Sometimes we find the ones we need and at times we leave the one we need too. But Sherlock had never expected it to end like this. And he shouldn’t have been the one who was begging, trying to make things right because it was John who had slept with her… who had touched her.
On one drunken whim, everything was now about to end.
“I don’t mind.” Sherlock Whispered into the darkness, wondering if the still body beside him had fallen asleep. The silence that followed seemed to answer that question until John rolled over and skimmed his cheek with the tip of his nose, quivering breath skating flesh.
“Don’t say that.” John murmured, desperately.
Sherlock hated the way his hands gripped his arms as if he were his only life support.
“You can’t decide that for me.” Sherlock argued, weakly.
“Don’t pretend like this is all fine, Sherlock. You deserve so much more.”
Butterflies were batting at his insides, the dangerous ones with knives for wings, stuttering his lungs and gouging his eyes. Nightmares personified.
He would wake up any minute. He had to.
“I still don’t mind it.” Sherlock replied, softly.
John’s hands disappeared with a bitter sting and he turned his back, now facing the obnoxious clock on the wall. Ticking away what felt like their last wasted seconds.
“Us— I’m not happy with it. That’s why I turned to her. You never even look at me anymore. I know that sounds selfish and idiotic but you could have spared one goddamn second from a case instead of driving me away like this.”
It all came lashing out so sudden and yet issued through Sherlock’s mind like winding syrup, never quite thickening. It was his fault. All of it.
Curling on his side, Sherlock forced his eyes shut and ignored the wetness that somehow escaped, betraying him…
“I’ll come and get my things tomorrow.” John said.
And he did.
Sherlock came back from a dull case the following night and John’s medical books that were once scattered across his bedside were missing and the closet was more than empty… The laptop gone. And the bed was done up in some orderly fashion as if pretending they had never shared it.
Sherlock didn’t believe him. Not even when John began to see her on a daily basis. Not even when it had been nearly three weeks since they last had spoken. John had sent texts to him of course but it didn’t count if Sherlock just deleted them right after.
Sherlock didn’t believe him when he saw him a month later at a hospital after being shot and John ran in, sentimentally wrecked and all. But what was he to say to him? After everything…
Apparently John was still seeing her, but he never mentioned his new relationship and when he brought Sherlock back to Baker Street, he made him tea and left an hour later.
He started to see him more and more, which he viewed as a good thing because it looks like John had given up long ago but now they were going on cases together. And after Sherlock pressed John against the brick wall while on a midnight chase and kissed him fiercely, John pushed him off and told him he didn’t need him anymore.
And it was back to John being away from his life.
Sherlock still didn’t believe him because this has all got to be right. They were right. Right? John was imagining that what they had was never reality, rather a bad dream. But Sherlock knew he would come around. He had to. He just had to.
“I told you not to come around here anymore.” John said when he opened the door and Sherlock was standing at his pavement, nervously pacing.
John sighed and stepped forward, pulling Sherlock into the width of his embrace and for a second Sherlock could imagine that they hadn’t been apart. Not even once. Never.
“Don’t pretend you never loved me.” Sherlock said, his voice cracking with the endurance of a plain composure.
“I couldn’t.” John breathed.
She must have gone out for some milk or something of importance because she was gone as John turned on the kettle and turned back to Sherlock, while they both sat in the kitchen chairs.
“We fight and at times I let you down but I never understood why I was being punished this way. Why you loved her more…” It was the first time Sherlock had even brought her up directly. But there was no time to over-analyze or contemplate before John was touching him delicately… testing his bounds and finding their old routine.
Sherlock stood and sat in John’s lap, tipping back his head and kissed him with such reverence, that John would have to be convinced that Sherlock would only want him or would only pick him. Exhaling harshly, John removed both belts and brought Sherlock off and Sherlock fell to his knees and returned the favor, graciously. Afterwards Sherlock knew it was still there. The passion. Everything that would keep them both up late at night.
“I still don’t mind John.” Sherlock muttered, wiping his mouth.
“I don’t believe you.”
But no. It was the other way around. Sherlock didn’t believe John. All this time and Sherlock never believed John from the instant he left. It was because he did mind. Therefore, John truly didn’t believe him as well.
Sherlock wanted more. So much more.
But she would be home soon.
They’ve had enough now.
Part 1 Part 2