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Sherlock nearly crashes into the door of the café, the bell’s innocuous tingle grinding at him somewhere deep in his brain. He glances around quickly, his damp hair flying into his eyes as his head whips around, trying to spot…
Ah. There.
John.
John is not pleased; that much is clear from his disapproving head shake and his second—no, third—cup of over-brewed Earl Grey. Sherlock is just glad he waited; John hasn’t spoken to him in nearly six months, now, and Sherlock is incredibly grateful that he hasn’t completely cocked up what is starting to seem like his last chance.
He turns towards the counter and quickly orders a black coffee, rushing to the other side of the seemingly endless wall to pick it up. He snatches three packets of sugar and rushes over to the table, ignoring the burning pain when his haste causes some coffee to slosh over the side of the paper cup and onto his hand.
“John, I’m so sorry, really, I didn’t think—.” He stops when John holds up a hand, the look in his eyes radiating disappointment. Sherlock waits.
John opens his mouth, closes it, takes a sip of horrible tea, winces. “I guess I just thought—I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought. I’m not even sure why I thought this was a good idea.”
They sit in silence for a moment. Sherlock fumbles a sugar packet when he tries to get it into his coffee. He looks up to find John staring at him.
“It’s… good to see you, John,” he tries. John doesn’t look at him; he’s too busy looking at the way Sherlock’s hands are trembling.
Too late, Sherlock realizes that no matter how well he washed his hair this morning, there’s no hiding his emaciated appearance.
“When did you last eat, Sherlock?” John asks, but there’s none of the friendly teasing from Before, only a hard-edged, muted anger.
Sherlock takes a sip of frankly awful coffee. His hand is still shaking a bit when he puts it down.
“I don’t know. I’m still standing?” he adds with a self-deprecating smile, but John isn’t having any of it. With an angry sigh, he stands and leaves the table, leaving his disgusting tea behind. Sherlock feels something horrible rise up in his chest to clench at his heart; his ribs feel too tight.
Apparently he has cocked it up after all. The tears rise unbidden, the corners of his eyes burning as they threaten to burst out for everyone in this dingy café to see.
A hand comes to rest on his shaking shoulder; a slightly friendlier face leans in. “Hey. Hey! What’s the matter with you?”
A chocolate scone on a pristine white plate comes into view and is placed next to his coffee. Sherlock blinks at it.
“You need to eat. Jesus. This is why—.”
John’s fist clenches. He looks down. Sherlock takes a bite of the scone and suddenly finds himself ravenously hungry; the whole thing is gone before he even realizes what he’s done.
John stares down at the empty plate. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
There’s nothing teasing about that, either.
Sherlock waits.
“You’re not okay,” John finally says. He catches Sherlock’s gaze and holds it, refusing to back down. Sherlock stares right back.
“No,” he responds.
“Have you reverted back to… Pre-John Sherlock?” John asks hesitantly. The unasked question is painfully obvious.
Sherlock hesitates, too. He tries to phrase his answer as carefully as he can. “I—Not quite. There aren’t any… illicit substances.”
His mind tries to add Yet. He clamps his mouth shut against it. There’s only so much empty, lonely silence one human can take. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he can almost feel his veins itch.
John is looking at the table again.
Hair in slight disarray: hasn’t slept well in a while, but is still getting acceptable amounts of sleep.
Bags under his eyes: confirm initial deduction.
Perfectly ironed shirt, no creases: has abandoned cycling, would explain the slight pudge around his abdomen. Sherlock makes a mental note not to mention it.
Small shaving cream stain near the back of his cheek: not living with anyone new, yet. Not since Mary left with…
Sherlock shakes his head, trying not to think of just how badly he’d failed John six months ago. What use is it having a best friend who’s the world’s only consulting detective if he can’t even track down your assassin wife when she makes a run for it in the dead of night with your only child?
“Stop that,” John says sharply. Sherlock’s head jerks up.
“What?”
“Fucking… deducing me, Sherlock. I asked you to come here so we could talk, not so you could read me, find me unworthy, and fucking leave. That wasn’t the point,” John barks at him. Sherlock feels his shoulders sink in on themselves as he looks down, trying to ignore the clues that are screaming at him from across the table.
