliant.”
Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, wishing he could disappear. “Thank you,” he replied to both of them, ignoring Greg’s surprise at the gratitude. He had done enough here. He wanted to go home.
As he started to head out toward the street, he heard Lestrade call after him. "Oi, Sherlock!" The detective didn't need to turn around to hear the concern and pity in his voice. He could sense the frown on the DI's face, and did not in any circumstance want to see it. He could feel John's eyes on him as well, but he ignored those too. "Are you alright? I mean about..."
“I know what you mean, Lestrade.” He couldn't help the tremor in his voice as he spoke. “I am perfectly fine. Thank you for your concern.” And with that he hailed a taxi, leaving both Greg and John behind.
~*~*~
A few days later Sherlock risked a trip to Angelo’s. John came with him.
They made their way to their usual table, and as they settled in, Sherlock had to fight back the sudden swell of emotion that surged up out of nowhere. This was, in part, where it had all began for them. Despite the awkward conversation and misunderstandings between them, the candle and the cane, chasing after the cabbie. It had started here. He could feel John’s eyes on him.
His train of thought was interrupted by Angelo himself. "Sherlock!" He exclaimed in surprise, rushing over to the table with a timid smile on his face. "I did not expect to see you here tonight. Especially not without-"
“Yes, I’m here.” He interrupted the older man, not looking at his face, knowing what he’d see written there. “If you could bring me the usual, please.” Angelo nodded solemnly, and started rushing away to prepare his order, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm, asking a question and allowing it to fill the air between them.
“Would you bring a candle as well, please?”
Angelo’s eyes shifted over to John, who’d been silent throughout the encounter. Angelo gave Sherlock a small smile. “Of course, my friend.” Then he was gone.
Silence reigned as John watched Sherlock stare at the table. Worry was etched into every line on his face, painting him a mask of pure concern, and Sherlock hated it. “You know,” he said quietly. “You know why you have to do this. You’ll have to deal with this eventually.” He waited a moment, just a heartbeat’s length for Sherlock to reply, and when he didn't, the doctor sighed, pausing for breath and speaking again.
“Sherlock, I lo-”
“Please don’t,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, just as Angelo arrived with his meal. He murmured a quiet thank you, and began pecking at his food. He hardly ate any at all, but he knew he’d leave a generous tip.
John didn't say anything else.
~*~*~
Mycroft comes by more often than usual.
Sherlock usually tells him to piss off. Mycroft’s visits usually consist of a lot of heavy sighing and not a lot of talk, which suits Sherlock just fine, normally. But it’s the underlying air of pity and guilt that bothers him; that his brother stops by because he knows better than anyone else what has happened, and that’s why he comes, he realizes that the blame is partially his. But Sherlock was sick of it by now.
Mycroft was here again today, sitting in the center of the couch and facing both Sherlock’s and John’s armchairs, hi umbrella resting against the cushion beside him. The elder Holmes was merely watching him, his face a mask of coolness and indifference, but Sherlock knew what rested beneath the surface.
It was so similar to so many important milestones in Sherlock’s life. When Victor had broken up with him, and he’d first overdosed on cocaine. When he’d dropped out of university, solely because he had no desire to follow in Mycroft’s footsteps. When he’d first risked his life for John Watson. Mycroft never really voiced his disapproval, opting instead for phrases like, “this is a waste of your potential,” “you are behaving like a child,” and of course the ever popular, “caring is not an advantage.”
Sherlock knew these by heart by now. And he still did not care.
He ignored Mycroft’s stare, instead fixing his own gaze on John where he sat in his own armchair, across the short expanse of space. The doctor smiled at him, just a slight upturn of his lips, and Sherlock suddenly felt like there was too much room between them; a chasm of never ending emptiness and loneliness that he would get lost in if he ever fell, if there was any more space between them. He gripped the sides of his own armchair and shifted it toward John, far enough that if he reached out his fingers he could touch his friend’s hand. He didn't. John watched him, a small, sad smile on his face, and what looked like unshed tears in his eyes.
“Sherlock.” It came from both the doctor’s and his brother’s mouth.
Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock heard the disappointment (guilt, his mind whispered) laced like a thread through it. “There is no point in this. I truly am sorry about what happened, brother.” Sherlock believed him. “But in the end, caring is not… was not-”
“Not an advantage,” Sherlock muttered, looking away from him. “I know. But… it helps, a little.” He felt young again, childish, like back when he was afraid of thunder and the other kids at school, when he’d slip into Mycroft's bed in the dead of night and whisper “just this one last time. It helps, a little.” And Mycroft would let him, keeping the nightmares at bay, never scolding him in the mornings until he’d turned thirteen and decided that being afraid was for those of lesser minds, and that Sherlock, only six or seven at the time, needed to grow up.
