entry six ( accidental video )

[sittingtype]

[ John's return comes at a particularly bad moment. well, there's never really a good time, as his first arrival hadn't been timed that much better either.

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[caveatwalls]

[Once Sherlock figures that out, he won't be sure whether to buy Amy another cashmere scarf or to never speak to her again. But that's not important now. He hears John in the hallway and his heart seizes for a fleeting second. Yet again, as it's been lately, he's not quite sure what to do. To keep John safe, he can't be seen-- but Moriarty's people aren't here. They can't hurt him while they're here. But there's so many other people who could do the same thing all over again.

And even if they are safe here, it doesn't erase what he's done. What he's put John through, and the last lie he had to tell him. John should hate him. He should. Sherlock knows that's what should happen, but it's not what he wants. It just isn't.

When John bursts through the door, Sherlock's eyes are wide and frantic. Trying to get away would be impossible now. He couldn't run away from that look, even if he wanted to. Words don't come until one of the nurses demands to know what's going on.]

Leave.

But Mr. Holmes--

I said get out.

[The ice in his voice drives them right back out, leaving him alone with John.]

[sittingtype]

[ john isn't aware the other the nurses are holding him back until sherlock's voice repels them out of the room and they reluctantly let him go. he almost buckles under the revelation that he's here, that that steady flow of scarlet he thought he saw growing on the pavement and that cruelly emblazoned itself into his mind is missing, that's he living and breathing and oh god, alive.

he might sob, but then something begins to stir within him and he straightens up again. his eyes have started to burn uncomfortably and he presses his lips together into a thin line. his fingers clench and unclench restlessly at his side as he stands there, finding himself unable to speak, incapable of saying anything to his best friend he was so certain he had lost scarcely an hour before now.

whatever it may be, it’s threatening to take over john watson and he walks towards him. ]

[caveatwalls]

[John watched him die. Sherlock can see it in every mannerism and every crease on his friend's face. He watched him plummet from the roof of St. Bart's and into a crumpled mess on the sidewalk. This brings Sherlock no closer to knowing if the death John saw was the intended one or the real one. That suddenly doesn't matter, either. He recognizes the threat of tears, and that's the last thing he wants to see. John in pain is always the last thing he wants to see.]

John--[It's a struggle to even get the name out.] I didn't... want it to happen that way.

[sittingtype]

[ good deduction, that. he finally comes to a stop next his bed and his head tilts to the side when he hears sherlock say that. then, slowly, his lips twist up into a mockery of a sad little smile. he can barely see anything now and his hands dart out, grabbing handfuls of his friend's shirt and hauling him up. ]

What do you mea- [ his throat constricts mid-sentence and he can't even scream at him anymore. everything he wants to say, to shout at him about, falls apart before he can put it into words and he settles for shaking him instead, fingers digging into him. only one grief-stricken word manages to make it out. ] Why.

[caveatwalls]

[For being so much smaller than Sherlock, John's sheer amount of strength still manages to surprise him sometimes. However, when he's lifted out of bed, when John shakes him like that, Sherlock doesn't give any resistance. Even when it sends sharp new pangs through his still rattled ribcage, he lets John take out his anger. He deserves it, really.

What really gets to Sherlock is John's tone. Empathy struck him like a cunning thief overnight, and he felt every bit of grief that was there. Eventually he lifts his hands and carefully puts them on John's, not realizing his throat was hot as a forge and that his words came out strained.]

You were going to die if I didn't.

[sittingtype]

[ what was surely meant to reassurance from sherlock backfires and john recoils like he's been burnt by the other man. he forces himself to release him and backs away, chest heaving with each step. he never fails to be amazed at the ways sherlock has of driving him to such extremes and he shakes his head. ]

Wh..what're...

[caveatwalls]

[Sherlock lets himself collapse back into the bed, but his eyes never leave John. Not now. He wants to tell his friend to sit, to breathe, but he won't listen. So he just goes on.]

Moriarty had three gunmen. One for Mrs. Hudson, one for Lestrade. One for you. All ready to pull the trigger if I didn't jump. [Sherlock takes a slow, rattling breath.] He shot himself in the head when I realized how to get him to stop it.

[sittingtype]

[ in the back of his mind, john knows he needs to calm down and covers his face with his hands, linking his fingers together and willing himself to stop this - stop feeling so angry, stop wanting to punch his best friend for putting him through all this, but his entire world had been shattered and he was finding it was exceedingly difficult piece it all back together again.

his hands fall away when sherlock explains what happened on the rooftop after he sent him away and he stares at him, his face contorting and voice wavering too high above its normal pitch. ] Why couldn't you of.. why did you...

[caveatwalls]

Because I wasn't going to let you die. [Sherlock's voice regains some of its strength saying that.] I would never just let anyone kill you.

[He sits up, seething at the aggravated pain in his side. More than anything, he wants to tell John the whole plan, but he can't. It would just put him in more danger when they went home. Not only that--]

I don't know. If I'm dead or not.

[sittingtype]

[ through the mist in his eyes, he can see the discomfort sherlock is in and ventures forward again. when he tried to help him in london, that bloody cyclist got in the way and then he was pulled back here. it was maddening and definitely added to how distraught he was. ]

Don't... just don't.

[caveatwalls]

[The feeling in Sherlock's throat only gets worse, to the point where it feels like he's swallowing a knife. He shakes his head slightly and purses his lips. A million excuses are possible here, but none of them come forward. What he can manage comes out in a soft voice.]

I'm sorry.

[sittingtype]

You're so- you're sor- [ john swallows audibly. not an ounce of hurt has left his voice since he forced his way in here and he's had a long time to replay their final conversation in their head; the one where they were face to face in the lab, and the one where he listened to his final request.

he's apologizing to him and... god. john wants to grab him again and tell him to just stop all this, but his composure finally shatters and he collapses, sinking to the floor next to his bedside. the grief pours out of him in great dry, wracking sobs. ]

[caveatwalls]

[Sherlock hoped apologizing would help, but that doesn't seem to be the case. No, he realizes, words weren't enough. They weren't enough to make John believe the lies flying around about him, either. His reaction now was proof enough of that. It feels like something inside Sherlock tears in half all the way down to his stomach when his friend starts to cry. The stalwart soldier and the unerring detective, reduced to this.

Without any care for his injuries, Sherlock is reaching out for him, bending down and wrapping his arms around him. His eyes are burning, and all he can see is the blurred fabric on the shoulder of John's coat. The tears silently spill out onto it-- he'll let John push him away if he wants. But just the words hadn't been enough.]

[sittingtype]

[ john doesn't tense up when he feels arms wrap around him. he used to be unattached once, so bloody and completely alone in the world, then he met sherlock and he found what he had been missing; a friend he would believe in without question and a man he would gladly give his life up for. he needs this contact now, to make this all real, so he doesn't pull away. ]

Y-you're my- [ his voice catches. but hopefully, it was obvious what he was trying to say before yet another sob paralyzed him. he was clever like that. ]

[caveatwalls]

[Best friend. Sherlock knows that's what he wants to say. No one's ever said that to him before, certainly not like this. It both lifts his heart and drags down his stomach. John was his best friend too, a better brother than Mycroft could ever hope to be, but it was Sherlock's fault he was in this state. His eyes close, still dampening John's coat as his own shoulders shudder with his more silent grief.]

[sittingtype]

[ he can feel the wetness grow on his back - is he crying too? after what feels like an entire lifetime, his sobs die down to a few errant hiccups and his hands travel up to clutch his friend's arms. this is the best he can manage right now and, for once, he really doesn't care if anyone starts talking about this. ]