John had raced to the flat as if his life depended on it. He flew around corners and narrowly missed bowling over Angelo as he swept the landing in front his restaurant. John threw a hasty "Sorry Angelo!" over his shoulder and kept running. Angelo, for his part, simply smiled and shook his head.
As he ran, John's mind ran with him. How could he have been so blind? Why couldn't he have seen the truth staring him right in the face? He felt like a total idiot. All the times he had been on numerous dates, babbling on uncomfortably to woman he tried desperately tried to impress....none of it had mattered. Looking back he realized that most of the conversations during those dates, in one way or another, had turned to Sherlock. Whether it was someone who wanted to know more about the famous "hat detective" or John talking about a case they had been on, it was ALWAYS Sherlock. And he had always spoken about him with a sense of pride. Why shouldn't he? He was damn proud to be able to call Sherlock HIS flatmate, HIS colleague, HIS friend. Once spoken in his mind, that tiny word seemed to sparkle like a diamond and light the darkest spaces in his soul.
HIS.
Yes, Sherlock was HIS! There was no denying it any longer. It didn't matter if they were racing around London like lunatics, examining bodies at St. Bart's, or just watching telly at home....there was no one he'd rather be with. No one he'd rather argue with. Because even though Sherlock didn't realize it, he'd given John what he wanted most: a home and someone to come home to.
And he couldn't get there fast enough.
He stopped in front of 221B and fumbled with his keys. Dropping the take out bags at his feet, he willed his hands to stop trembling long enough to open the door. He pushed open the door, hastily grabbed the bags once again and kicked the door closed behind him. Once inside he stopped momentarily to catch his breath. As he made his way upstairs he realized he didn't have a clue what exactly he was going to say to Sherlock but he also realized he didn't care. All he knew is that he was going to sit him down, look him in the eye, and let his heart do the rest.
He couldn't wait.
He threw the bags on the kitchen table and looked around. Sherlock was no where to be seen. He peeked in the sitting room then opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He wasn't there either. Puzzled, he walked towards the loo.
"Sherlock? Where are you? I brought home some take out anyway and I got your favorite. Come and eat."
Standing near the door he leaned closer and tried listen for any noise inside. Not hearing anything he tried the knob. It was locked.
"Are you in there? Are you ok? Come on out. Your food is getting cold. Besides, I need to talk to you." He rattled the knob louder this time. No response.
"Sherlock what's going on? Why is the door locked?"
He heard Sherlock's voice through the door. "GO AWAY!" But it wasn't the solid authoritative voice that he was used to. It was shaky and unsteady as if he was frightened. He knew for a fact that Sherlock was rarely afraid of anything. Something was seriously wrong. Panic set in and all John knew was that he had to get inside.
"Sherlock, if you don't open this damn door right now I'm going to break the bloody thing down! NOW OPEN IT!"
"I said go away John!"
He had enough. Sherlock was in trouble and nothing was going to stop him from helping the man he now realized was his missing half, least of all an old door. Without a second thought he reared back and slammed himself into the door, his shoulder screaming in protest. It rattled but held firm. Again he tried and managed to splinter some of the wood around the frame. Giving it all he had, he put every ounce of strength and fear he possessed into the final blow that caused the door to swing wildly and allow him to see inside. He wasn't sure what to expect....but the sight before him definitely wasn't it.
Sherlock had been facing away from him before he broke the door down. As he cautiously entered he watched Sherlock glance up and meet his eyes in the mirror. And what he saw in them made John's heart stop.
Pain. Raw and aggressive. Those amazing eyes that could so clearly see through everyone else were clouded over in such agony that John couldn't breathe. Before he could take another step forward, Sherlock slowly turned and faced him. It wasn't until then that John noticed the syringe he held in his trembling hands, the needle pushing its way into Sherlock's alabaster skin, marking him in a way that made John want to howl. And howl he did.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!?"
No...no...NO! Not again! He couldn't let this happen! Not when he finally realized his feelings for this man! Fate wouldn't be that cruel, would it? He'd already lost his parents, Harry was always so far into the bottle that he'd written her off long ago. Then the war happened, turning him into a shell of his former self. He never thought he'd be whole again, until he met Sherlock. Sherlock had given him a reason to LIVE, not just go through the motions of existence. Sherlock had intertwined himself around John's heart and soul until he no longer knew where one stopped and the other began. They completed each other. And he'll be damned if he lost him now.
Sherlock looked him in the eyes and John could see every wall that Sherlock had ever built around himself had crumbled and were long gone. There he stood: a broken man, a lost little boy.....and the man he called his best friend, although he knew now he was so much more than that. He was his reason for getting up every morning and making tea for two, the reason he finally got rid of that damn cane he never really needed and the reason he stopped waisting time seeing that damn therapist. Sherlock was his everything.
And here he was: hanging in the balance between fear, anger, and love.
Before John could say another word, Sherlock's voice could be heard, so softly that the pounding in his ears almost drowned the words out.
"John....I'm sorry...."
An apology, a plea for absolution. Not waiting for John's response, Sherlock's eyes flitted closed as he begin to push the fire into his veins.
Almost instantly, John's training overtook the fear that addled his mind and pushed him into action. Like lightning he closed the gap between them and grabbed Sherlock tightly around the wrist that held the syringe. Twisting sharply, he managed to pull the needle from his arm before the full dose was administered, while at the same time grabbing it with his other hand and throwing it into the shower and out of the way.