“Sorry,” he whispers. He scalds himself with his miraculously still boiling coffee. He wills himself not to cry.
John used to think he was extraordinary.
There isn’t even a trace of that now.
“No, that’s not—Fuck. That’s not what I meant.”
Sherlock nods down at the table.
“Sherlock! Look at me! Look at me.”
Sherlock forces his eyes up, heart pounding frantically against his sternum. John looks directly at him. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.”
Sherlock nods, but drops his gaze again; there’s no sense in risking more of John’s anger.
Eventually, John seems to collect himself.
“Okay. I asked you here because I wanted to talk to you. There’s something—I wanted to—No. Okay. So first, I wanted to apologize.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen. He looks up involuntarily.
John seems sincere.
“For what?” Sherlock asks, baffled. For some reason, this question seems to make John suddenly unbearably sad.
“Jesus. Okay. I’m sorry for the last six months. I’m sorry I ignored all your calls. I’m sorry I kicked you out of my flat. I’m sorry I called you a—I’m sorry I—.” He stops, seemingly unable to keep going. His left hand is clenched convulsively around the handle of his mug.
John takes a deep breath. Sherlock waits.
“I’m sorry I called you a freak. That was—That was probably the worst thing I’ve ever said to anyone, and I just. You didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that. That was out of line.”
John breathes out. “There. So that’s the apology portion.”
“Thank you, John, but the apology is… unnecessary. You don’t have to apologize for telling someone the truth,” Sherlock whispers. Any louder, and his voice will crack, and he doesn’t need that sort of embarrassment right now. It’s enough that the slap-in-the-face feeling of being called that by the man he was (still is) in love with has returned with a vengeance, his whole body aching with the force of it.
John is gaping at him, now. “What? It’s not the truth, Sherlock, you’re not—.”
“Then what am I, John? I couldn’t find Mary. I couldn’t find Emma. What’s the point?” he murmurs back.
John looks horrified. “No, Sherlock, Christ. No. Honestly, I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t thinking—.”
Sherlock looks up, tries to smile. He’s not sure what ends up on his face, but it doesn’t seem to reassure John. “You were right, John. I’ve got a silly party trick that I can use to impress people, but when it counts the most, I’m useless. They were right. Thank you for the admiration, thank you for the friendship, I suppose, but really, it’s all right.”
Somehow, the words come more easily the more he says. It almost makes cutting out a part of his heart bearable.
“You can. You know. Go back to your life, now. I’ll manage,” he finishes. His voice almost doesn’t crack on the last word.
He pushes his chair away from the table, realizes he’s still wearing his coat. At least he doesn’t have to deal with the awkwardness of having to waste time putting it on.
He stands.
“Sherlock, no! Please! You haven’t heard the second bit yet, please, just. Sit. Please.”
He looks down at John. Somehow, John still seems sincere.
He sits.
“Sherlock. I wanted to ask you if I could come home,” John says.
Sherlock stares.
“You know. To Baker Street? If the room is still available?”
Sherlock keeps staring.
“I know it’s awful. It’s an awful thing to ask, but I—.”
“Why?” Sherlock gets out.
“What?”
“Why?”
John takes a breath. “Because I—Because I miss you, Sherlock. Horribly. Everything has been awful without you.”
Sherlock can’t seem to stop staring. “You miss the cases. The adrenaline. It’s not me that you miss. Though of course you’re welcome back. You always are. It’s your home, too.”
John shakes his head. “No. No, it’s not the cases. I mean, those were fun, but what I loved about the cases was you. You’re brilliant, Sherlock. I miss— I miss the way you shine when you deduce something.”
Sherlock looks away. “No you don’t,” he murmurs.
“Sorry?”
“No you don’t,” he repeats, more loudly this time.
“Of course I—.”
“I’m useless, John. You know I am,” he whispers.
John puts his face in his hands. “Sherlock, of course you’re not. You’ve probably solved a hundred cases since… you know. I was only slowing you down and we both know it.”
Sherlock feels the blush creep into his cheeks, the shame rising in him, making his hand tremble again.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Haven’t solved any cases.”
John looks him up and down. “Sherlock, you haven’t been sleeping or eating, clearly, you’re thin as a reed. You can’t tell me you haven’t been working on any cases.”
