If he had to pick, he'd have said that remembering wasn't the worst of it. No, not at all. Remembering was painful of course, downright heart breaking. …Not that he'd ever let anyone know. After denying it for so long, it would be another ordeal entirely to suddenly come clean.

John bit his lip, heaving a great sigh.

'My best friend is dead and here I am… worried they'll call me a poof.'

Ah but that was the thing of it in the end, right? Part of the pain, part of that anguish was the fact that he knew Sherlock hadn't been a fake. He hadn't been duped into believing anything. The only lie Sherlock ever told as the one he didn't. The one he never approached for John's own sake.

"We're not a couple." How many times had he said that? How many ears had he fed those words to, how many faces held the same look of disbelief even after hearing them?

How many times did he kick himself for being so adamant about it, even with the subject standing over his shoulder?

There was a moment when he thought it wouldn't have been so bad if people knew. John had given it thought, oh had he ever- and there were a few times when it would have been alright. For starters, it was never he who brought the news out into the open. Goodness, no. One of the others, one of their friends would always connect the dots.

Maybe it would be Lestrade, finally seeing the true intent behind the looks of impatience or vague words exchanged between the two. Or perhaps Mrs. Hudson would 'out' them. After all, she had somewhat of a Mother's touch in matters concerning Sherlock, surely she'd recognize the signs that her dear boy was…

What about Mycroft? Yes, how was it even a question? Mycroft Holmes was just brilliant as his brother, if only more conservative about his gift. The body language, the unsettled air that seemed to hang in the room when no one spoke, the almost familiar expression on John's face when that damned sheet slid from its place…

'Damn it.'

He pinched the mound between his eyes, closing them.

It was happening again. The real pain, the pain that was worse than remembering. John Watson was beginning to forget.

It plagued him every night, the same return to normalcy in his dreams that he could never get in reality. Those lips, crushing and proud against his own, their force choking his every breath. That body, somehow sculpted despite the lack of real exercise, pinning him down to the bed. That voice, those words, those eyes…

And he'd wake in a cold sweat, in the dark and alone.

If he had to pick, he wouldn't say that remembering wasn't the worst of it. Not by a long shot. At least, not on its own. Those tears shed by night when no one was there to comfort him, those quiet sobs, they weren't because he'd remembered. They were because for a moment, he'd forgotten. And the only thing that hurt worse than knowing was having relief ripped from under you