Chapter Text
Where had it all gone so terribly wrong? Of course, Mycroft, the insufferable know-it-all had tried to warn him and he had chosen not to listen. Stupid. Naive. Painful.
Painful?
Sherlock winced as he cautiously ran his thumb and forefinger across his broken nose. Yes, definitely painful.
But it wasn’t just the nose, was it? He replayed the course of the entire evening again, first pausing at the image of John fidgeting with the small velvet box. There had been no doubt. Whomever he was with, John had been planning to propose to them. The inexplicable stinging sensation Sherlock had felt in that moment returned to his chest now, impossibly stronger still.
Sherlock shook his head as if to chase away the memory - and came to stop just at the second of John finally looking him in the eye and recognising him. By then, he had come up with an estimate of about 23 different scenarios as to how John would react to his return.
They all fell short to what he really saw in John’s face in that moment. At first there had been shock, which gave way to the agony of being betrayed about such a significant matter as the death of a friend. A bit not good, that. He knew now. Surely John would understand?
It turned out he hadn't. Sherlock’s admittedly very poor attempt at humour had not gone over as well as he’d hoped and they had ended up on the restaurant floor, John on top of him, for all intents and purposes trying to ensure he was being killed properly this time.
Sherlock’s eyes widened at the memory. He’d been afraid. Afraid of John Watson? Impossible. He knew quite well that John had always managed to hide the more terrifying parts of his personality under the convincing disguise of cozy jumpers and a medical profession. But Sherlock had witnessed that secret side of him many times; had always marveled at how efficiently John could defeat opponents twice his size in a fight. John really was ridiculously small. Sherlock caught himself smiling and allowed the fondness for his flatmate - former flatmate, he reminded himself - to stay for a moment before he shook his head again.
When Sherlock had told John that he needed his help on a case, the other man had snapped completely, efficiently breaking the detective’s nose with his forehead and storming off to call a cab. Mary - why had he so easily remembered the name of that one? - had stood by his side and promised to talk to John. Strange. Unusual. Interesting.
He’d been walking back to Baker Street, head spinning, and not just from the reason why he had a tissue sticking up his nose. Taking care of the crusted blood on his face in front of the bathroom mirror, he felt another sharp pang in his chest. John used to take care of that. After investigations gone wrong, John would strip him down, examine his wounds and stitch him up if necessary. John wouldn’t take care of him now. John was the reason he was hurting in the first place. How had it all gone so wrong?
Sherlock was absolutely certain that John had missed working with him when he was… gone. Living a quiet life in the outskirts of London, garden in front of the house - that might have satisfied the ordinary, boring side of John Watson. The soldier in him, definitely not so much. So why had he turned Sherlock’s offer down?
The detective buried his hands in his hair and pulled hard, groaning in both pain and frustration. Human. Nature. Insufferable. Hateful. John.
Confused at the sudden reappearance of the doctor’s name, Sherlock got up and paced the flat. Two years he’d been away. Two years of living in fear that he might not be able to take down Moriarty’s network. Two years away from home to protect the ones he’d loved.
Love, Sherlock?
How human of you! Adorable!
Don’t you know that you need a heart to love?
Do you have a heart?
And the voices in his head would start to snicker, growing to full-fledged mocking laughter, as he bent in on himself.
Freak!
Psychopath!
Piss off, you twat!
Nobody wants you.
Even your precious John found himself a new companion.
Caring, Sherlock. Not an advantage.
Sherlock barely made it to the couch and collapsed there before the voices in his head had reached their full force. He curled himself into a ball on it, groaning in pain as he wrapped his dressing gown around his shaking form, repeating but one word in his mind over and over again like a mantra:
John.
John.
John.