“Just the one,” Sherlock mutters, looking away. He’s nearly startled out of his chair when two fingers slide under his chin and pull him back.
“What case, Sherlock!? What case could possibly keep you up like this for six months!? Is it something to do with Moriarty again!?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock mutters, trying to turn his head away again. John holds firm.
“What case, Sherlock!?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Sherlock shouts back. “I still haven’t found them!”
John abruptly lets go, falling back into his chair with a crash. Several of the patrons around them turn to stare.
John scrubs at his face again. “Jesus Christ. You’re looking for Mary and Emma.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says.
“You’ve been looking for them for the last six months.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says.
“And all I’ve done is shout at you in front of all of Scotland Yard at three in the morning, call you a freak in front of Donovan and Anderson, then completely ignore you for six months.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, the tightness in his chest keeping the words trapped in his vocal cords.
“Why? After everything I’ve done to you, Sherlock, and I’ve done some pretty bad things, why are you still trying to help me!?” John practically shouts.
The other patrons seem to be doing their level best to ignore them completely.
Sherlock is grateful, because the truth is coming bubbling out of his chest faster than he can shove it furiously back down, and the words are rising in his throat, reaching the very tip of his tongue, and—
“Because I love you, John, and I want you to be happy. I just. That’s it. I want you to be happy, and have the life you want, with the person you want, and—.”
His verbal diarrhea is cut off by John’s quiet but firm, “You love me?”
Sherlock nods.
“You’re in love with me, you mean?”
Sherlock swallows. “Yes, John.”
When it finally comes, John’s reply is strangled. “How long? How long, Sherlock?”
Sherlock can feel himself shrinking again. He braces himself for the disgust and horror. “Since you shot that cabbie to save my life, probably.”
John’s mouth drops open. Sherlock feels the need to keep talking. “I just— No one’s ever— No one’s ever cared like that, before. It was— It was wonderful, really. I never meant for this to happen. I know you don’t… I know you don’t see me that way, but I still. So. I just want you to be happy. Even if it can’t be with me. Even if I can never be enough for you.”
John is almost shaking. Sherlock watches his left fist practically spasm on the table. “What— What do you think I want, Sherlock? Just. Tell me. Please.”
Sherlock looks at him. “Well you aren’t gay, for one. So. Not me. A wife. A house in the suburbs. Children. A steady job in a proper clinic. A decent income. A—.”
John is crying. Sherlock stops. “John?”
“I thought you’d deduced it. I thought—I thought you’d deduced it, and you’d been ignoring me all these years because you weren’t interested.”
“What?”
“You had no idea, did you?” John starts to laugh wetly, almost manically. Sherlock tentatively reaches out to brush his arm. John finally looks up.
“I’m not gay, you git, I’m bi. It’s annoying for people to always assume that. So I correct them.”
Even as Sherlock is still reeling from that particular bombshell, John drops an even bigger one. An atomic one.
“I’ve been in love with you at least since the swimming pool, Sherlock. I honestly thought you’d deduced it and weren’t interested.”
It feels like the world has stopped spinning. The patrons fall silent, the hustle and bustle of the baristas behind the counter comes to halt.
Nothing matters anymore.
Nothing but I’ve been in love with you at leastsince the swimming pool.
John loves him.
The world slowly starts up again, and Sherlock realizes that at some point, he’s crossed to the other side of the table, and is now standing, sobbing brokenly into John’s shoulder like a child. It takes him longer than he would like to admit to realize that John is crying, too.
The abysmal coffee is on the ground.
He can’t bring himself to care.
“I love you,” he tries. It’s rather different, saying it to the John outside his mind palace. John hiccups a laugh.
“I love you,” he responds. Sherlock feels his face stretch into a wide grin, and he’s absolutely helpless to stop it. John looks up at him and mirrors his smile.
“I love you,” John repeats. “I love you. I will tell you that every day for the rest of our lives if it makes you smile like that.”
“But what about—.”
John pulls back. “Together. We’ll find them, together, and we’ll get my daughter back.”
Sherlock nods. “Together.”
“I promise you. I love you.”
Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck, inhaling the only scent he has ever thought of as home, and wonders if the world will stop like this every time John says it to him.
It’s an experiment he quite desperately wants to repeat.