Work Text:
“Because I love you!”
Sherlock froze, unable to believe that had just spewed out of his mouth.
John froze as well, angry retort dying into confusion and disbelief. “You… left me… because you loved me?”
“Love, John, present tense, not just past. You have always underestimated your value to me, something I didn’t know how to correct before. I could not—cannot—lose you, John.”
“And yet you expected me to be able to lose you and continue on like nothing happened.”
Sherlock winced. “It seems I erred in my judgement of myself in relation to you as well. I thought you would mourn, accept and move on.” His brows drew together sharply. “You didn’t.”
John made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat. “Right. Let me get this straight. You’re having a sulk because I didn’t move on, find a nice girl named Mary and have 2.5 kids by now?” He shook his head and turned.
Sherlock raced a step forward and gripped John’s arms, giving a brisk shake. “Do you think I’m so inhuman that I like enjoy seeing you unhappy? I didn’t want to leave, John! I didn’t want to leave what we had just started to compound upon, don’t you see? But I did because I knew you would be alive and you’re strong, John, you’ve survived bullet wounds and being all but deserted by the country you fought for and all the little things life has thrown at you. I had no idea—” his voice became too rough to continue and he swallowed, stepping forward to push his forehead against John’s more firmly than needed. “I had no idea you would feel the way you did. I never thought less of you for that day. I manipulated you, pushed you so that you would become angry and leave, because I can deal with angry. I couldn’t have the last time I saw you be a happy one because if it were I wouldn’t have been able to do what I did. And I had to. John, if you believe nothing else, please, believe that I had no choice but to leave. He would have killed you, and above all else you must be alive. Do you understand what I’m saying, John?”
“The assassins.”
Sherlock nodded minutely. “Three of them. One each for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson—”
“And me.”
“And you.”
“You jumped because…”
“Moriarty knew the only way he could push—pardon the pun—me to do it would be if there were no other options available to me.”
“So he shot himself.”
“He made a mistake, and I caught it. So to keep me from finding the answer he put a bullet in his brain so the assassins couldn’t be called off.” Sherlock shut his eyes, feeling the overwhelming despair he’d felt at that moment when he had realized he would indeed have to go through the plan he and Molly had concocted, the one that resulted in years of killing to ensure that no one would be left to threaten John.
“Did you… how did you react?” John’s voice was hesitant, but he was pursuing the subject, and that was a good sign.
“Not well. The first week I went on a slaughtering spree. I was so angry, John. I didn’t have time to be bored because I knew I would think of you if I did. And I couldn’t. John, I couldn’t.” He clamped his eyes shut and gripped the back of John’s neck.
John puzzled the turn of events the last day had brought. He felt emotionally wrung-out, his emotions reeling from joy to fury, fury to hurt, back to anger and finally a mixture of all of those with a thick layer of confusion settling to the top. Looking at the image (slightly distorted from such close proximity) before him, the pieces were becoming clear.
He put himself in Sherlock’s shoes and thought about what he would have done—all other options taken away, no one but John and Mycroft to turn to, and Mycroft’s hands were tied, too much power was being pulled by Moriarty at the time, judge, jury, the entire police force under his manipulation. What would he have done?
It was with a start that he realized his decisions would have been not much different. Granted, he (as Sherlock) would have found some way to contact him (John) to let him know he (Sherlock) was alive, but that was only if he (Sherlock) had known that there would be absolutely no risk involving the death of his partner.
“How long have I been under surveillance?”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and narrowed, obviously trying to figure out how John was reacting to everything. “Since yesterday.”
It was John’s turn to blink. “For three years?”
Sherlock nodded. “The last one was Moriarty’s right-hand man. I think he was waiting for the right time to kill you. Obviously he enjoyed your… state of being, and decided that was better than killing you. When I found him, he told me about what had happened to you. Thought it would effect me in such a way that would enable him to escape.”
“It didn’t work.” It wasn’t a question.
Sherlock leaned away, his gaze perfectly serious as it bore into John’s. “Love is a much more vicious motivator, John.”
John’s brow creased with emotion as he looked at his flatemate-turned-friend-turned-partner’s face. His face had always perplexed John. The left side (as John saw it, or Sherlock’s right) was always perfectly controlled, a fierce mask to protect him. The right, however, always showed the truth of his feelings. The right side was gaunt, hallowed out, an almost crestfallen expression settling over it.
Freak.
That was what Sherlock was expecting.
We hated him.
Someday he’ll be the one to put it there.
You machine.
John winced, remembering his own contribution to the worst of humanity. “Sherlock.”
The detective saw the wince—he always saw—and could only assume based on what he knew, or thought he knew, and closed his eyes tight, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s fine.”
Eyes flew open again and he closed his mouth smartly.
“It’s all fine. Or it will be, if you promise not to do it again.”
Sherlock tilted his head to the side, perplexed. “You’re not going to punch me?”
“Nope.”
“Aren’t you angry?”
“Oh, more than I can possibly say.” He made himself take a deep breath and say what needed to be said. “It’ll take a while before I can trust you fully, before I can trust us again. But I would have done what needed to have been done and come back as soon as possible. You did exactly that, so it’s not like I can fault your choice of actions there. You have to promise me, though—promise me—that you won’t do that again. I can’t—” he broke off, pulling Sherlock by the lapels knock heads again, nose-to-nose. He closed his eyes and just breathed deeply before opening his eyes once more so Sherlock would understand what he was trying to say. ”We almost lost each other, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s breath hitched as the message struck home. “John—”
John shook his head against the taller man’s and he pressed more firmly. “Promise me. I can’t do that again, Sherlock. I need you to promise.”
Sherlock looked absolutely torn. “If a similar situation—”
“Promise me.”
The detective wrapped his arms around his ex-army doctor and held him tightly, savoring the presence that he could have lost. “I promise you.”
John closed his eyes and reciprocated the embrace, burying his face in Sherlock’s scarf. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely.
“And I, you, John.”