Disclaimer: Alas, my dear, I don't own Sherlock. It would be a far less clever show if I did.
Rating: T for angst. Summary: "Because despite the fact that you're kissing me and that your body is pressed slightly against mine in a way it's never been before, I'm alone in this. I'm all alone in this." A/N: Ah, well. I love this little thing. It's basically the angsty counterpart to the oneshot I'm not done writing in which a kiss does make Sherlock want John. I don't know if it works in this style, but I desperately wanted to write it. Because I would like to believe for John, Sherlock would try.
And so it is
I've turned away from him, because he looks so devastated. It's alright, Sherlock. I didn't expect you to understand, let alone feel the same way.
It's why I said I'm leaving.
It's why I have to.
Leave now, John, before you can't anymore.
His hands are on my shoulders before I can walk out that door – not for the last time, no ( I have to find a new place first, have to move my stuff out, little as it is, tell Mrs Hudson), but to get some air, to get some beer and maybe to get some company.
I think this might be entirely too horrible without.
But he has turned me around, brutally, his grip on my arms too tight, his jaw too clenched, his eyes too determined.
And this is it, this is the moment when he kisses me and everything is wrong when it should be right. His lips – his lips, right there against mine, too harsh for a first kiss, working from visual memory more than anything else. Sherlock is kissing me.
Stop thinking, John. Please, stop thinking, John.
Because maybe it'll all be alright now.
And even if this is your only kiss, at least you'll have enjoyed it.
Thank you, Sherlock, thank you.
Thank you, Sherlock, I hate you.
There is no enjoying this over the stark sorrow.
Because despite the fact that you're kissing me and that your body is pressed slightly against mine in a way it's never been before, I'm alone in this.
I'm all alone in this.
His tongue pries open my mouth and it's messy, obviously new to this, unrefined, clumsy and bloody magnificent and it's also the moment when I really realize that everything is over.
He knows now.
Sherlock knows now.
He's kissing me because he knows and any second he will stop, because he realizes he really can't.
It still feels like a violation when his lips rip away from mine. It feels like everything I've been preparing myself for. Except that it's real and that makes it worse.
"I'm sorry."
He's saying something. Ignore yourself for just a few more seconds.
You can cry later.
Listen, John. It's important. Sherlock is speaking.
"I'm sorry, John."
"But you just can't." It's okay. You can say it. I'm your best friend. You can say it.
I made you have to say it. Should have just kept my mouth shut. I'm the one with all the "sentiments". There was no need to drag you into this.
Because I love you, Sherlock.
I should have been less selfish.
This will ruin everything.
This has ruined everything.
"I know."
Look at him. Just look at him, because he's perfect right now. Right now, when he's human and hurting and you made him this way.
(One heart, slowly, coldly, almost analytically tearing itself to shreds.)
God, Sherlock, never look at me like this again.
I can't stand it.
Be a machine again. Act heartless. Reject me with no second thought. Don't do this.
It's worse.
"You tried."
Please no more of this. Please. Because you're begging me to stay and I don't think I can.
"I'm sorry."
I know you are. So am I. God, so am I. You should never have to be sorry for anything.
"Don't be. You tried."
That's more than you would have done for anyone else.
"It's not enough, is it?"
I know that you care. At least I really know that you care now.
Of course that's enough. If it has to be, it will be enough.
Please, Sherlock, I just want to stay.
"No."