Sherlock spread out beside John for a long time after his lips had brushed the doctors forehead. The detective kept his arms around Watson, lying down on the bed with their legs tangled together in a way that made the sheets bunch up around their calves. Sherlock's chest was against John's back, which allowed him to not only hear the steady rhythm of the doctors heart, but also feel it in his own body.
He closed his eyes, almost smiling, and imagined a world where he and John could lie like this beside each other and sleep together without any other thought in the world. And yes, Sherlock noted without a trace of emotion, simply sleep together in the most innocent sense of the manner. Being this close to his friend after having been so long away felt just as good if not better than having a triple axe-murder case on his hands.
Sherlock's eyes suddenly flew open and he could feel his heart rate picking up, slamming into his ribs so painfully he was certain John could feel the impact. He pulled away regretfully and sat up, dropping his head in his hands with an expression of dejection that looked utterly unreal upon his normally studiously blank face. Thinking about cases reminded him why he couldn't even be here in the first place.
"Oh John," he whispered in tones so low it almost came out as a growl.
I have to go, the detective urged himself, but didn't move. Sentiment is death of all science. Even Aristotle knew that to find truth, one must know logic is reason free of passion. John is affecting my ability to finish this case. I shouldn't have come to see him. This will make everything harder. I can't even think properly near him. The voice in his head had turned bitter, to reflect his mood. But in another section of his brain, a part Sherlock had cordoned off with yellow caution tape, he was writing a musical piece for his violin about Watson.
Finally Sherlock got up and went to the window, making to crack it open and leave the same way he had entered; as a thief in the night. Absently his mind made note of the door at the other side of the room and he smiled softly. There was no reason for him not to exit the premises the same way he had entered so long ago with John at his side;through the front door. John was fast asleep, and it seemed that the man hardly ever got any sleep.
Bottles of melatonin pills beside stronger sleeping drugs like ambien, lunesta, rozerem and was that... Xanax? Sherlock walked over to John's side of the bed and bent over the label. Xanax was used to treat anxiety and panic disorders as well. He surreptitiously checked the prescription labels and closed his eyes briefly letting the words swim in his head like imprints upon his skull. He started taking the stonger stuff only a few months ago. He gave up on seeing me only a few months ago. How long had Watson waited?
Pulling away he could feel his eyes stinging. He shook his head, dark curls bouncing before he got to the door, turned the handle slowly and swept from the room. His dark coat fluttered behind him, caught in a draft as he entered the living room and kitchen. Everything was as it had been, though John's chair was now covered in dust and as Sherlock sank into his own cushioned armchair he found the shape of it had shifted.
Someone else sat on my chair. Who did Watson have over in his grief? A flair of envy caught in his chest before he realized how ridiculous he was being. It took him another half second to realize why the shape was so awkward beneath him.
Someone wasn't sitting in my chair. They were curled up on it in a fetal position. Their was weight slightly on the left as if to favour a side without a limp and intermittent tremors in the right hand. Sherlock stood up suddenly. It was time to leave. Now.
He reached the door and rested his palm upon the handle.
"Forgive me John," he said softly, as he turned the handle. But inside he asked himself, How can I ask him to forgive me if I cannot even forgive myself?
Before the handle had even clicked open Sherlock felt the cool pressure of a gun's metal barrel against the back of his head.
"You sick bastard," said John Watson, and Sherlock heard the sound of a gun being cocked.
