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Sherlock knew exactly what was waiting for him. He had met with Mycroft a couple of days before, and now it was only a matter of hours. Everything was advancing insufferably slowly or running past him incredibly fastly, and he felt he had no control. It was stressful, everything slipping through his fingers even though he had planned all that he could possibly can had planned out. But his head just kept spinning, analyzing, trying to find a way out that was sure, and he couldn’t. He tried to stay in control of his emotions, but it proved an impossible task, he had had some outbursts earlier already, and he was not in control.
The most dreadful, painful thing about this whole situation was John. Sherlock tried the best he could not to think about it, but it was impossible with the man at his side, fighting with him no matter what. He had had to lie to him already, and that had been one of the most difficult things Sherlock had to do. He had given this man his life, his heart, his mind, had bared himself for him, and John had done the same. He had always believed in the strength of their bond, it had always been the one thing he believed he would always be able to rely on. And now the detective was betraying it for the sake of John’s security, and it hurt like no overdose, no hit, no gunshot or knife wound ever had.
It was dark in the room. So silent, only the sound of their breathings breaking it. The tension was palpable in the air. John had no idea of what was coming, of course. He believed that he’d help Sherlock sort it out, and that they’d be safely back at 221B eventually. He didn’t know the implications, the threat to his own security. And Sherlock would not let him know. He could feel John’s hand in his, knew their fingers would be linked with or without the handcuffs binding them together. The detective closed his eyes to relieve in the warm, safe and solid pressure of John’s grip, knowing it would be one of the last time he’d feel it.
“You alright?” John asked, feeling through the dark that Sherlock was having troubled thoughts.
John. Only John could read him that way, in a way even Mycroft couldn’t.
“Of course I’m alright.”
“I’m not a fool, you know.” Sherlock could feel him turning toward him even though his eyes were closed.
“Then you should not have asked such a moronic question.”
The doctor sighed, shaking his head. “Sherlock.”
The man didn’t answer for a moment, jaw clenched, looking down. After five minutes of silence, which John gave him because he knew, he just knew what Sherlock needed, and always gave it to him, he took a shaky inspiration.
“Can you just hold me?” the brunet asked with the smallest voice John had ever hear him use. “Please?”
It was, most surely, the most vulnerable John had ever seen Sherlock. He didn’t like it. It hit him right in his gut. Something was so terribly wrong. Sherlock could not be scared. Sherlock being scared was the only thing John was scared of.
“Always,” he answered with a steady voice, keeping his reflexions to himself. The man did not need them right now. Sherlock turned to face him, installing himself all over John’s lap and torso, his free arm coming around John’s nape and burying his face in his neck. John passed his arm around Sherlock’s back, clenching his fingers harder. I’m here, with you. Trust me. He could feel the detective’s unsteady breath fade against his skin, and he closed his eyes, clenching his jaw and resting his head over Sherlock’s. He damned the world that he couldn’t hold the man he loved with two arms, could not reassure him more, better. They didn’t move for a few minutes.
Eventually they heard sounds downstairs, footsteps going up. John felt Sherlock separate himself from him, and he felt something cold in his stomach. He wanted him closer, where he knew him to be safe and protected. Sherlock wanted them to be just themselves. But they had no time. The brunet knew that this was his last moment with John, their last moment away from privy eyes when he did not have to act, did not have to lie. So he looked at him in the eyes, trying the best he could to show his feelings despite the darkness in the room, all the emotions tangled up in him, a feeling he had learned to enjoy even if at first it drove him mad because he couldn’t comprehend it, and kissed John deeply. The man seemed surprised, but still his hand clenched Sherlock’s hair, and he kissed him back. The steps were getting closer and closer, any second now. Sherlock broke their embrace, and even though it was not possible, it seemed to physically hurt.
“I love you John,” he said, voice hoarse and deep, terribly honest and bared, and John shivered.
“I love you,” he answered.
The door opened. They reluctantly let go of each other’s hands. Light illuminated the room.
The play was back on.