To Be Happy

To Be Hurt

Sherlock Holmes met John Watson two years ago, in the morgue, after he'd finished whipping a body. The doctor came in, and Sherlock, being his usual show-off self, verbally deduced the doctor's past, knowing he'd probably lost his chance at keeping him for a potential flatmate. And then, when Sherlock explained his deductions, expecting the doctor to leave him immediately, he was greeted by such praise that he had never received in his life. And he came to the conclusion that he would do everything in his power to keep John Watson from leaving him.

They'd started out as acquaintances. The next day, they'd become flatmates. A few hours after, they were partners in work. And soon they were friends. Then best friends.

And yet Sherlock Holmes still wanted more.

And for over a year, all Sherlock wanted was for that feeling to stop.

Because John Watson dated more women than Sherlock could count, figuratively speaking. And every time, it hurt Sherlock like a dagger.

John Watson dated women. John Watson dated. John Watson was most certainly not interested in his pretentious, eccentric flatmate who kept heads in their fridge.

Of course, there were the times when Sherlock knew John had a date, but he wouldn't go. He'd stay with Sherlock, on nights when the detective wasn't trusted to be alone.

But Sherlock didn't like these days much better, because inside he knew John didn't feel the same. That he was John's best friend. That's why John took care of him. Because they were friends.

But Sherlock still wanted more.

And he hated it, but no matter how hard he tried, that feeling wouldn't go away.

And so he decided, a grey Tuesday morning, that John needed to be told. The rejection would be healthy, maybe be the key in ending his infatuation with his flatmate.

And if his feelings were reciprocated...

The detective stopped himself, as he did every time he thought of this chance. He tried as hard as he could not to hope, but it was an inevitable train of thought. If John felt the same way... even the mere idea of it made him giddy.

For the next week, he planned it out, every possible scenario, every word he was going to say. And when he called John to the sitting room, he nearly forgot every letter of it.

But he struggled through his confession nonetheless, and at the end found himself face to face with a speechless John Watson.

And the minute he finished, the look in John's eyes was haunting. It wasn't a look of reciprocated feelings, not even the look of hatred; it was the look of a man who wanted so badly not to hurt their best friend that they had no choice but to hurt.

And when Sherlock fell into pieces, John held him as he attempted to put himself back together again. And when he tried to leave, John knew what he was planning to do. John watched out for him, because John cared about him. And all Sherlock could think was that none of this was helping the rotting feeling of heartbreak in his chest.

Sherlock fell apart a second time as they were sitting on the couch, but this time only in his mind. He felt as though he was a dam, holding back millions of gallons of water, that had broken. And pathetically, while the water was still pouring down, a thin, tall man with curly dark hair grabbed a roll of scotch tape and attempted to put him back together again.

The man was failing. He was a failure. Sherlock was a failure. Sherlock has let his emotions rule his thoughts, and now he had to pay with this horrible, horrible rotting in his chest.

He felt ruined, and he absolutely no idea how to fix it.

——

They sat that way for hours. Sherlock spent much of the time wondering what was keeping John from falling asleep, for the man had nothing to occupy his time with. He just sat there, staring at Sherlock, as Sherlock grew as small as possible in his childish sitting position. It was at nearly eleven when Sherlock spoke, his voice sore and weak.

"John."

Immediately his companion moved, sitting up and looking at his friend in need. "Sherlock?"

"John, everything hurts."

The light-haired doctor was immediately filled with the guilt of a thousand men as he gazed at his broken companion.

"I know, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

"John, everything hurts. I don't want it to hurt. I don't want to feel like this anymore. I don't want to." He knew he sounded like a child, but in that moment, he was. And he needed someone to take care of him.

The noble Dr. John H. Watson did just that. He slowly enveloped his friend in a hug that was quickly returned. The pair clung to each other desperately, not out of passion, but out of need. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, to the detective and to himself. Both men were in pain, both craving the comfort that no one but the other was close enough to give. And neither of them were strong enough to let go.

And that was how Mrs. Hudson found them, asleep on the couch, still wrapped tightly in an embrace. She saw the tear stains down their cheeks, the redness around their eyes.

Mrs. Hudson stared down at her Baker Street boys, and she knew they weren't cuddling. She knew they were breaking, and this was their way of desperately attempting to hold each other together. She knew that there was nothing she could do that would make this any better for them, nothing she could say that could help, because the Baker Street boys had broken together, and that was how they must be fixed.

And so Mrs. Hudson left her tenants wrapped around each other. She left the two men that were so close to falling apart that they could barely hold each other together to make it through the hurt they were so obviously drowning in.