But he wasn't a child any longer, and as hard as Mycroft tried he couldn't always stop bad things from happening to his brother. He recognized that his opinion would no longer be welcome, not today anyway, and he stood and made his way to the door. “I worry about you, Sherlock. I hope you know that.” He looked back only once, to fix Sherlock with a truly sympathetic gaze. “I’m sorry, brother.” And with that he was gone.
John had gone as well, though Sherlock didn't notice until much later.
“I worry about me too,” he confided to the empty room, his own echo the only response he received.
~*~*~
“I loved him! I didn't mean to, I swear! God it was just an accident, I loved him…”
John’s lips are moving but Sherlock can’t hear what he’s saying, and there’s so much blood...
Sherlock didn't sleep very well at night.
~*~*~
“Sherlock, I-”
“Please don’t.”
~*~*~
The next few weeks were an assortment of similar experiences.
John was unusually quiet, unless he was trying to say something Sherlock didn't want to hear.
The nightmares continued to plague his dreams like an infection that couldn't be cured.
Mycroft was annoying.
Lestrade was annoying.
At one crime scene, the DI asked Sherlock, for the umpteenth time, if he was alright, and Sherlock snapped at him.
“For Christ sake Lestrade, I’m fine!” He glared at the other man, who stepped back in alarm. He could feel John watching him. “I've been fine, I’m over it, everything is just peachy. I’m not going to drop dead just because he-” He glanced at John, whose eyes were wide, staring at him, so many emotions swirling in his blue eyes that Sherlock felt sick. “Anyway. I’m fine. The brother is the killer, if he’s got a stigmatism in his left eye. If not then check the butler, that seems to be a favorite.” Ignoring Greg’s calls of his name, he got into the first cab he saw, once again leaving John behind.
~*~*~
Sherlock made his way back to Baker Street, and proceeded to wreak havoc.
He pulled books from the shelf, tossing them in any direction his hands saw fit, ripping pages out as if they’d done him severe injustice. He swept his microscope off the kitchen table, barely taking note of the sound of shattering glass, already moving on to the dishes in the cupboard. He hurled them hard onto the ground, at the wall, any hard surface that would make them fracture and fall to the ground in pieces that would take forever to clean up. Every piece of china was broken beyond repair, and Sherlock couldn't have been more pleased. Entering back into the sitting room, unconcerned with the glass he was walking on, he took the skull from the mantle and chucked it at the farthest wall, its lower jaw detaching and flinging across the room. He pulled pictures of the walls, smashing them one by one against the marble of the fireplace. Finally, the only thing left hanging was John’s framed doctor’s certification, and Sherlock grabbed that too, but he couldn't throw it.
He was only distantly aware he was crying.
He stared down at the small frame in his hands, wiping away the tears that fell freely onto it with his hands. The words were blurred, but he knew what it said, because he’d memorized it all the first time he saw it. He knew exactly what John’s scrawled signature at the bottom looked like, and he knew how many times the doctor had shown it off because he could see the wearing on the paint around the edges. Frustrated, he reared his arm back, planning once again to pitch it across the room, but he simply couldn't make himself do it.
Sherlock’s eyes burned, and he set the frame gently down before burying his face in his hands and sobbing.
He didn't hear the door open or close, nor John’s footsteps on the stairs, but suddenly he was there, reaching for Sherlock, to comfort him like he’d done countless times before, but Sherlock wouldn't allow it. He jerked back, away from John, who stared at him with so much concern and worry in his eyes it was physically painful.
“Sherlock,” he whispered, and yes, those were tears in his eyes. Tears for Sherlock, because he cared, because seeing his friend in so much pain caused him agony as well. “Sherlock, please, it’s time-”
“No!” Sherlock shook his head hard, his vision blurry, his head aching. “No, you can’t, I’m not ready…”
“You are ready,” John said. “You've been since the beginning, and now you have to, or it’s going to destroy you, Sherlock.”
“I can't.” It was becoming harder to speak past the lump in his throat, the ball of pure emotion that was lodged in his esophagus. “I can’t, John.”
“Fine.” John wiped away his own tears, staring his friend in the face. “Sherlock, I love-”
“Stop it!” Sherlock was shouting now. “Stop it, John, you can’t, please don’t, don’t say it, not yet.” The tears began again, flowing freely down his face and he could hardly see, but he could still see John and that was all that mattered. “You can’t say it, because I can’t say it back-”
“Why not?” John was coming closer, and Sherlock backed away, because words were fine but he couldn't touch him, not now.
Not ever.
“Why can’t you say it?”
Sherlock’s hand came in contact with an ashtray, and without thinking he tossed it, directly at his only friend in the world.
It went straight through him, shattering against the wall, and the visual of it made Sherlock’s stomach turn, and he stopped backing away, only because he didn't have the strength to move anymore.
