Tears of John Watson

Tears with John Watson

John was numb. He hoped it wouldn't last. Being numb meant he couldn't let the dam of emotions welling up inside of him loose, and they would just build and build and build until something, something would crack the dam and let it all fall out.

Why did you have to go numb, when things like this happened? Were you avoid facing the truth? John was a soldier, he knew how to handle tough situations. But he didn't know how to break the dam. He wanted to face all those things that were fighting in his stomach to wrench out and rip him apart if he didn't do something about them.

He decided to go for a walk.

Walks had always helped him in the Afghanistan. Walking, even if you didn't know where, helped clear your head, or helped you face the enemy ahead of you. John always went for the latter choice when he walked. Better to look into the eyes of the enemy then run away. Running away was for cowards.

John was not a coward.

But at times like these, he wished he was.

Fumbling out of bed, shoving the sheets aside, he went outside of his bedroom. Last night, he hadn't even thought of changing into pajamas. He had slept in the same clothes he had watched his friend die in.

Why did his brain always think of the worst moments to put thoughts like those into his head?

He pulled on his jacket.

He shoved on his shoes.

He faced the stairs.

He didn't want to look at those chairs, the chairs where he had sat last night, thinking nothing could get worse. John had been wrong. This was worse. So much worse.

It occurred to him he would have to move. Mrs. Hudson could keep the flat.

John took a deep, filling breath of stale air and crept down. He didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson, after everything she had done for him. For his best friend. He didn't want to remind her what yesterday had brought. What might happen in the daylight.

John squeezed his eyes tight. He didn't look back. He just left the flat. He desperately fought to suppress all memories of the place, of the head in the fridge or the laughs he had shared. Now he remembered all of them.

All those times he could have said something. Why the hell didn't he?

He started walking. And walking. And he didn't look twice. People rushed past him, but John didn't pay them any mind. He was too busy thinking.

Thinking about Sherlock.

There. He thought it. For that time he had knelt at the pavement at Saint Barts, he hadn't even allowed himself to think the name. Names had power.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." What a funny name. John repeated them until he hoped, prayed, begged, wished, yearned, that they would hold no power. No power over him, no power over anybody.

"I think I love Sherlock Holmes," he whispered.

Why hadn't he said it sooner?

But it still wasn't true.

"I know love Sherlock Holmes"

In the movies, this was the part where you rushed through the airport to confess your love, or danced in the rain knowing you found The One. But this held no such happy ending. No one was there to tell anything.

But still, It felt good, to face it.

Maybe he hadn't said it because he thought he wouldn't hear it back.