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I haven’t seen you in ages. We should grab dinner or something soon. John
Currently in Paris. Will let you know when I’m back. SH
Alright. John.
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Back from Paris. Dinner? SH
Can’t. Midterms. Next week? John
Possibly. Will get back to you. SH
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Dinner? This Saturday? John
Have an urgent case that requires my full attention for the next week. SH
Anything I can help with? John
Unless you’ve suddenly changed your major from Medicine to Law, not especially. SH
Oh, alright. Let me know when you’re free. John
Of course. SH
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Just finished a case. Chinese? SH
It’s 3am. John
So? SH
I would but I’m back home. Mum’s birthday. John
Next week? SH
Definitely. John
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This is getting ridiculous. Am I ever going to see you before May? John
Our schedules just don’t seem to be aligning. How are classes? SH
Good. Finals are next week. I do want to see you before I go though. John
Go? SH
Yeah, I leave for training in a few weeks. John
We’ll find time. Let me know when you are done with finals. We can go out to celebrate. SH
Sounds great. Thanks, Sherlock. John
Of course. Good luck, John. SH
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“You’re not bringing any of this with you?” his mom asked packing away John’s medical textbooks.
“I doubt I’ll need it,” he answered, “I’m allowed like one duffle bag. I should probably just stick with the essentials.”
“Cell phone?” she asked.
“I’ll bring it with me but I won’t really get service once we leave the country,” John sighed, “We’ll be stuck at the base until about 2p but after that, not really.”
“What about your frog?” she asked, picking it up from where it had been sitting faithfully on his desk.
“Pretty sure that I won’t need that either,” he laughed.
“Do you remember when Sherlock gave it to you?” she asked.
“I didn’t know that Sherlock gave it to me,” John answered turning to face his Mum from where he’d been folding his pants.
“Oh, yeah,” she smiled, “It was the second night that he came over.”
“Why a frog?” he asked, “Knowing him now, I would've thought he’d have given me a chemistry set.”
“Well, Sherlock’s Mum was frantic to have something for Sherlock to do in the evenings because she was worried about what he was getting up to with some of his more…interesting…schoolmates. After one too many instances of him staying out all night, she put her foot down and volunteered him to look after you for me while I was at work with Harriet.”
“I didn’t know that,” John said softly.
“You should have seen the look on his face when he walked into the house that first night,” his Mum laughed, “Petulant and puckered liked he was constipated and sucking on a lemon all at the same time. It was quite a sight.”
“What a git,” John answered.
“He was less than enthused,” she continued.
“So where does Ribbit come into all of this?” John asked.
“Well, you being you,” his mum smiled, “You walked right up to him with an absurdly dimpled grin and spent five minutes talking about the frog show that was playing on the telly. You didn’t let the poor boy get a word in edge-wise. Sherlock corrected you about something small. And you just looked up at him, smiled, and said, ‘You’re brilliant!’ before practically face-planting into his knees and hugging him fiercely.”
“I didn’t know that,” John answered.
“He showed up next week with a tentative smile and a stuffed frog,” his mum finished, “You’ve had it ever since. You’ve always just loved that boy. From day one.”
“Yeah,” John said quietly, “I guess I have.”
“Well?” his mum asked.
“Well what?” John asked.
“Are you going to do something about it?” she asked tentatively.
“Seriously?” John said, irritated, “You sound like Murray.”
“I always knew I liked Murray,” she answered.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” John said.
“John, you’re leaving,” his mum said firmly, “For who knows how long. Don’t you want to know for sure? Just in case?”
“I’m not going to die, Mum,” John answered.
“You bet your arse you’re not,” his mum said fiercely, “I’m depending on you to look after me in my old age.”
John laughed slightly and met his mum’s gaze hesitantly, “Do you think he’ll say no?”
“I don’t know, love,” she sighed, “But don’t you want to know, one way or the other?”
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John wiped his sweaty palms roughly along the seams of his jeans. Taking several deep breaths and one more check of his reflection in the mirror, he made his way quickly up to the third floor of Sherlock’s building. He wasn’t going to lie to himself and try to pretend that this whole idea wasn’t terrifying. But this feeling in his chest, this acknowledgement of how deep their relationship truly was, was eating away at him. Sherlock was a genius. He had to know how John felt. He had to. And…he probably felt the same way, right? Their shared history was a testament to that. So, with one last deep breath and fleeting thought to the flight that was leaving in the morning for training, he knocked firmly on Sherlock’s door.
He felt his heart leap in his chest as the taller man’s gorgeous form greeted him with a large grin, “John? What are you doing here?”
“Sherlock,” John breathed, before stepping forward swiftly, framing the older man’s face in his hands, and kissing him passionately on the lips.
And it was perfect. Sherlock’s smell. The smooth feeling of his skin under John’s palms. His deliciously sumptuous lips pressed against his own. This. This is what he needed. This was the man that he loved. And it was perfect. So bloody magnificent…
Oh. John felt his entire heart shatter as Sherlock disentangled himself from the shorter man with a firm push and a shocked expression. John’s entire body trembled with humiliation and heartbreak. He couldn’t breathe and couldn’t bear to meet Sherlock’s pitying gaze.