“Because,” he whispered, his voice a ghost in the room hovering between them, haunting the space that separated them. “Because if I say it, then you’ll leave. You’ll go away and I can’t… I’m not ready for that.” He allowed a sob to shake his entire body, wracking through him like a tsunami wave on a beach of fragile sand. “Because saying it is accepting that I didn't ever really get a chance to say it to you. The real you.” He pulled his knees up, wrapping his arms around them and rocking back and forth with his head in his arms. “I feel it, John. I've never said it before, not to anyone, I never even knew I could feel it, but I know this is it. I know I should but I’m just so afraid to lose you again, not after the first time, and I can’t, I can’t…” He looked up at John, and he could feel the tear tracks like fire on his face, and he hated this weakness, this emotion. “Just please, please don’t say that you love me, John." His voice broke. "Because I can’t say it back.”
Sherlock hid his face away again, not wanting to see the sadness and the agony in John’s face, because once again he’d hurt him. He couldn't save him, and now he could do nothing but fail time and time again, refusing to admit the truth because he was so weak, so afraid to be alone like he’s been his whole life that he couldn't say three bloody words to a figment of his imagination.
I love you.
The words flickered through his brain so easily, but he couldn't voice them. if they were released into the air, if he spoke them aloud, if John heard them.Sherlock would lose him again, and he wasn't ready.
“Sherlock.”
And Sherlock didn't want to look, he really didn't, but John always came when Sherlock said his name that way; his voice filled with fear and worry and concern, and maybe just a hint of panic. Sherlock looked up, because he knew that if their roles were reversed, John would look up too.
There again stood the ball of light that was John Watson, the brightest spot in Sherlock’s life; the star that dimmed out before it could explode, the candle that was extinguished before the wax even had a chance to melt. Taken before his time, snuffed out by a bullet from a wife that never really appreciated his glow the way Sherlock did. The one good thing in Sherlock had, and he was taken away.
But John’s eyes were free of tears. He reached out a hand to Sherlock, and written on his face was an offer, a promise, that things would be better if Sherlock just trusted him.
Sherlock would always trust John Watson.
He closed his eyes and reached out his hand.
~*~*~
He ended up in his mind palace, in the one room he’d tried avoid since the night it happened, the room he only saw in his nightmares.
This was where John died.
“No,” he whispered. “No, John, not here, anywhere but here.” The memory image of himself was a few feet ahead of him. He looked around and he saw her, standing at the edge of the room, shrouded in darkness of the same shade as her eyes. Mary Morstan, pistol in hand.
He knew she had hated him just as much as he hated her. Fighting for the common end goal of John, they’d always been competing, even if it wasn't obvious. Little tokens to show they cared more than the other, simple things, but Sherlock’s had always meant more, because they showed that he was human, and John loved humans. A watch from Mary was nice, but a book on Ancient Samurais, that John had mentioned having an interest in mere months after they had met, was, in his words, “bloody fantastic.” Sherlock and Mary had always been rivals.
This had been their final battle, and they’d both lost in the end.
“There’s no point anymore, Sherlock,” she said, her voice echoing off the concrete walls and sending a shiver down his spine. “He’s already married me. You've lost.”
Sherlock couldn't remember or hear he’d responded. Only that afterward he’d raised John’s gun, aiming for her head.
That, of course, was where everything went to hell, because Mycroft couldn't keep his big nose out of his younger brother's business.
Sherlock knew what happened next.
Mycroft had told John that Sherlock was in trouble. John, forever there when Sherlock needed him, had rushed to the location. The elder Holmes had only sent him so he could see his wife as she truly was, manipulative and cruel. He hadn't meant any harm, not really, and Sherlock could forgive him for that. But not for what happened because of it.
John, seeing his gun, had stepped out of hiding, hoping to be the peace keeper.
Mary, seeing John’s gun, had fired her own. Sherlock had shifted, a half inch to the left, and the bullet went whizzing past him.
Straight into John.
The bullet made impact, and the blood spurted from the new wound in his chest. Mary stood in shock across the room, but Sherlock rushed backwards, dropping to his knees beside the doctor and trying to stop the flow of crimson from his chest. Sherlock dropped down beside his memory-self, focused on John instead of his reflection, because he knew how it went on his end.
“No use,” John was saying. “Sherlock it’s no use.” There was blood everywhere, all over Sherlock’s hands and John’s jumper, the floor. “No use.” Then his mouth was moving, but Sherlock couldn't hear anything. He remembers at this point that all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears, the thought stream of god no not John a constant buzz in his head. But now Sherlock was paying attention, watching John’s mouth, straining with all his might to hear or see something that would explain why he’d come back here. And then he saw it.
Just before the light in his eyes had dimmed to nothing, the bright blue fading to a dull navy, John’s lips had moved. It was almost a twitch, it was so minuscule, but the shape of the words was unmistakable, no matter how small or weak they were.
