Title: Yesterday (Was the Time of our Lives)

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson

Genre: Angst. All the angst.

Wordcount: 1,479

Warnings: Gratuitous post-Reichenbach angst.

Summary: "In that moment, Sherlock learns two things: what it is to have a heart, and how it feels to have it shatter."

Author's Notes: This is loosely based on the song Someone Like You by Adele

You are a coward, Sherlock Holmes. The detective takes another long pull on his cigarette, the fifth he has smoked this evening. You beat the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the world and spent three years destroying his international network, and you can't face your old flatmate. Pathetic. The rain beats down on Sherlock as he stands (skulks, a vicious whisper supplies) in the darkness outside an ordinary looking townhome. He has been here for two and half hours, chain smoking and trying to work up the courage to knock on the door with Mycroft's words of warning still ringing in his ears. He's married, Sherlock. I don't think you'll find the response that you're hoping for.

But what does Mycroft know? He could never understand what was between the two of them. Even after everything that's happened, John will still be glad to see him. He will be. He must be.

Sherlock decisively stamps out his cigarette and strides over to the door before his courage fails him again. A sharp knock on the door, and there's no going back now. Sherlock's heart hammers in his ears as he listens for footsteps, and nearly stops when he recognizes John's heavy tread. Something is wrong. He's limping again. It seems a lifetime before the door opens, and then all too soon John is standing in front of Sherlock with a cane in his hand and a weary smile on his face.

"Yes, how can I…" The words trail off as John's eyes widen in shock. The slow change of facial expression would be comical, if it didn't leave Sherlock feeling as though all the air has left the world.

"Hello, John." He has considered this greeting for two years. Rather too late he realizes how ineffective it really is.

"You…" John struggles for words, until his expression changes yet again. He is angry now, angrier than Sherlock has ever seen him. "You utter bastard." Sherlock had expected this. He knew that John would be angry, that John has every right to hate him. It doesn't help.

"It's good to see you." For all his disdain for social niceties, Sherlock knows as he says it that this is it's not the right thing to say when greeting his flatmate after three years of being "dead." He can see on John's face that this was the wrong response, but it's too late.

"That's it? You disappear for three years – three years Sherlock! – and leave me here alone thinking that you're dead, and all you have to say is that you're glad to see me?" John is shouting now, flinging his words at Sherlock like bullets.

"I – " John cuts him off with a single, angry question.

"Why, Sherlock?" He pauses, and gives the only answer that he has been able to come up with.

"It was the only way to keep you safe."

"No. Don't give me that shit. You could have told me. You could have taken me with you, wherever you went. Hell, you could have had Mycroft tell me. Anything, anything would have been better than leaving me here to rot for three years." The words are bitter, and filled with a sadness that startles Sherlock. Of all things, he had not expected bitterness from John. He does not know how to respond to this, and so abruptly changes topics in an attempt to get John away from this state of mind. It is a feeble effort, he knows, but what else can he do?

"So you're married." John looks momentarily startled before he remembers who he is speaking to. He sighs heavily, as though he knows where this conversation is headed.

"Yes, to Mary. It's been about six months now." Even though he had already known the answer, hearing the words from John's lips still feels like a dagger pressed through his chest.

"Are you…are you happy?" Sherlock has never heard his voice this small. It pains him, but not as much as the answer he knows he will receive.

"I suppose I am Sherlock. I'm living, which is more than I thought I would manage after you left. I'm happier than I thought I would ever be again."

"But your limp has returned?"

"Yes, well. Chases through the streets of London are a little hard to come by these days. My usefulness rather dried up when I wasn't tagging along after you anymore." The bitterness has returned, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to banish it forever.

"You could always – that is if you wanted – " John cuts Sherlock off with a shake of his head.

"No, Sherlock. My life is here now. I can't just go dashing off in the middle of the night because you need someone to impress anymore." Panic flashes through Sherlock, and he abandons all pretence of playing fair.

"Is this really what you want, John? Is this really the life you always imagined?" John's hesitation is slight, but feels like an eternity in Sherlock's ears.

"Yes." Sherlock wants to scream, to grab John by the shoulders, to shake him until he sees the madness of what he is doing. Instead he can only ask with desperation that grates,

"What can she give you that I can't?" John is angry now, and Sherlock winces minutely away from the too-accurate words.

"Mary won't fake her own death to disappear from my life. Mary won't go running off without so much as a goodbye. Mary won't leave me to quietly fall to pieces while she goes gallivanting off on some great bloody adventure!" John's voice had built up to a shout, but his next words are quiet, broken. "Mary won't hurt me the way you did."

In that moment, Sherlock learns two things: what it is to have a heart, and how it feels to have it shatter.

"John – "

"Save it, Sherlock. What's done is done, and there's nothing you can ever say to change that. You left. You disappeared for three fucking years and left me alone. What did you think would happen?"

I thought you would wait for me. The words die on Sherlock's tongue, and he is left silent. The silence stretches between them, and Sherlock casts about for something, anything to fill the void. To keep the silence from consuming his life once more.

"John, even if we can't…even if things can't be the way they were before, we can still be friends." The words sound tiny and pathetic, and Sherlock hates himself for asking, but he must. Must keep John from slipping away from him. Must try anything to stop this feeling of falling into blackness.

But John barks out a harsh laugh as if something in this miserable situation could ever be funny and replies, "Sherlock, no matter what happened between us we both know that we were never just friends. I don't think we ever could be."

"I'm sorry." John looks up, startled. He knows how much it costs Sherlock to say those two simple words. "I'm sorry for everything." John's rage vanishes, and he is left once more sad and smaller than Sherlock has ever seen him.

"Me too."

There is nothing left to say. All of the arguments he had practiced, all of the reasons he has devised, all of the hopes he had nurtured, have come to nothing. If there is one thing that Sherlock knows, it is John, and Sherlock can see that John's mind has been made up.

"Goodbye, John." The words are quiet, but they are final. Sherlock turns to go, wrapping his coat tightly around himself as if it will keep him from utterly falling to pieces. He hears John move slightly to follow him and stop himself. When he speaks, his voice is solemn and filled with regret.

"Sherlock, I…just promise me that you'll find someone else. You need someone to look after you."

It is Sherlock's turn to laugh now, a harsh, brittle sound that startles even him.

"Please, John. We both know that I could never find someone else like you." Sherlock hesitates, unsure of himself and what he is about to ask. But after all, what is left for him to lose? "Please don't forget me John. Don't forget what we had."

"How could I?" Sherlock can hear the sad smile in his voice and knows that this is truly the end. "What will you do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looks back over his shoulder one last time. In the doorway, he does not see John Watson the soldier who chased murderers across London and laughed for the sheer joy of being alive. He sees a tired old man, clutching his cane with a trembling hand and the life taken from his eyes. Sherlock smiles tightly around the sudden constriction of his throat.

"What I always do. I will survive."