I don't think it has ever been more painful to be a Johnlock shipper. You know something is wrong when Reichenbach feels like the good old days, but holy hell, it really was. It was simpler times back then. Johnlock has never been more canon, and I have never been more emotionally compromised. Seriously, Sherlock is so in love with John, the love is so canon and real I want to punch a thing, so I'm trying to channel all these many, many feels into fanfiction. This is like therapy for me.

So yeah, this little fic is set right at the end of His Last Vow when Sherlock is on the plane about to leave forever, in the four minutes before he gets called back because of the whole Moriarty thing – don't even get me started on that – and it's basically just his thoughts while he thinks that he's never going to see John again. Prepare yourselves for a ton of angst.

Reviews would be very much appreciated.

And I swear on the immortal soul of Redbeard that I do not own anything.

Human Error

Only one thought rushed through Sherlock's mind as he took his seat on the private plane – I should have told him.

He had wanted to tell John the truth since the moment he had come back. In the two years that Sherlock had been gone, it was thoughts of John that had kept him going, that had kept him relatively sane. All the running, the sleeping rough, the torture that would go on for hours at a time and left his body as well as the walls of his mind palace in ruins, nothing but adrenaline keeping him alert and moving, the constant thought in the back of his head that he might not survive this; the thought of John safe and sound back in Baker Street was what really made it all worthwhile. Sherlock hadn't cared what happened to him, he hadn't cared about his own life, about the unendurable physical and mental pain he was in almost constantly. He'd be better off dead just as long as he had done everything in his power to keep John safe first. The sacrifice would be worth it.

And here he was again, sacrificing everything for John Watson. Sherlock scoffed at himself. He was succumbing to such a basic human error. Love really was a dangerous disadvantage, the chemical defect found on the losing side. He had killed for John, was certain that he was on his way to die for John, he had given up his entire life and all of it was for John. And I didn't even have the courage to just tell him.

Sherlock had planned to, of course. He had sent everyone away, prepared for a private and heartfelt goodbye, the last chance he would ever have. But in the end, he couldn't do it. What would even be the point? John had a family, a baby on that way who Sherlock would never even get to meet, he was safe and happy. Telling him would only complicate things. It was a missed opportunity, the last Sherlock would ever have, but it was for the best... wasn't it?

Perhaps John already knew, or at least had some idea of just how strongly Sherlock felt for him. Sherlock had basically said it all in his best man's speech. Looking back, that speech sounded more like a self-deprecating love letter than anything else. No wonder everyone had started crying.

And surely his actions conveyed his emotions so much more than words ever could. I killed a man for you, John. Just like our first case when you killed a man for me. I'm letting you stay married to my would-be murderer, the woman who lied to you, whose actions I am trying to excuse and who I am trying so hard to trust purely because you still love her so much. I'm giving up my life here, my work, and all for you. It doesn't really need saying out loud, does it? You should have figured out by now just how much I love you.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what kind of love he meant though. This was one of the subjects that unfortunately he wasn't an expert in. He loved John like one would love a best friend, but at the same time it was so much more than that – infinitely more than that. He had felt it as he stood near his own grave, watching as John begged him for one more miracle. He had felt it the night he had come back and first laid eyes on John again, aged terribly by that moustache but still John Watson right in front of him. He had felt it all throughout the wedding, from the preparations to the day itself, that desperate need to make it perfect and not let John down just to dull that ache in his chest and drown out that voice in his head that screamed you should be marrying me, John. And he had felt it, more strongly than he had ever had, as he lay in that hospital bed, technically dead, and just one thought had set his heart beating again – John Watson is in danger.

Sherlock covered his mouth at the memory, staring unseeingly out of the window as the plane began to take off, his emotions getting the better of him. John had literally brought him back to life, had saved him once again without even having to do anything. But John didn't know that. John didn't know the full extent of just how much he meant to Sherlock, and now he never would. He would spent his life with Mary, be a wonderful father to that baby girl – in Sherlock's imagination she looked just like John, same sandy blonde hair, same smile, same nose, same beautiful blue eyes – and he would never have any idea that his best friend, who he would never see again, was so in love with him, so desperately, impossibly in love with him, more than anyone else ever could be. I should have just told him, why didn't I just tell him?

The plane had now taken off, and Sherlock had tears in his eyes. He was leaving a part of himself behind, his lifeblood, the man who always kept him right. He searched through his mind palace, its rooms and walls still in such terrible disrepair after his two years away and his near-death experience, until he found the room he kept specifically to catalogue all of John Watson's smiles. He focused on some personal favourites of his – the 'we shouldn't be giggling at a crime scene' smile never failed to cheer him up – before he filed away the most recent smile, the last one he would ever get to see. Sherlock regretted not telling John he loved him, but the stupid joke he had made instead at least gave him one more glorious John Watson smile to bask in. He let the image of that last smile fill his mind's eye, impatiently wiping the tears off his face.

Human error, that's all this was. All this sentiment, all this longing, all this pain and heartache and love, it was what was found on the losing side. And Sherlock Holmes was on the losing side.

I'm fine, I'm okay, I'm not crying, seriously I'm good.

Hope you enjoyed, Humble Readers. The only way I'll know for sure is if you tell me in a review. Just saying.

xxx