A Wilting Rose (Sherlock/Johnlock/Angst Fanfic)

"Goodbye, my almost lover

Goodbye, my hopeless dream

I'm trying not to think about you

Can't you just let me be?"

~Almost Lover, A Fine Frenzy

................................................................

I let out a shaky breath as I shrugged my coat over my shoulders. Three long years of waiting, three years of being torn apart. I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to see him.

During the past three years, not a second had gone by when I hadn't been thinking about John. I relived every moment we spent together, thought of what it would be like to see him again, and I even wrote songs for him. It felt like if I didn't think about him, I would cease to exist. Or, worse, he would forget me. I couldn't let that happen. I needed John, regardless of what I let others think.

I walked down the stairs, still pulling my scarf and gloves on. As I expected, Mycroft was waiting for me outside.

"Mycroft."

I favored my brother with a curt nod and brushed straight past him to the cab I had waiting. Mycroft blocked my path to the cab door with his umbrella.

"Are you sure this is the best idea?" Mycroft asked me, stepping forward to make himself an obstacle.

I didn't bother trying to get past Mycroft. "I don't really care, Mycroft. I can't do it anymore."

"Sherlock, you can't just throw yourself into this. If you don't plan it out, all of your 'waiting' will be for naught," Mycroft said calmly. I could tell that he was trying to conceal his concern.

"I told you, Mycroft, I. Don't. Care." I bristled, practically growling at my brother. My fists were clenched so tightly that my knuckles had turned white. My jaw was firmly set and I could feel tears begin to well up in my eyes. I had lost control, a fact reflected on my brother's face as if it were a mirror.

Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment, trying to calm down. "Sherlock, you're letting your emotions overwhelm you."

I said nothing, but my thoughts must have been conveyed clearly enough through the fire in my eyes that Mycroft stepped aside.

I swept past him brusquely and opened the cab door. "I'll talk to you later." I said, managing a tone that only bordered on spiteful.

I climbed into the cab and slammed the door behind me. I hated that my brother was right. Going to see John could ruin years of planning and hiding. What I had told him was true, however. I just didn't care anymore. It felt like a piece of me was missing without John. Maybe even half of me.

I gave the cabbie the address to the hospital where John worked as we pulled away from the curb. I looked back at Mycroft, whose expression rapidly shifted from flustered to frustrated to simply worried. He would have to work out all the kinks now, with friends and the press.

I buried my face in my hands. Not even I was sure exactly why I was doing what I was doing. I massaged my face with the heels of my palms, pressing into my eyes so hard that I lost vision for a moment.

God, what was I doing? Why had I decided to throw away all of the hard work that Mycroft and I had done?

I rejected the only possibility my brain offered me. I had said it myself: sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. There was no way that Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love.

I shook my head and sat back in the seat. What I knew in reality to be a short ride felt like an eternity to me. When we finally arrived at the hospital, I practically hurled the money at they cabbie and leapt out of the cab.