These Days

Accepting the Truth

Sherlock POV. Sherlock stood at the door, transfixed on the point where the two had vanished. There was this feeling, this feeling in his stomach like someone had lit a fire, it was spreading its warmth around him and making him feel so happy inside that he didn't know what to do. Something, something was happening that has never happened to him before. Sherlock sighed, walking back over to the desk and stopping the globe that was spinning aimlessly slow on its axis, and collecting his bag. He was willing to bet that Hamish passed that test easy as pie; he was a very smart kid after all. Sherlock drove home, the radio playing very softly so that he didn't notice it after a while. Sherlock felt weird, he felt different, and every time he blinked he saw John Watson smiling back at him, his outline in a blur of colors that faded the instant Sherlock opened his eyes. If only he could just lay back and keep them closed, keep John coming to him, keep the image in his mind. But no, the longer his eyes were open, the longer he saw things, the more John faded. He pulled up to the flat a little bit later, turning the car off and slugging up to his room. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't tired, he didn't even say hello to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock was so confused about what he was that he couldn't even think.
"Sherlock is that you?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs.
"Only one other person with keys to your house, I suggest you consider the obvious before you ask." Sherlock called back, slamming the door to his apartment without waiting for her to answer. Obviously she was going to mutter about how grumpy he was today, but it was quite the opposite. Today Sherlock felt alive, happy, like the entire world was brighter somehow. He sat in the leather chair and stared at the empty chair in front of him, it was always empty, but now, now he wanted someone to sit in it. One particular person to sit in it, to stare at as he sat in his own chair, to talk to, to laugh with, even to cry on their shoulder. One person. Sherlock went to the kitchen and poured himself a rather large glass of whiskey, hoping that maybe this would fix whatever was churning inside of him. Because it was nothing, it might just be aftershock, he was just happy to have had someone to talk to, that was all. It could've been Mary, it could've been Mrs. Johnston, it could've even be this Mike Stamford John mentioned. They all might have had the same effect on Sherlock's current mental state. And so Sherlock sat there, staring at nothing but containing his active imagination from going where it shouldn't be, from going where it couldn't be. The hours ticked away and Sherlock made himself focus on the weather, or his lesson plan for the next day, or maybe even what conversation he might have if faced with someone tomorrow. Maybe it was time to make some friends. He skipped dinner, it was only transport, it was useless, it meant nothing to him even though his stomach was growling. Sherlock tried to blur out this weird feeling with the alcohol, to have it flush his mind to the point where he couldn't think anything about it. But no, if anything the drink only encouraged it, the drink broke down the mental walls in his brain, let the colors spill out... the bell downstairs chimed eleven o'clock, and Sherlock decided that he should get some sleep, he'll be better in the morning. Sleep was like the turn it off and turn it back on again equivalent to humans. It made no sense, but it also did. So Sherlock fed himself that lie, he'd be better in the morning.    

    Sherlock slept so little that he thought he might not have slept at all. He kept waking up, he kept looking around the dark room as if expecting to see someone there watching him, and he still had that terrible feeling in his heart, the terribly beautiful feeling. Every time he closed his eyes there was John, smiling at him, laughing with him, his golden hair shining and his hazel eyes gleaming with happiness. Sherlock might have wanted to lie to himself a bit more, he might have wanted to claim that he was only sick, under the weather, and that this all would pass. But he couldn't deny it any more, he may be a bit oblivious, he may not know exactly what to do, but all of the signs pointed to the downfall of humans, the one thing that could make a warrior cry and weakling fly, a feeling that children daydream about and adults dread. He was in love with John Watson. And that was going to be the death of him. Sherlock collapsed back onto his pillows, feeling weak and sweaty even though the room was quite cold, his stomach twisting in knots and his eyes starting to feel hot, like tears were about to start falling. It didn't make sense, he had only talked to Mr. Watson about three times, why did he feel so strongly about this man? And why him, why couldn't he fall so desperately in love with any other person on the face of this Earth, why did his heart chose to follow someone who had already given their heart away? John was married, he was married to a woman already, he had a family, he had a life of his own that he loved; Sherlock had no place in that family or even in his life. John would never love him, or even like him for that matter. Maybe it would pass, like the disease it was, maybe this feeling would pass.