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- Trust me Sherlock. It's gone before you know it. Before you know it.
How can he counter this argument when he knows that John is talking about him and Mary and Sherlock's own supposed relationship with Irene Adler? A furtive glance confirms it. For a second he allows himself to beg him with his eyes, knowing John won't understand. "I know, John. I know. I've lost you. And you don't even know it. You don't even know that I already used your admonitions and it was already too late. I lost you when I never had you to myself."
But John is clearly too consumed by his own demons to even consider such a possibility: that of a Sherlock overcome by the loss of a love he has only dreamed of.
How his words resonate within him! John will never know how much.
- She was wrong about me.
Yes, John is brooding about Mary. Sherlock has to pull himself together and listen.
- Mary? How so?
There follows a series of absurdities that Sherlock can only refute, as John underestimates himself again and again... until...
- I cheated on her.
And he starts talking blankly to... Mary. Sherlock feels like he is intruding. He shouldn't be here. But John needs to be heard by someone other than the ghost of his wife. Did he... cheat on her? With whom? In thought? Could it be...?
- There's a woman on the bus...
Oh. All right, then. Another woman. Right. Of course. Focus on John. On his confession. He's turned to a corner of the room. He's talking to Mary. To his dead wife. How long has this been going on?
- Just texting. But I wanted more.
"I wanted more. So much more, » thinks Sherlock unable not to draw the parallel.
- I'm not the man you thought I was. I'll never be.
So John thought he was disappointing Mary, while Sherlock thought he was disappointing John.
- Who you thought I was... is the man I want to be.
"But you already are!" Wants to shout Sherlock. "You already are..." he has to make John stop torturing himself... he has to...
Then John bursts into tears. Sherlock has never seen him cry.
He puts down his mug cautiously, as if he were on the savannah facing a frightened animal. Then he rises to approach John with all the care in the world. This man who has been torturing himself for months with the ghost of his wife. This man who's been flogging himself when he's never given in... Sherlock must put aside everything but loyalty and friendship. He must comfort John in the only way possible. Unimaginable for him. To hold this man in his arms, forgetting all the times he would have liked to and why. He's just a warm body right now. A bulwark against John's imaginary demons.
He takes him in his arms. Like all the times he'd wanted to. But without thinking of all those times.
John is so exhausted that he offers no resistance and rests his forehead against Sherlock's chest.
Hesitantly, Sherlock lets his hand run up John's arm. He places the other on the back of his neck. Let go of the joy of holding him at last. To be just a warm body. To be there for him with no ulterior motive.
- It's okay.
he said without thinking about it. Remembering the banalities we say in these moments. But how? He doesn't know. Atavism? His mirror neurons are working perfectly after all. He's not faking it. He relies on something deeper. His humanity.
- It's not okay.
Of course it isn't. John isn't five. So opt for sincerity and a little phrase that comes back to him, uttered by John himself.
- No. But it is what it is.
John lets himself go against him and it's almost too much. He blames himself for feeling such happiness at such a moment. He rests his head on John's, knowing he'll regret it later.
Minutes pass. Hours perhaps. John stops trembling.
He steps back slightly and looks up.
- Sherlock?
- Yes, John.
- Are you crying?
- Oh...
Sherlock touches his cheeks and sees that they're covered in tears.
John looks at him with an indecipherable expression. Then raises his hand. Sherlock gasps. John's hand rests against his cheek. His expression has changed into something wonderful. Close enough to a sunrise.
Then he stands on tiptoe and kisses the corner of one of Sherlock's eyelids. The latter closes his eyes.
- Sherlock, says John, close, so close. I've always wanted more. I... God forgive me, I wanted more with you... and I made you pay.
Sherlock opens his eyes. Mouth agape. He's not sure he understands, or rather, he's afraid of understanding.
- Not God, you, forgive me, Sherlock. Mary... I deceived her in thought with you. She knew it. She... I just realized she'd already forgiven me. Sherlock... I...
- John? he said in a voice so vulnerable it made him flush inwardly.
- Yes, I'm here, I'll always be here if you'll forgive me. I love you, Sherlock. I always have. Was I stupid enough just now to make you think you'd lost me?
Then John turns his head slightly and his lips are so close Sherlock can feel his breath on his. Then he kisses him and Sherlock is struck by lightning. But he regains consciousness and returns John's kiss with a passion that borders on ferocity. They have plenty of time, but why waste it? It's gone before you know it.