It happened so quickly that Sherlock didn't have time to think. It wasn't until John was standing directly in front of him that he realized what happened. John was here, fists clinched in anger but fear overshadowing his eyes which had turned from a summer's blue to a stormy gray. They simply stared at each other, a moment that stretched into eternity. And as he watched, John's eyes begin to fill with tears and pain settled over his face like a shadow. Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer.
Slowly he lifted his hand to John's face but couldn't bring himself to touch him. He didn't deserve to. John was good and pure and he couldn't bring himself to defile him with his weakness. Just as he was about to lower his hand, John brought his own up and placed it on top of his, then slowly leaned his face into Sherlock's palm. As his cold hand touched John's flushed face, he felt his breath catch. It was a sign of trust, and he knew that now more than ever, he was unworthy. He still had to make John understand.
Licking his dry lips Sherlock tried to speak but found he couldn't. He was so overwhelmed by the fact that John was still here that he couldn't even think straight. Still, he tried.
"John...." His voice cracked so badly that it sounded like nothing more than a breathy whisper.
Seeing Sherlock like this had John torn between weeping and shouting. He tried to blink away the tears that clouded his vision only to have them streak down his face and be replaced by more. He had NEVER seen Sherlock like this and was at a loss at what to do. He decided to stick with his original plan and let his heart lead him.
Ever so gently he raised his hands and cupped Sherlock's face. He couldn't put what he wanted to say into a coherent sentence, but he was raised to believe that actions spoke louder than words. So instead of saying everything he desperately wanted to, he decided to show it.
He took a step closer to Sherlock, his eyes never leaving his. Tilting his head back slightly he inched closer, lifting slightly on his toes until his lips were on the verge of brushing Sherlock's. And yet he waited. He wanted Sherlock to know that he was offering his heart to him, and his soul was his for the taking. But ultimately it was Sherlock's decision and waited to see if he would close the final gap between them.
Looking down at John, Sherlock's mind was ablaze. Could it be? Could the man Sherlock loved more than life itself actually forgive him this grave sin he committed against him? He searched his face, desperately looking for a sign. When John had cupped his face so tenderly, hope beat hard and fast in his chest. His gaze dug hard into John's and saw the miracle that was behind the shadows..... He saw the love, just waiting for him to take. And as John moved towards him and slowly raised his lips, he knew that John had not only discovered his feelings but returned them as well. It was more than he ever hoped for. He lowered himself towards John, his lips aching to feel what he had longed for....feeling the lightest touch against his own.... He closed his eyes and was prepared to give himself up fully to John.....
Suddenly a pain shot through Sherlock like a bolt of lightning, causing him to stumbled backwards. John's quick reflexes kept him from crashing into the cabinet behind them but he couldn't keep Sherlock on his feet. Using all the strength he had left, he tried to lower Sherlock into a seated position on the floor but he barely managed to get him to his knees before Sherlock lunged towards the toilet to empty the meager contents of his stomach. Even after he was finished he remained doubled over in pain, with a light that burned with white-hot intensity behind his eyes and a burning that seemed to melt his insides. John knelt beside him and held him as steady as he could but could see that Sherlock's condition was rapidly deteriorating. He went to the kitchen quickly to get a glass of cool water for Sherlock to drink. He also grabbed his phone that he had thrown on the table next to their now-cold dinner.
He returned to find Sherlock curled up in the fetal position, sobbing, his body quivering with spasms. He was beside him in seconds, lifting him gently into his arms and whispered "I'm here...I'm here. You're safe." Sherlock opened his eyes and tried to smile, but John could see his once alabaster skin slowly turn to gray ash.
Terrified at his sudden weakness, he stood up with Sherlock draped over him like a soggy blanket and brought him to the sitting room and laid him on the couch. He threw a blanket over Sherlock's shivering form and ran his fingers through the messy curls that fell across his forehead.
"Everything's going to be fine Sherlock." he murmured, when it wasn't, when he couldn't speak and was as gray as death. He knew he had to get help....and fast.
He quickly dialed 999 and gave them the address. Once satisfied they were on their way, he held onto Sherlock's hand as if he could transfer strength to him by sheer force of will. Even though it seemed like an eternity, he knew it was only a few minutes before he heard the siren turn down Baker Street. Not wanting to wait any longer than necessary, he decided to meet the paramedics downstairs.
Bracing himself, he lifted Sherlock's seemingly lifeless body once again and managed to calm his shaking legs as he carried him downstairs bridal style. Once at the bottom, he leaned against the wall and cupped Sherlock's face once again.
"Can you hear me?!"
His eyes fluttered open, but he could see the tremendous effort required for so trifling a movement and his pulse raced in fear.
"We'll be at St. Bart's soon Sherlock. Just hold on." Sherlock struggled to sit up, terror in his eyes.
"John......"
The breathy word was scarcely audible, his frenzied exertion sapping his remaining strength. He fell back but his eyes held John's in a frightened gaze as he was carried outside to the waiting ambulance and strapped inside.
"You're safe Sherlock. I promise. I'm right here and I'll never leave you. Hospital is only 10 miles away. Just hold on!"
Sherlock's eyes shut and he went still.
Panic gripped John's soul.
Securing himself in the back of the ambulance, he slammed the doors as they leaped forward and drove like mad down the narrow streets. He couldn't lose him. He wouldn't.
Ten miles to the hospital.
Ten miles to the care he needed.
He began to pray.