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It was nearing midnight by the time Sherlock gets back to Baker Street. As soon as he opens the door to the building, Mrs. Hudson appears and starts scolding him in harsh tones, which was not an unusual occurrence. He rolls his eyes and brushes past her to go upstairs when he suddenly hears “John” escape from her lips. Sherlock turns Mrs. Hudson’s voice off ‘mute’ in his head and hears her say “stabbed,” “knife,” “Royal London hospital,” and “mugged.” Sherlock ran back out the door and catches a taxi, not bothering to ask her for more information.
While in the taxi, Sherlock checks his phone, wondering why no one tried to call him. The screen is black and Sherlock curses himself, remembering that he forgot to charge it the previous night. He then tries to put his phone back in his pocket and realizes that his hands are shaking. He attempts to contain his feelings in his mind palace, but they keep slipping under the doors, threatening to collapse the foundations. Sherlock suddenly regrets never telling John his true feelings. After the whole debacle with Mary, he was just grateful that John came back to live with him at Baker Street. He was not expecting anything more than friendship, no matter how much it hurt him to sleep alone in his bed, wishing John’s arms were around him. But now John could be dying, John could be dying alone, not knowing how loved he was. Sherlock hates himself, how he treated John, never telling him how much their friendship had meant to him. He clenches his hands together, trying to keep himself from falling apart in front of the taxi driver.
After what feels like hours, the taxi arrives at the hospital. Sherlock tosses some bills at the driver and races out of the car before it even makes a complete stop. When he gets to the reception he tells them John’s information, saying that he is John’s partner as he knows they would not let him in otherwise. The receptionist types at her computer and then her eyes widen and she turns to Sherlock.
“I’m sorry sir, it looks like he’s in Intensive Care” she says gently, watching the man before her crumble. Sherlock feels his heart split in two, and silent tears fall from his reddened eyes, not caring who sees. For the first time in his life his mind stops: it was like the gears had stopped turning, as though there was no reason for them to continue. Sherlock could not imagine living in a world without John, which is why he had to fake his death in the first place. How could someone hurt his John, who was so caring and strong and good? Sherlock remembers the day they met, when he had just finished explaining his deductions to John in that cab, expecting anger or at least a glare, and instead John had told him that he was brilliant. He could not remember the last time someone had been kind to him after he had opened his big mouth. Even if John had not killed that cabbie or moved in with him or all the other things he had done for Sherlock, he had given Sherlock hope, hope that he could be accepted by someone.
A touch to his shoulder interrupted his mental reverie. “Excuse me, sir? I made a mistake, I’m sorry,” the receptionist said with a guilty look in her eyes, “your partner was in the emergency room but wasn’t badly wounded and will make a full recovery. He is in room 104 just down this hallway and to the left.” Almost before she had finished, Sherlock ran down the hall and opened the door to John’s room.
Instead of running up to the side of John’s bed, he stopped just inside, remembering that they weren’t like that. John was lying on the bed, with bandages on his right arm, some scrapes and bruises, but otherwise appeared fine. At Sherlock’s entrance, he looked up from the magazine he had been reading and frowned, no doubt because Sherlock had not responded to any of his texts. However, when John saw Sherlock’s face, with his devastated eyes, tearstained cheeks, and quivering lips, John’s changed from annoyance to concern.
“Are you okay, Sherlock?” John asks, worried about Sherlock’s apparent distress.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, so he awkwardly closed his mouth again and looked at the floor, avoiding John’s gaze.
“Come over here,” John says gently. When Sherlock did not move, John implores, “Please, Sherlock.”
Sherlock walks over to John and sits on the edge of the hospital bed John is lying on. He still cannot contain the storm of emotions swirling inside him and puts his head in his hands with his elbows on his knees.
John sits up straighter and softly asks Sherlock, “What’s wrong?”
“You could have died, John.” Sherlock answers in low tones.
“What are you talking about? The perp nicked me in my arm but I was definitely not in any danger of dying. Who told you that?”
“The receptionist made a mistake. I thought…I…for a moment…you were dying.” Sherlock whispers, tears starting to fall from his face once more.
“Oh Sherlock, I’m fine, don’t worry,” John replies, raising his hand to Sherlock’s chin, nudging it upward so John could see Sherlock properly. When John sees the depth of emotion in Sherlock’s eyes, his own widen in shock, and he pulls his hand away. Hurt, Sherlock looks away, but then seconds later feels arms encircling him and pulling him closer. At first, he remains stiff, but slowly relaxes into John’s arms, laying his head on John’s shoulder. He sniffles a bit into John’s neck, trying to regain some composure.
“It’s no fun is it, thinking that the one you love is dead,” John murmurs, and then freezes, realizing what he has just admitted. He starts to pull away but Sherlock just holds on tighter, wrapping his arms around John’s body.
After a few moments, Sherlock loosens their embrace and looks into John’s eyes anxiously, asking, “Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” John says, dodging the question.
“That you…love me,” Sherlock stutters. “Even if you don’t, I do. I love you. All I could think about when I thought you were dying is how I never told you.”
Stunned, John is lost for words and instead of replying he collides his lips against Sherlock’s, trying to pour all of his emotions into a single kiss. At first, Sherlock seems unsure, but then responds enthusiastically, if a bit clumsily. John is the first to pull away and looks at Sherlock’s closed eyes and pink cheeks, brushing a finger along his jaw.
Sherlock opens his eyes, hoping that it wasn’t just a dream, to see John’s eyes watching him tenderly. “Of course I love you, I have for a long time,” John confesses. “I just never thought you would feel the same way.” Glancing at his arm, he continues, “I am supposed to stay here for observation overnight, but I would like it if you stayed with me,” John says, his eyes bright and hopeful.
“I will never leave you again, John,” Sherlock says vehemently. John moves over on the bed to allow Sherlock to lie down and curl up beside him. John puts his arm around Sherlock, slowly stroking his hair before they both fall asleep, limbs tangled together.