I Am Sher-Locked Up

*another untitled part in which John talks at length about his man crush*

A/N

So sorry for the hiatus! It wasn't too terribly long, but it was a while, so I have graced you guys with an extra long chapter. Thanks guys! Happy reading.

***

Sherlock

Sherlock blinks twice, fully unprepared for what his flatmate said, even though he knew he was going to say.
For a brief instant, Sherlock considers doing something cocky and arrogant and outright hurtful in order to conceal his scattered emotions, but instead he nods and presses his mouth into a thin line, searching John's face for some tell of a lie. He found none. Just pure anxiety and a hint of excitement.
Should he be happy? Sherlock didn't know if he had ever felt truly happy; there was always the exhilarating thrill that came with chasing murderers through the streets of London, or the brief high he got from cutting or narcotics, and of course the pride associated with losing another ungainly pound, but this...this was different.
"I..." Sherlock falters, trying to funnel the abstract thoughts in his mind into coherent speech, "I am not quite ready to say it."
At John's visible wilted deflation Sherlock hastily adds, "I do feel the same way, John, but...I can't right now..I don't even know why I asked you to say it; I knew full well I wasn't prepared for it...."
John nods and looks down, most likely to (unsuccessfully) hide the tears that Sherlock saw in his blue eyes.
Sherlock feels an unfamiliar pang of emotion in his chest at seeing his flatmate so broken. Although I can't imaging I look any better, Sherlock thinks wryly.
"I understand, Sherl. I just wish you hadn't make me look like a fool for believing you would say it too."
Sherlock nods and guilt wreathes its way into his gut and settles in the pit of his stomach like a cold rock.
"I--I have to go--" John says abruptly and pushes his chair back roughly, stumbling slightly as he stands and leaves.
Sherlock rises to his feet, fully prepared to run John down and apologize for everything he's ever done, but his hunger-weakened body doesn't comply and he is struck by lightheadedness and dizzying spots dancing in his vision, and he heavily sits back down. Once again, Sherlock curses the universe and its cockblocking.
When his vision clears, John is gone through the electronically locked doors leading to freedom.
Sherlock curses under his breath and tips his head back to rest on the wall behind him. His head resonated with voices telling him how bad he fucked up, how John would never come back to see him and how Sherlock would be at Riverside forever, never leaving and never seeing John again because of how fucking fucked-up he is, and Sherlock feels tears hot on his clammy face, so he gets up and does the thing he does best: run away.

***

John

Stupid, stupid, fucking IDIOTIC USELESS FUCK UP JOHN!!!!!!
John paces outside the front doors of the hospital, cursing himself and every second he spent believing that Sherlock loved him too. He should be used to this by now! He shouldn't be so fracking upset over a man who has no capability to be with him. He shouldn't have dared hope that he might be love by a man who thinks love is a goddamn joke.
John tries to take deep breaths and think rationally, but he realizes that nothing about the situation is rational. Love is irrational. That's probably why Sherlock has a hard time with it, John realizes. It is possible he loves him, but he just doesn't know how to express it.
At this, John puts on his brave face that the army taught him how to utilize, and marches back into that hospital to reclaim his detective.
Only, it was now 7:14pm. Visiting hours were over 14 minutes ago.
John makes a noise of frustration and thunks his head solidly against the brick exterior of the hospital. He should have seen it coming, honesty. Murphy's Law at its finest, that's what it is.

As John catches a cab home, he plans in his head what to say to Sherlock the next evening.
If he even shows up, that is.
John pushes that thought away; Sherlock would be there. He had to be. Whether Sherlock knew it or not, he needs John.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
John is jolted from his seat. "P-pardon?"
The cab driver looks at him in the rearview mirror.
"Not that it's any of my business, but you've got a look on ya face that suggests something's t'matter,"
The cabbie has a thick southern-London accent and a frankly chavvish appearance.
John considers telling the man to piss off, but before he knows it he's spilling his guts out to the man.
"There's this...man..." John cringes as he says his next words "whom I...love...and he's in a really bad way. A really, really, horrifically bad way. And...and he won't let anyone save him. He's the independent type, y'know? He wants to do it by himself. I don't even know if he wants to get better, honestly.
"I think he's got it in his head that he's broken. Irreparably so. He thinks that no one can love him, because to him love is a joke. But I do. And I want to believe he does too, but how can a man who hates himself more than anything else be capable of loving? He's already a sociopath, for Christ's sake, and he is quite possibly the worst person, male or female, that someone could choose to love.
"But I do. God, I love him. I want him to get better. I want him to leave that hospital a new man, or at least a man with some brightness of hope in him.
"He made me say I love him, but he won't say it back. He doesn't think he's worthy of saying it back. I wish he could see himself through my eyes, but all he sees when he looks in the mirror is a distorted, disfigured reflection of the voices in his head and the cruelness of other people. God, he's perfectly, wonderfully beautiful, tragically enticing, just...wondrous. Amazing. But he doesn't know the half of it. He sees none of it. And that's enough to make anyone want to kill themselves...I just didn't think he would actually do it. Try, I mean. He's still alive...barely, but living. He's breathing. And that's going to have to be good enough for now."
John's face is wet with tears, the air conditioning making the water seem like ice on his stony face. He's grateful for the cover of darkness that British winters provide; he doesn't want the cabbie to see him crying.
The cabbie nods understandingly, seemingly unfazed by the story and the fact that John was apparently gay.
"That's a right mess you've found yourself in, innit? 'Course, I'm in no better off meself, but I've been around the block a few times and I'll tell ya, I've seen you and that skinny bloke"--John cringes at the word 'skinny'--"runnin' around town, chasing robbers and baddies and murderers and all that and it gets me every time. Sometimes you and him sit in this very same cab after you've caught another crook, and I tell ya, the way he looks at you, it's love."
John's mouth parts slightly, somewhat shocked that he and Sherlock were well known enough that even the cabbies knew them.
"And I read your blog, too. You haven't updated in over two months. I knew somethin was t'matter, but I didn't know what. Now I know, I guess," he adds, rather somberly.
John nods and looks up at the driver, and is surprised to see his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"I really shouldn't be talkin like this while I'm on the clock--bad for business, they say--but if you feel like you need to get somethin off ya chest, or an outsider's opinion, just call me and we'll take a drive. 221B, innit?" The man behind to scribble on a scrap of paper and John notices a picture with the cab driver and another man Blu-Tack'd on the dash.
"Is that...?" John gestures to the photo.
The cabbie looks to where John is pointing to, and chuckles when he sees.
"No, that's not me boyfriend, it's my brother. They won't let me put him on a employee cab--bad for business." He laughs softly.
John nods, his spirits slightly lifted. He even attempts at a smile as he takes the paper from the man and starts to rummage in his pocket for money.
"Nah, no charge. Helping you was payment enough. Name's Harry, by the way. Here's me cell," Harry hands John a scrap of paper, "just call if you need. I work the evening shift but I keep me phone on me all the time. I wish good luck to you, John. I really do."
John takes the paper gratefully and begins to ascend the steps to the door.
"I believe in you, Sherlock," John said to the frosty night air. "And even if you don't believe in yourself, I do."
John inhales deeply as he turns the knob to his painfully empty flat.
I just hope that it's enough.