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“Why?” Sherlock finally asks one day, and part of John is relieved.
Part of him is terrified, too. But mostly he's relieved.
They've been out of sorts with each other since it happened. John hasn't been able to stir them back to their own odd brand of normal and it's been weighting on him.
(Still. What even is normal for them? It's been so long he's not sure he even remembers...
Normal was probably before the fall and the lies...)
But John had come back to live in Baker Street and Sherlock had let him back in without a comment. And John had cleaned the flat (too often according to Sherlock, not often enough according to Mrs Hudson), and picked up the milk, and ordered food, and watched crap telly, but it did not feel like it did before.
And Sherlock... Sherlock was quieter. Sherlock watched him. Constantly. Observed. And John didn't dare ask him what he saw or what he was looking for because John was afraid of what the answer would be. So John was mostly quiet too, and that felt wrong.
What also felt wrong was the way Sherlock was watching him: Uncertain. Tentative. Not at all like Sherlock. It looked like he was waiting for John to explode, to punch him, to kill himself, to- do something. And John didn't know what to do with that because it made Sherlock look so young and unsure, so fragile, that he just tried to do the normal things he used to do in the flat, around Sherlock, but he felt that he did them wrong, not quite like normal, a bit more hushed, a bit more careful, like he was waiting for it all to fall apart around him like a house of cards.
They were out of sync, slightly out of phase with each other, not enough for others to notice, but enough for both of them to feel plain wrong about it.
So when Sherlock finally asks “Why?”, John is mostly relieved because something was bound to change and it is finally about to happen.
(And since he has no idea how this is about to go, he is equally terrified.)
He raises his head to look at his flatmate. Sherlock looks like a fucking painting. (Unfair)
He's standing at the window and halfway turned towards John who's sitting on the couch. The light from the late afternoon catches him diagonally and paints a dramatic play of golden lights and shadows over his hair, face and clothes and John stops breathing for a few seconds.
Sherlock mistakes his lack of immediate answer for incomprehension and continues: “I've been thinking about it for months, John, and I still don't understand why... I-” he seems a bit lost for a moment, “Was it the timing? Did you not have enough time to realise what was going to-” But he cuts himself off when John shakes his head.
John clears his throat. “I had time...” He closes his eyes, smiles wryly, “God, Sherlock, those where the longest seconds of my life.”
But Sherlock still just looks very confused, “Then, why...?”
John sighs and closes his eyes because he can't keep looking at Sherlock when he's a fucking painting.
Eyes shut he indicates the other half of the couch with his hand and hears Sherlock walk, then sit himself next to John.
John opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock. There. Without the sunset, he does look a bit less otherworldly, a bit more human. John shuts his eyes again.
“I knew what was going to happen Sherlock. And I had time. I had all the time in the world. Not enough to save both of you. But plenty of time to choose.”
He raises his lids and God, Sherlock looks fragile again. His eyes so very green and his lips a bit pinched as if he's overwhelmed and trying to hold it in. John feels his eyes fill up, and when he speaks his voice is rougher.
“If I could have saved you both-- Even if it had killed me- I-” He takes a breath, lets it out through his mouth, “I would have died if it meant I could save you both.”
Now Sherlock looks like he's in pain and he is breathing quicker through his nose.
“I would have” repeats John, “but... but there was no way to save you both... I know that. I had time.”
And Sherlock just nods at that. He knows that too.
John keeps going: “I-- I loved her, I truly did! I loved Mary. But-” a couple of tears escape his eyes when he blinks and the blurry form of Sherlock focuses once again before him, “But when I had to choose between your life or hers, I saved the one person I couldn't live without.”
Sherlock looks struck. He's clenching his hands on his lap and he makes several attempts at unsealing his own pinched lips. John realises that his flatmate is shaking a bit. “That's not true,” says Sherlock, and his voice is rough too “you lived without me before.”
“Before I met you?”
Sherlock shakes his head, because that doesn't count “When I was away”
John laughs dryly, “Sherlock that wasn't living. I was a mess.” and when he sees Sherlock about to protest he adds “And yes, Mary helped, but I was far from okay until you came back.”
Sherlock is shaking his head again “That's-- No. You, you loved her John, you chose her, you married her!”
John shuts his eyes again because God, this is painful, “You're right. I did. I loved her and I married her. And it's-” he chokes on a sob and tries to breathe through his nose this time. After a few moments he tries again, “It's killing me that I had to make a choice, it's killing me to be aware enough to know that I could live without my wife but not without my best friend, I-- I-” he hides his face with one hand as a sob escapes, then another. Fingers tentatively brush – just barely – against his forearm and he calms down a bit. “I feel so guilty Sherlock. So fucking guilty.” He looks at Sherlock, “I chose you instead of Mary, and now she's dead, and even if I feel guilty about it, I can't regret it. I don't regret it.”
And God now it's Sherlock that's crying. Honestly crying, with lips trembling and nose running and tears streaming down his face. He's crying like a little boy. A silent little boy. “You shouldn't have”, he croaks, “what am I supposed to do with that? You should have chosen her. I am not-”, he gasps a bit, “I am not good enough. Not good for you. You- I hurt you all the time and I don't- I don't know how not to.” his breath hitches again and again and he lifts his legs onto the couch and hugs his knees to his chest. “I am not good enough.”
John has stopped sobbing uncontrollably but he's still a mess. He takes one of Sherlock's wrist in his hand and clutches it, looking Sherlock right in the eyes. “You are.” he says, “That's what I'm trying to tell you.” Sherlock is shaking his head in denial so with his other hand, John grabs the back of his neck. “Listen to me Sherlock! You are enough. That's what I realised and what terrifies me, and that's why I can't regret what I did: you are more than good enough! You are-- You are the only one I truly need!”
And something in Sherlock seems to break at that, maybe it's his denial of what John is trying to tell him, maybe it's his fucking dam of self-loathing that's finally emptying a bit, but now he's sobbing in earnest, loudly, and is trying to hide against his knees.
John tugs on his neck and Sherlock tumbles towards him. There are too many knees and elbows in the way but John folds himself around Sherlock's form and embraces him, tucking the detective's head under his chin and running his hand up and down along the knobs of Sherlock's spine. He pushes his other hand through his flatmate's hair and presses his lips against his temple.
“Shhh Sherlock, we're okay, right?” he starts to rock them a bit and feels Sherlock slowly uncurl from around his own knees and start to burrow more firmly against John, “We're okay. I have to learn to live with my guilt now and I will, because I have you and I don't regret my choice. And you, you have to learn to cope with me choosing you, okay?”, he gently tugs on Sherlock's hair, “You hear me? I chose you and you have to deal with it. Can you do that?”
Sherlock snuffles and presses his face in John's neck and holds him tight tight tight so that John feels every breath in his chest and every beat of his heart, and he says “Yes. Okay. Yes, John.”