Sherlock never accounted for the fact that John could have moved on during his absence. Sherlock certainly hasn’t.
No, Sherlock had spent years alone with the memory of wire and silk hair, stupid jumpers and sharp blue eyes; the taste of tea and the slow sound of words being pecked out two-fingered with painful care painted his mind in the colors of comfort he would not find in his hell outside of London.
Coming home he thought he’d have left that hell behind but instead he walked right out of the damn frying pan convinced he was saved and boy did he get burned for that sentimental hope.
Now Sherlock sits at the fire in an empty flat with and empty glass stinking of juniper and rubbing alcohol and he folds back into the memories of the tap tap tap of keys and warm-honey-home taste of tea, imagining that he could pick up where they left off dancing around the prospect of something so beyond friends and flatmates and fair-weather lovers.
In his little palace stuffed full of memories and facts all categorized and placed in rooms with neat labels and cool colors, he stands in the only one with any heat. The one that has his clay-furred childhood friend curled at the fire while he dances with his soldier, his doctor, his compass across the threadbare carpet, legs shifting and stepping in perfect disharmony. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Their bodies are close and hot and melted like old wax, slumped into each other with contentment and safety and all the other things that make people write terrible poems and sing warbling songs beneath a back-lit window.
Here Sherlock remembers to say I love you.
Here he hears it back.
Outside the world moves on and he will correct purple to lilac and fold the Sydney Opera House out of cotton.
But inside, inside he can pretend he remembered. He can pretend things are fine, that he didn’t miss his chance. Inside, it’s his name on heavy paper beside his doctor and not on the placard reading best man.
Yes, inside everything moves like the smoothest brandy through his veins, flowing in bright curls and he dips his partner and he kisses him and he warms him on the couch with long fingers and deft tongue and he remembers to say I love you over and over and over again because he will never ever say it outside.
it’s 1895, victorian england and homosexuality is illegal and john watson is together with sherlock holmes because who cares, sherlock’s a haughty idiot and a pain in the backside and the love of his life and john’ll do what he wants
it’s 2015 and homosexuality is no longer illegal and john watson is free to be with sherlock holmes and he is in love with him but they are not together because in the absence of external legal pressure, fear and homophobia have been instilled in him from an early age and he has spent his life wrestling with internalised biphobia, trust issues and a hatred of vulnerability likely all stemming from a similar childhood source and nurtured by his environment which has left him crippled in the face of his own emotional insecurity resulting in him choosing the safety of continued friendship over the risk inherent in asking for more
