Chapter Text
Going to the hospital with John was a very stupid idea.
Sherlock was supposed to be dead so when Lestrade came into the hospital room the next day it was understandable that he shrieked – in a manly way, he would later claim – and yell for security. It was unsavoury, but Sherlock had to spend the next hour explaining where he had been. Naturally he hadn't mentioned the murders he had committed though he was sure Lestrade had guessed.
"Have you any idea what John went through while you were gone?" Lestrade asked him finally capable of speaking after Sherlock's explanation.
He shifted uncomfortably. "He was sad; understandable given the case."
The DI glared. "Sad!" he hissed, "Sad? The man was completely torn apart. He spent two years in the flat reliving all his bloody memories of you, day in and day out. He was hospitalized more than once, he only ever left to go to your empty grave; he told me that he had considered killing himself – Sherlock do you not understand? He's supposed to be your best friend."
Sherlock's lip twitched, his eyebrows drew together and he turned his head away so that Lestrade would not see the tears in his eyes. Even when his shoulders shuddered he kept up the pretence of indifference. John was the only one who would ever see him break down.
"He's a doctor," Sherlock said, though the words from John's letter to him echoed around in his head. "He knows just how to deal with grieving people. It's likely he was conducting an experiment as to how long it would take him to heal." The wobble in his voice did not go unheard. Lestrade knew him well enough not to mention it.
Lestrade wasn't a hard man. He wasn't especially good with feelings and the like, but he was a damn sight better than Sherlock. He understood what the other man was going through, despite the fact that Sherlock was near inhuman with regards emotions.
He could see the tell-tale sign of a breakdown – his hands were shaking, actually shaking! – he couldn't seem to form coherent thoughts – that was evident from the way his eyes were glazed; perhaps emotion truly did slow down this man. The worst part about how he was reacting was his eyes and breathing.
His eyes were fixed on John, a steady fall of tears leaking from those blue-green eyes. Greg had seen Sherlock when he was shockingly down but he had never seen anything remotely like tears in his eyes.
Anger he could deal with; frustration, boredom, demeaning. Sadness, tears and pain were way out of his league. Way out of anyone's league with Sherlock – with the exception of John. John would calm him and reassure him if he was well and conscious.
And the swelling of his chest with every breath was erratic. He breathed like one would to calm a panic attack – but Sherlock couldn't have a panic attack, he was unbelievably strong and emotionless, right? He breathed like a man who wasn't sure if their next breath would be denied. Deep, gasping breaths, but silently. Sucking in the air with irregular timing, but always there, always going.
Sherlock wasn't sure just how long he sat there staring at John, willing him to wake. He was vaguely aware of their surroundings; Lestrade's harsh breathing (chest infection, possible pneumonia), the patter of the nurses coming in and urging him to go home ("Mr Watson will be fine with us. He would probably want you to go and get some rest."), the beeps and whirring the machines around John emitted.
And John.
John just sat there motionless, frail beyond belief and dying.
NO! He wasn't dying! He would live; he had just had a nasty injury.
Time stretched out beyond comprehension.
"You know, if he was awake right now he would say "Go and eat something, Sherlock. You're far too thin; anorexia isn't a good look on consulting detectives." He always did try to be funny."
Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock acting human wasn't an everyday occurrence and Greg wasn't sure how to deal with it. He didn't need to figure it out because Sherlock was speaking again.
"If we had ended up back together without the whole kidnapped thing I think he would have punched me. Only this time it would have been without permission."
He made a noise. "Without permission? When did you give John permission to punch you?"
Sherlock smiled his mind a million miles away. "Back with The Woman, Irene Adler. We were trying to get into her house and I had him punch me so I could pretend to have been mugged." He remained pensive for a moment before snorting and saying, "Vatican cameos. Bloody Vatican cameos."
He didn't understand what Sherlock was referring to so he kept quiet. John would deal with him when he awoke.
