Archive of Our Own

When did he first realise he loved John Watson?

Was it only tonight, with the throbbing bass of the music pounding in his chest, as he looked at Mr. and Mrs. Watson and shared in the news that should make him the happiest he's ever been? But instead, it felt as though a part of him died when John smiled at him.

Or was it before? Was it during those two years of running, when the only thing that kept him alive sometimes was the sound of John's voice in the halls of his memory? Or while he stood on the roof of St. Bart's, prepared to give up all he'd worked for to keep John safe.

Was it even further back, to that night at Angelo's when he looked at John Watson and saw everything he'd ever wanted... and then he'd opened his mouth and denied it all.

Perhaps it was at the beginning, with three simple words: "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Whatever the case, he knew it now. He knew it surely as he knew loving John Watson did him no good, in the end.

Sherlock shed his coat as he walked through the door of 221B, the inside dark and still. Had the flat always been this quiet, without John? No domestic noises: the rustling of newspaper, the clink of teacup on saucer, the comforting noises Sherlock had grown accustomed to hearing. Now there was silence. He flicked on a lamp, casting weak light over the faded red print of John's chair. Sherlock ran a hand over the scratchy, wool blanket draped over the top and then folded his long frame into the chair, pulling his knees up to his chin and resting his cheek on the fabric of the chair. He turned his head minutely, snuffling his nose, trying to smell John on the chair. Did he catch a whiff of John's shampoo? Or was that his aftershave? If he concentrated, he thought he could smell the particular blend of tea John preferred.

Sherlock pulled the wool blanket towards him, burying his face in the fabric and squeezing his eyes tight. Like a tiger, muscles coiled, he sprung from the chair and paced in front of it, shaking his hands at his side as though he could shake off all the emotions raging through his head.

"I didn't ask for this!" He snapped at the chair. "I'm a machine. I am above all of this. You've told me that countless times, John. I don't feel things as most people do."

Even as he said it, he knew they were all lies. Lies built up as armor against the outside world. Against the pain of loss and abandonment.

"How am I supposed to do this, John? How am I supposed to look at your chair, day in and day out, and be reminded that you no longer sit there? Tell me how I'm supposed to bear it?"

When silence met him, Sherlock's rage boiled over and he kicked at the chair, sending it skidding and scraping across the wood floor until it banged into the shelves behind it, gouging a small nick out of the wood. Sherlock crossed the room, running his hands over the uneven gash in the wood.

"I can't bear it." He repeated.

The chair was surprisingly heavy and unwieldy. Sherlock dragged it across the floor and down the hall, shoving it into his bedroom and wedging it between the wardrobe and a lamp. When he finished, Sherlock collapsed in the chair, its creaky springs digging into his tailbone as he curled into a ball.

Sherlock closed his eyes, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He conjured up his mind palace, the empty hallways springing up around him. Sherlock walked down the hall, hand reaching out to touch the fleur-de-lis wallpaper. He'd constructed a particular room in his mind palace long ago and visited it often. Clicking open the door, he ducked inside.

Afternoon light filtered through the curtains of 221B, setting alight dust motes that danced in the beams. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, finally letting himself relax.

"There you are!" John walked from the kitchen, a plate of biscuits in one hand, a saucer of tea in the other, the paper tucked under his arm. "I was starting to wonder where you'd gone off to."

Sherlock allowed a small smile to flit across his face. "Out for a walk, just to clear my mind."

Setting down the tea and biscuits, John came over and stood on tiptoe to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Glad you're back. Come have some tea."

Now there were two cups of tea, where there'd been only one. Sherlock sat in his own chair across from John's, the two pushed close together as they'd been on the stag night. John rustled the paper and tutted over the headlines while Sherlock watched him, filing away every detail of John. When John wasn't looking, he'd long ago cataloged every freckle, every line, every minute expression in John's repertoire of emotion. Sherlock would know John Watson even if he forgot every other piece of knowledge he possessed; John was burned into his very soul.

"What's up for today?" John twitched the paper and lifted an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing, that I'm aware of."

"Nothing?" A slow, lazy smile curled at the corners of John's mouth. "I like the sound of that."

Sherlock felt the warmth pool in his stomach and a frisson of anticipation shivered up his back. He'd imagined this scenario, too, over and over. Their coupling slow and sweet one time, fast and desperate the next. His body and John's fitted together like two halves making a whole.

"Do you, indeed, John Watson?" Sherlock flirted, leaning forward in his chair to grin at John.

Afterwards, they lay curled together in bed, their skin hot and sticky, blankets twisted around them.

"You're sad today." John said softly, tracing an unknowable pattern on Sherlock's back with his finger.

"Am I?"

"You are. I can feel it. Why?"

"No reason."

"Don't give me that."

"All right, I won't. Maybe I am sad. But let's not spoil the day. It doesn't matter."

John's lips replaced his fingers as he mouthed kisses over the scars left from Sherlock's two years away. "You matter to me, Sherlock. You always matter."

"I know." Sherlock felt a delicious ache in his chest, knowing that this wasn't really happening, but craving it so acutely that he felt he might die from the pain of it. "I know."

The lips found their way to Sherlock's ear. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look over his empty bedroom. It wasn't a sunny afternoon in 221B. It was the night of John's wedding and he'd left early.

"I love you, too, John Watson." Sherlock whispered into the empty room.

He saw, too clearly, the days and nights ahead, without the company of John Watson. Sherlock thought of retreating to the 221B in his mind palace, of locking the door and spending eternity with the John Watson who knew he was loved by Sherlock Holmes.

But he'd made his vow - the first and the last. He would keep the vow, no matter the cost. And when the sacrifice and the pain became too much, he would find solace in the well-worn chair in his room and the sun-filled flat in his mind palace, where John always waited for his return.

"I love you, too." Sherlock repeated.