“Did I ever tell you?” John asked. He laughed, looked down at his hands. “About what it was like after your—well. After your miraculous return from the dead?”
John did not know why he had started talking. It was something about Sherlock’s face, he thought. There had been something sad and fleeting in his expression. It had been gone so quickly he could not be sure if it had only been a trick of the light.
Sherlock glanced at him, his brow furrowed. “My miraculous and poorly timed return, you mean.”
John shrugged. “I wouldn’t say poorly timed. Poorly executed, perhaps.”
Sherlock’s lip twitched. He made an amused sound. His face was sharp and deeply shadowed under the streetlamps.
"I barely slept that night, you know.“
"Mm,” Sherlock said. He looked away, his lips pursed thoughtfully. “Neither did I.”
"I was also absurdly happy.“
Sherlock blinked. Shook his head. Blinked again. He looked at John for a moment, then away.
Something lurched sickly in John’s stomach at the expression on his face.
"I was under the impression that you didn’t wish to continue our association,” Sherlock said. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. He pressed his hands together, rested them against his mouth. He did not look back at John.
"Yes, well, you caught the angry part. Not the happy part.“
"I wanted you not to be dead.“
"So you’ve said,” Sherlock agreed mildly. He went on staring off into the distance.
"So that next day. The whole day. I was—" John laughed, a little self-consciously, scratched at the back of his neck. “I was waiting for you to show up.”
"The way you always used to do when something came up. Just—barging in, making a scene. Dragging me off somewhere.“
"You—” Sherlock’s voice was uncertain. “You’d made it quite clear that—”
"I know what I said,“ John said. “But I also—well. I guess I wasn’t expecting you to actually listen.”
"You wanted me to show up,“ Sherlock said. Flat, disbelieving.
Sherlock stopped speaking. Turned to look at John, his face expectant. Patient.
John shifted where he stood, looked down at his hands. “I am, apparently, utter shit at letting you know what you—how important you—”
He stopped, pressed his knuckles against his mouth. Even now, he couldn’t seem to say it. Even now, he couldn’t do it properly.
I thought I was in love with you, once, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. And I would have followed you anywhere.
"You’re always right,“ he said, instead.
Sherlock looked over at him, surprised.
John shook his head, held up a hand. “Just hear me out. You’re not right about everything, Christ, sometimes you’re the biggest idiot I know. But when it comes to me, Sherlock, when it’s me—you are. Always. Always right.”
"You reach out,“ he said. “To me. Over and over and over again. You never let me alone. Even when I beg you to.”
"You hate it when I do that.“
"No,” John said, and his voice emerged thick, choked. “I really, really don’t.”
Sherlock’s face had shifted back into that careful blankness, that devastatingly still expression that John had come to learn meant he was terrified.
I know that this is—this is a shit thing to lay at your feet, Sherlock. It’s stupid. If I want—” he paused. Pushed on. “If I want something from you, I should just say it. But I can’t. Do you understand? I can’t. And left to my own devices, I keep on making the wrong choices. Over and over again.”
"I can’t tell you what to do,“ Sherlock said slowly. He had drawn back into himself. He looked tense, coiled, ready to flee.
"That’s not what I—” John shook his head. “I don’t want you to tell me what to do. I just want—just—don’t fade away, Sherlock. Don’t politely excuse yourself from my life. Because I’m afraid that I’ll let you.”
"I don’t want that,“ John said, and his voice had gone so quiet he could barely hear himself. “I’ve tried that, and it’s not—it’s not good. For me.”
Sherlock nodded, and then stilled. He pressed his lips down into a hard line. Tucked his chin. He seemed at war with himself.
After a moment, he lifted his head, looked steadily at John. “Stop telling me to leave.”
John’s breath caught. Their eyes held.
"John, I realize that my—vows are worthless to you,“ Sherlock said. “But please believe me when I tell you that I will always want—I will always want you by my side.”
John rubbed at the bridge of his nose. His face had gone hot again, the blood roaring in his ears.
"But I can't—I don’t know what to do. You’re the one who helps with—” Sherlock stopped, frustrated. He waved an impatient hand in the air. “You’re the one who does all of this. Feelings. Whatever. And there are times when it’s quite obvious that you’re saying something you don’t mean, like when you suggest salads for lunch but you really want Chinese, you only think you want a salad because you’ve stopped cycling to work and you’re worried—correctly—about putting on weight, but—”
"Sherlock,“ John said, helpless. He did not know whether to start laughing or shouting. His throat felt tight.
"—But,” Sherlock pressed on. “There are other times—times when you say things like stay the hell away from me, or I’d rather have anyone but you, and I can’t tell—John, I have no idea how to tell if you actually mean that. If it would be better for you, if I stayed away.”
"No,“ John said. “It wouldn’t.”
"I can’t know that. I can’t know that, John, don’t you understand how—” Sherlock turned away, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breaths.
John looked at him and thought, oddly, of Sherlock’s face when he’d asked him to be his best man. That blank, shocked expression. The endless blinking. The confusion. He’d been stopped cold by the words best friend.
And no wonder, really. He’d been surprised, even now, to discover that John had been happy about his return from the dead. All of this time, had he truly been living with the perception that John had forgiven him not for the deception, not for the dying, but for surviving? As if turning up alive had been anything less than a miracle. As if turning up alive was something he’d need to atone for.
"Christ,“ John said. He moved closer, bumped up against Sherlock’s shoulder. The night air was chilly against his face. He hesitated for a moment, and then reached out his hand, twined his fingers through Sherlock’s.
Sherlock froze, rigid as a statue, unyielding. And then, slowly, cautiously, he thawed. His fingers slackened, then tightened. A firm squeeze.
"Just—don’t leave,” John said, staring straight ahead. He could not bring himself to turn, could not bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye.
"I won’t,” John lied, and closed his eyes.
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