"Sherlock?" John mumbled, his head buzzing distractingly.
Sherlock was out of his doze and by John's side within moments.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked his best mate. "Can I get a nurse for you?" His hands flitted from John's forehead to his hand and towards the drip line.
"You bastard," John said, eyes focussing on Sherlock. "You bloody bastard. What were you thinking? What possessed you to go on without asking for help? You know I would have done anything for you. Why did you go?" The vehemence in John's voice was startling; Sherlock should have known that he would be angry.
He brushed John's hair back from his face – the man mustn't have had a hair cut in months – and cradled his hand. "I had to, John. Moriarty, he had you at gunpoint even though you weren't aware. You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade would have died had I not jumped."
John blinked at him blearily, taking a moment to process that information. "But after, you should have come to me. I could have helped Sherlock – would have helped. Do you know how hard it was?" He sounded defensive now.
"Do you know how many times a day my heart shattered because I was suddenly struck by a memory of you? How many times I cried myself to sleep? How many times I wondered just how worthless I was to you. Every single day, Sherlock. Every moment of every day I wondered if my friendship wasn't enough, if it was worthless just like how I thought people's opinions of you were. I wondered why my trust and belief didn't outweigh the disbelieve of others? It hurt Sherlock. Every time I breathed I was reminded of the fact you weren't breathing. I would see my gun in the drawer or on the table and I would wonder if perhaps I should just kill myself too. Kill myself because it was so hard to live without you – I had nothing to live for."
John trembled after his tirade. The emotions, the isolation of two and a half years of anguish, weren't easy to express, to put into words.
Sherlock understood (He always did. Why was John still surprised by that?) and he kneeled on the bed to settle in beside him, John's hand clasping his for reassurance.
"It was hard for me too," Sherlock whispered after a tense silence developed between them. The raw emotion in his voice made John shut up and listen.
"Every day I worried that they would find out I was alive and go after you. Every day I wondered if you were okay, how you were getting on and if I'd ever see you again."
Sherlock took a deep breath. Telling John how he had felt all along was harder than he would have expected. Thoughts like that were terrifying and he had no experience with them. "I used to go to the graveyard when you did, I missed a couple of visits but I was there usually. When you didn't turn up last time I was worried and went to find you."
John bit his lip; Sherlock could tell he was wondering about the letter – the one he had thought that he wouldn't get. "I got your letter," he mumbled. John froze.
"Oh," he said.
"Yes," he continued. "I really am sorry for abandoning you." John relaxed slightly but the tension was still there.
John nodded curtly. Sherlock reckoned that the man had already forgiven him. "What happened to Moran?" he asked suddenly.
Sherlock allowed one side of his mouth to quirk up into a grin. "You shot him, John."
John swore. "I thought I had been delusional, that what happened had been a by-product of the torture."
Sherlock saw through his explanation. An unfamiliar tender smile made home on his face. He leaned a little closer to John and pressed a kiss to his temple. "You were worrying about how I had reacted," Sherlock stated softly.
John nodded, though it wasn't a question, blushing quite darkly. This was uncharted waters for the doctor. He supposed that he was bisexual, not quite as straight as he had claimed to be.
"Sherlock…" his voice trailed off, he wasn't sure how exactly he was to broach the topic with his detective.
"Not to worry, John. I am aware of the extent of your feelings and you should know by now that they are reciprocated – to the extent that I am capable of, however." Sherlock would never admit how he blushed and felt unconfident at that moment. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wasn't ever unconfident.
John beamed at him and, with an inordinate amount of wincing, shuffled into Sherlock's arms with a barely there kiss on the cheek.
John was happy.
Sherlock was happy.
They were in a love that neither of them had ever hoped would happen to them. They couldn't have ever been as lucky as that, right?
John smiled as he settled down. The world – his world, he supposed – had started turning again. The happiness that followed that melodramatic thought was worth all the pain he had suffered through; all was right once more.