beyond the gravestones (sherlock/johnlock fanfic)

Chapter 5

Sherlock was horror-struck. "John, no. No. You don't understand how much I cannot do that."

"Why not? You practically proposed to Janine so that you could move forward with the Magnussen case."

"Irene's different." Sherlock protested.

Despite John's best efforts, his heart sank. He knew that Sherlock had always seen something special in Irene Adler. "Good different or bad different?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

Sherlock shot him a strange look. "Irene's smart enough to figure out what I'm doing."

"Well, don't make it a date, then. Just take her out for a meal on the pretext of, er, returning her cameraphone."

"But Mycroft cleared all the information, remember? It's an empty shell now."

"She doesn't have to know that." John retorted.

"Why can't you take her out?"

"She hates me. It's mutual, actually." John said, "Look, will you just do it?"

"John, why are you pushing this?" Sherlock asked, raising his voice slightly.

"Because, Sherlock, it's the only plan we have! For god's sake, stop being such a big baby." John could feel his own temper rising. "It's one date. I've told you this before and I'll say it again: do something while there's still a chance, because that chance doesn't last forever."

From the odd look on Sherlock's face, John instantly knew that he had crossed some invisible line. Sherlock went into his bedroom and slammed the door, only to return two minutes later with a pillow and a blanket. He avoided John's eyes as he made his bed on the sofa and folded himself onto it, his back to John.

"I'll sleep on it." was all he said.

John sighed. "You'll sleep on it better in your own bed. I can take the sofa."

There was neither sound nor movement from the mound on the sofa, but John could almost feel the hostility radiating from it. He watched Sherlock for a while, smiling slightly at the way his curly hair jutted out at one end of the blanket. As Sherlock shifted and fidgeted, he winced slightly, and John's smile melted off. He knew exactly why Sherlock was wincing, and guilt stabbed every inch of his heart.

John didn't know how to apologize for what he'd done to Sherlock after Mary died. He's done so much for me, and how did I repay him? By shutting him out. By blaming him for something that was never his fault. By beating him to a pulp. By abandoning him when he needed me. I owe him much more than an apology. I owe him my life.

Finally, he got up, turned off the lights, and with one last glance at Rosie, retreated to Sherlock's bedroom.

***

John couldn't sleep.

"It's happening again, isn't it?" said the little voice inside his head.

And indeed, it was. John could feel it again - the butterflies, the skipped heartbeats, the little barbs of jealousy; in short, all the cliches associated with a crush. Except this was much bigger than a crush, and he knew it, even if he refused to accept it. He vividly remembered every moment, every touch, every gaze he had ever shared with Sherlock. He vividly remembered the nights he had spent trying to convince himself that he was not completely and utterly in love with Sherlock. He vividly remembered the pain of knowing that Sherlock Holmes could never, ever fall for him - before Sherlock actually fell to his death, that is.