𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨

I was frozen.

Sherlock's warm hand grasped my own tighter, brushing his skin against mine. It was a feeling that I had longed to feel for two years; I prayed to Gods of the sky and the sea, wished on every star and every 11:11 on the clock. I begged and cried to have his skin brush against just one more time. So logically, I should have laughed with joy and thrown myself into his arms, telling him the words I had needed to say for so long.

But I didn't. Because I couldn't. How was I supposed to, when he had left me for two years and hurt me in ways I didn't even know possible? How was I supposed to love this man, when for so long I had been learning to unlove him? I wanted to love him, I wanted to feel that joy and adoration, I wanted to leap into his arms, press his lips to mine and embrace him in a burst of love and emotion. But I couldn't.

So I stayed frozen, one foot over each side of the threshold, the threshold between past and present. Oh, how beautifully metaphorical life could be.

"Y/n?"

His voice was warm and soft, just how I had imagined it to be the past months. Except there was something else, a fringe of sub textual emotion that I couldn't quite pinpoint. Neither could I name the emotion that swirled through my mind.

Tears begin to slip from my eyes, both out of emotion and irritation caused by the lack of blinking. I hadn't moved, glued to the floor with shock and disbelief. His breathing increased,

"Y/n," he spoke, using his grip on my hand to spin my body to face his, stretching his arm out as to embrace me. And then I did something I never could have pictured myself doing.

I pushed him away.

I forced his hand off my own, and stepped backwards, over the threshold.

"Y/n, please," he spoke once more, moving towards me. He reached and touched my shoulder softly, attempting to comfort or settle me.

I slapped his hand away, emotion possessing me,

"Get the fuck away from me." My voice was shrill, angered and stretched with pain. He moved back. I began to choke, my silent voice tripping over the many words I yearned to speak. My shoulders shook, surrendering to the tsunami of emotion, as the tears streamed down my face and onto my shirt.

I stood for a while, leaning against the doorframe, allowing myself to give in.

There were no words to describe what it felt like. It's like finding a habitual smoker, cutting them off cigarettes with no warning so they have to adapt and live their life without them, then two years later, returning hundreds of packs to them, insisting they smoke again. It's cruel. I had suffered for so long, when I didn't need to. He threw me overboard into an ocean when I didn't know how to swim, and now that I've taught myself to finally float, he's coming back.

Through the thick veil of tears, I looked up at him, into his eyes. His eyes filled with regret and pain.

Choking back an ocean, I spoke in a weak voice; "how could you?"

He swallowed, "I did it to protect you."

I laughed a cold, empty laugh. "That's such bullshit. You wanted to protect me? Then why did you leave me alone for two years, why did you let me think that you were dead?"

He flinched at the sharpness of my words, cutting into his thick skin. "Y/n, I didn't want to leave," his mouth quivered as if he were struggling to force the words out.

I closed my eyes, as a single tear dripped, flowing down my cheek, my neck and through my top. That single tear, representing all the words that flashed through my mind, all the things I wanted to say but had no voice to speak them.

"Why two years?" I asked, softer now, giving in to the possibility of relief.

"I wanted to find you, to talk to you. I really did. But Mycroft said-"

"Mycroft? So he knew. Who else?"

He glanced at me, "Molly. My parents."

I scoffed with disbelief, "that it? Anyone else?"

"Some of my homeless network-"

"Oh, for the love of God, really? So a group of thugs were allowed to know but I wasn't? Nice to know where I stand," I growled, spinning on my heel towards the bedroom. He leaped forward and grasped my hand again, this time tight and desperate.

"Let go, Sherlock," my voice was venomous, cold.

"No."

"Sherlock-"

His hands reached for my waist and he gripped my torso, pulling me into his body. He rested his head on the back of mine, his lips moving across my hair.

"Sherlock, please." The venom and anger had drained from my voice, replaced with a weak and fumbling tone. It had been so long since someone had held me like this. Of course, there were the sympathy ones at the funeral but they were just empty condolences.

"Y/n, just listen to me."

Slowly, I turned to face him, my tears no longer tears but rather an endless and steady metronome.

"Y/n," he continued, "Y/n, I love you."

I shook my head, "well, you didn't love me enough to stay."

"No, don't you get it?" He whispered, his thick eyebrows raising, along with his hands that moved to hold my face. "Y/n, I didn't want to leave, but I loved you too much to stay. I wanted to call you every morning and every evening. I wanted to hear your voice and see your smile. I needed you, but I had to leave you because if I stayed, your life would be in danger. You would be in danger. And I would defeat God himself if it meant keeping you safe. I don't care if I have to die to save you. Pain is temporary, but losing you would be permanent. Losing you would mean losing myself. And that's not just a life I don't want to live, it's a life I can't live."

His voice was sincere and pained, laced with the intricate weave of regret.
Mirroring my own, a steady string of tears framed his face.

I looked at him, with no thoughts of the past and what could be. As I stared into the deep souls of his glasz eyes, time melted away, leaving us just as we were. Two vulnerable, insignificant droplets of water in the vast and incomprehensible ocean of life.

"Sherlock, I am never going to be able to forgive you."

He nodded, "I know, I am sorry, Y/n."

"Sherlock, there was so much that I wanted to say to you, that I couldn't. It killed me every day, thinking you had died without hearing them."

"So say them now."

I inhaled deeply, averting my eyes to the ground as my cheeks flushed. "I don't think I can, Sherlock." I spoke in a frail whisper.

He sighed lightly, pain hitting his chest. "I understand, Y/n." His lips brushed across my forehead, "but know that I will be here every day, for the rest of forever. And I will love you for longer than forever."

I smiled. For what seemed like the first time, I smiled. 

------------

I have no idea how this one turned out, honestly I was just rambling while trying to study Macbeth for the fourth time simultaneously and I'm too lazy to read it, so apologies for any mistakes and shittness. I don't think that's a word. Eh, it is now.