“John,” Sherlock began awkwardly, stepping back further inside his flat and away from the younger man, “I don’t…”
“Who’s at the door, love?” a man called out before peering around the frame of the door and wrapping his arm comfortably around Sherlock’s waist. And, of course, he was bloody gorgeous. Tall, with vibrant green eyes and a head full of luscious blonde curls, “Hello there! Victor Trevor. And you are?”
John’s shock was superseded only by his innate compulsion for politeness. He took Victor’s outstretched hand mechanically before whispering past the lump in his throat, “John. John Watson.”
“I know you!” Victor crowed happily, seemingly oblivious to the tense environment surrounding him, “You’re that kid that Sherlock used to babysit for. He said you had the biggest crush on him when you were little. Can’t really blame you! He’s bloody gorgeous, isn’t he?”
“That’s me,” John said, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice, “Just that stupid. Bloody. Kid.”
“We’d love for you to come in but we were just about to sit down to dinner,” Victor apologized with another squeeze of Sherlock’s waist and a brush of lips to his temple, “Six month anniversary.”
“Oh, yeah,” John said, stammering painfully, “Of course. I’ll just go.”
“John,” Sherlock said finally breaking out of his sudden onset catatonia, “We could…”
“No,” John said firmly, “I’ll just get out of your hair.”
“Tea?” Sherlock called out as John was practically running for the elevator, “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” John lied convincingly for the first time in his life, “Sure.”
John made his way blurrily from the building with his chest constricting painfully. He ducked into an alleyway and felt a rough sob escape before collapsing back against the dirty brick and letting his heart vent its pain. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there or how exactly he got back to the flat he shared with Murray. Boxes were everywhere and the only things not packed up were the sheets on his bed and his toiletries. Mum and Tom were going to take everything to a storage unit within the next few weeks. Murray took one look at his face when he wandered in and sighed heavily.
“I’m sorry, mate,” Murray said quietly, “That’s rough.”
“I should’ve known,” John whispered, through abused vocal cords, “What was I bloody thinking? Of course he wouldn’t be interested…just fooling myself, I guess.”
“Don’t do that,” Murray said firmly, “You took a shot. A lot braver than some other blokes out there.”
John scoffed loudly before turning to his room. He looked at his phone one last time. No new messages from Sherlock.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Murray said quietly, “We’ve got a job to do out there. It’s best not to have any unanswered questions eating away at us.”
“You’re probably right,” John answered, turning off his phone, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Bright and early,” Murray answered, “We have to be at the base by seven am.”
“Night, Murray,” John said.
“Night,” Murray replied, “And I am sorry.”
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Sherlock fidgeted unconsciously as he made his way to John’s block of flats. He’d tried texting John several times and received no response. He’d finally got desperate and tried calling him but it went straight to voicemail. He took a deep breath before knocking lightly on the warped door. He felt his heart jump as footsteps sounded on the other side before the door was thrown open and he came face to face with Tom.
“Oh, hello,” Sherlock said, nonplussed, “I need to speak to John.”
“Sherlock?” John’s mum called out from behind her husband before meeting him at the door, “What are you doing here?”
“Yes, hello,” Sherlock said impatiently, “Where’s John? We were supposed to meet for tea and he never showed up.”
“He left,” she said simply, looking coolly reserved.
“Left?!” Sherlock cried out, “Left for where?!”
“Afghanistan,” she said sadly, “He left this morning.”
Sherlock rocked back on his heels and lost his balance, collapsing against the opposite wall. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think past the massive weight that was crunching his chest flat. This wasn’t right…he couldn’t have just left…he left without saying goodbye… Except he hadn’t really. He’d come to say goodbye and Sherlock was just too dense to see John’s behavior for what it really was.
“His contact information?” Sherlock asked, “How can I get a hold of him?”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she said firmly, “But maybe you should leave him alone for a while. I don’t think he’s ready to talk to you yet.”
Sherlock whirled away from the couple without another word and pulled his mobile out as he waved down a taxi.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft said sounding surprised, “Are you dying?”
“I need to know where John is,” Sherlock said, breathing erratic.
“Pardon?” Mycroft asked.
“Where is he?” Sherlock demanded, “What military camp, what base, what bloody bed number! Just tell me!”
“What happened?” Mycroft asked firmly.
“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock snapped.
“Oh,” Mycroft sighed, “I see. He confessed his emotional investment to you and you didn’t respond well. Now, he’s off to war and you’ve lost your chance to fix it. Bit Hollywood, don’t you think?”
“I can still fix it,” Sherlock bellowed, “Just tell me where he is.”
“No,” Mycroft said firmly.
“What?” Sherlock shouted.
“No,” Mycroft repeated, “I think John needs to focus on his job right now. He’s going to war, Sherlock. He shouldn’t have to deal with your inept emotions.”
“I need to talk to him,” Sherlock bit out, “Now.”
“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, “But you already gave him your answer, didn’t you?”
Mycroft hung up after that and Sherlock stared at his phone in shock for several minutes before jerking in shock as it signaled a new text message.
One new text
Bye, Sherlock. John
By the time he tried to call back, John had already turned his phone back off.