I love you.
His last words as he lay dying were the words that Sherlock was too afraid to say.
He’d turned then, to look at Mary, and his jaw was slack in horror and shock and overwhelming sadness. And that was when she’d started.
“Oh my god, John. I didn't mean it, I loved him, I’m so sorry. I loved him! I didn't mean to, I swear! God it was just an accident, I loved him…”
Sherlock had raised John’s gun, and Mycroft’s people swarmed in like a herd of ants. Sherlock remembers screaming, but he doesn't remember if it was him.
~*~*~
He opened his eyes, and there was John.
“I don’t…” He absently reached up a hand to wipe away tears that are falling like melted wax from his face. They burn as they trek across his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
John smiles. “There’s no need to be sorry. There was so much happening. You didn't realize. It’s okay.” He shifts closer, and this time Sherlock doesn't shy away from him. “But you see now, don’t you Sherlock? That it’s okay to be hurt, to be sad, and to let people in. I was dying. Yeah, it hurt. Yes, of course I was sad, who wants to die? But I couldn't go without letting you know. That was the most important thing. I didn't think about Mary, or living, or the fact that once again, a bullet is what brought me down. Because the most important thing was telling you that I loved you.” He stretches his hand out and rests it on Sherlock’s, and the detective can’t actually feel it but if he closes his eyes he can almost feel the warmth that would radiate off him if he were really here.
“I couldn't go without telling you that. I knew I was going to be alone. But I died happy, because I knew- well, thought, anyway, it’s certainly taken you long enough to figure it out- that you understood, and that made it okay.” He stared into Sherlock’s eyes. “And it’s going to be okay for you too. When you say it. It’s liberating, Sherlock. It lifts the heaviest weights from your shoulders, and it so much easier to carry on knowing that the person you love.. knows that they’re loved.” John smiled again. “And I know it’ll be hard. But how many rooms in your mind palace are dedicated to me, hmm? Come on, I’m a very vain man. Tell me.”
Sherlock smiled despite himself. “Exactly 5.7. As well as most rooms dedicated to medical knowledge.”
“Exactly. So see? If you ever miss me when I’m gone? You've got 5.7 rooms to draw back from. You've an endless supply of memories of me. I’m practically still alive, with everything you have. You could recreate me in your head, Sherlock. You don’t need an imaginary friend out here in the real world too.”
Sherlock was still crying. “I know,” he said. “I know. And it’s stupid, to hold on like this. But I can’t help it, I just miss you so much, and I never realized…” He could see the shadows in the sitting room were slowly shrinking, the lights going down, and he knew sunset was just around the corner.
“It’s okay though.” John smiled, and there were tears again, but they were happy, because he knew that things would be better soon. “It’s okay, because you’ll still have me. Just not out here. Other people miss me too, you know. Greg and Molly and others. They can’t see me, and they’re all getting through fine. So can you.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but Sherlock needed to talk, or he’d lose his nerve, and all would be for nothing.
“Will you say it again? Please John. It will help.”
And John smiled for him. “I’d say it a million times, if you needed me to. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Always have.”
Sherlock closed his eyes, and drew his hand away from John’s. He couldn't look at him as he said it; that would be too much to handle, right now, and Sherlock could hardly get through it as it was.But he knew that he needed to, in order to bring an end to this, just as all things needed to end; just as leaves fell from the trees in the autumn to make room for those that would grow in the spring, and just as day faded into night to bridge the gap into the new dawn. A new page it would be for Sherlock Holmes, but he needed to finish the one he was on before he could move forward. He breathed in deep, taking the cooling night air into his lungs, and exhaled out fully before speaking.
“And I love you, John Watson. Always will.”
When he opened his eyes, John was gone.
He stood up slowly, mindful, now, of the cuts on the bottom of his feet. He knew he’d have to clean up before Mycroft’s next visit (which would likely be tomorrow), but for now, he was exhausted. He navigated his way across the room, stopping only once to watch out the window.
The Sun was just barely peeking over the horizon now, and the sky was once again a mixture of so many colors and hues. The light was fading, soon would be gone. But Sherlock knew that sometimes darkness is necessary, if only so it makes the bright lights you encounter that much more important, that much more special.
The Sun was now gone.The Moon was somewhere in the darkness.
John Watson had faded. Sherlock lived on.
But he was fine with being the Moon to John’s Sun, because it meant they occupied the same sky, no matter how far apart they were, no matter where they were.
Everything would turn out alright, in the end.
“Just please don’t say you love me,
Cause I might not say it back.
Doesn't mean my heart stops skipping
When you look at me like that.
There’s no need to worry,
When you see just where we’re at.
Just please don’t say you love me,
Cause I might not say it back.
~ Please Don’t Say You Love Me, Gabrielle Aplin