If you keep repeating that to yourself, you think hysterically, you might even fool yourself into believing it.
There is only about three and a half feet of distance between the both of you, and yet it feels like a gaping chasm, one that you dare not cross. You know that once you take even a single step forward… he is as good as dead.
And yet here you are, returning to his side, as you have done every night, tempting fate to snatch him away from you.
You don’t deserve him, a voice in your head reminds you blithely.
I don’t care, you snarl back. I want him. I need him.
I lo—
“Sherlock,” the man on the bed cries softly.
It doesn’t get better each time you return. In fact, it only gets progressively worse, listening to him, watching him like this.
He dreams of you every night. Every single fucking night. And it rips your heart out each time he moans your name — a helpless sound of unspeakable grief and longing — for it reminds you all too clearly, like an unforgiving slap to the face, that you are the one who has done this to him.
You broke him. You created this hell inside his head.
You have become the source of his nightmares.
“Please,” his breath hitches. He is crying in his sleep.
And it is taking all of your willpower not to rise from your seat in the shadows of his room and wrap him in your arms and just never let him go.
“Please… there’s just one more thing…”
You feel your chest constrict, and you close your eyes as you fight to keep your breathing even. This… this is the worst part every night.
“One more miracle… for me…”
And you’re not sure which of you is hurting more: he, in uttering it in the unforgiving landscape of his dreams; or you, in hearing it in the muted shadows of this cruel, merciless world.
“Just stop it… stop this…”
And in a sharp, searing pang of bittersweet affection, you realize how the two of you are bound to share everything equally.
Even this pain.
“Please… will you do this for me?”
And that is why for him… you can do anything. You will do everything.
You lean forward and touch your steepled fingers to your lips, partly out of habit, partly to remind yourself not to speak out loud (for that will be a capital, potentially fatal, and utterly stupid mistake)… and partly to concentrate.
You can’t speak. But you know that he can hear you.
He always can. He always does.
John, you think desperately as you watch him thrashing, fighting the stifling prison of his sheets. John, listen to me. I will do this miracle for you. I will stop this. I will do anything for you, anything you ask me to.
Your lips begin to tremble against your fingers.
But I can’t do that yet, you try to channel the despair of your soul into his heart. Not yet, when I can’t risk losing you. The rest of the world can burn for all I care.
But I can’t let him burn you. I can’t let Moriarty — damn his soul in hell — I can’t let him burn my heart out.
His wild thrashing begins to still. His eyebrows furrow, as if he is straining to listen closely.
And you, John… Your gaze softens tenderly. You have always been my heart. Always.
Someday… you will know that.
Slowly, miraculously, he seems to have heard. His breathing evens out, and his features visibly relax.
You swallow against the lump that has formed in your throat. Your vision blurs, and the corners of your eyes begin to sting.
I will always come back for you, dear heart.
Here, in the darkness, where no one can see you, you let the tears fall freely.
So please… wait for me. Be here. Be safe and happy and alive. Be here when I return.
Be here… to welcome me home.
You watch him intensely for a long while, willing him to listen to the words you can’t say. And then curiously, you see his left hand reach over and wrap his fingers around his right wrist, circling it like a bracelet.
Like a handcuff.
You press your palm firmly against your mouth to keep yourself from sobbing.
I hear you, he seems to gently answer with that tender, intimate gesture of a promise. We are bound to each other. Nothing and no one can ever separate us. So please, Sherlock… Come home.
Come back to me.
I’ll be here… waiting.
(Source: behindtintedglass)
