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He watches him from afar. And every time he is tempted to stop this masquerade and go to him, explain everything and apologise for hurting him. Even though there was no other way, even though it was all for John’s sake. To protect him. To keep him alive. Because he could not bear to think of John, his brave, loyal John, with a bullet in his head. Because he could not let Moriarty burn his heart.
But every time, when he sees John limping stiffly on, his head bowed and blue eyes full of a grief he doesn’t care to hide, he cannot understand how he could have let Moriarty get away with it, how he could have turned into John’s own torturer.
John’s eyes are the eyes of a man who has lived a hundred years of misery. So he asks himself how, with all his tricks and his supposed cleverness, he couldn’t have found another way, a way to beat Moriarty without putting John through this.
“All hearts are broken” Mycroft had said. Surely, John’s heart is. And it doesn’t take his amazing deductive skills to see that.
Every time he swears to himself that it’s the last time, that he will get in touch, that he will go and find him, that he will explain everything, no matter how hard it will be. And then they will be together again, and no one else will dare to come between them. For a second he smiles, but then he remembers Moriarty’s words, and he know that he would be only putting John in danger. Because Moran is still out there, waiting for him to take a false step.
And so he waits again. He lets John limp away, back to a barren and frozen life, far from Baker Street and good memories turned to nightmares.
He waits. One more day. One more week. One more month. Time bleeds away, hurting them both. There is a dull ache in his heart. Sometimes he is sure that Moriarty has won.