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The crack of John’s fist against Sherlock’s cheekbone echoed through the morgue. When security moved, Sherlock raised a hand, blood on his lip. “No, it’s-it’s okay. Let him do what he wants.” He met John’s eyes. “He’s entitled. I killed his wife.”
Before Mary, John sometimes slipped into his bed in the deep hours. Afterwards, he’d dress in accusing silence and leave without speaking.
At crime scenes, to Lestrade, to anyone listening, he announced, “I’m not gay,” until Sherlock understood that whatever happened between them belonged somewhere shameful.
After Mary died, Sherlock offered what remained. Molly opened the door. “John said that if you were to come round asking after him, that he’d rather have anyone but you. Anyone.”
Then needles. Mornings without memory. Nights bleeding into days. Waking in the sour evidence of survival. Then Mycroft. Sobriety. Cases. London returned piece by piece. Clients climbed the stairs. Lestrade called. Sherlock became himself again, or close enough to pass.
He learned to be alone. The loneliness remained, but eventually ceased to feel like a lock only John could pick.
Now John stands among boxes by the door. “You’re leaving?”
“Observant.”
John’s voice is frayed. “What about us? I know I took too long—”
Sherlock adjusts the Longchamp bag. “I’d rather have anyone but you. Anyone.”
He pushes past without looking back.