They were a few miles from the airport, with dusk setting in, when John suddenly spoke.
"You think it's because of you! God, I'm slow sometimes. It's... His wife found out who he really was, because of you. Like I found out who Mary really was. So that's why you were dragging this out of storage in your mindpalace. You think you are to blame. You think we could have lived a happy little lie, Mary and me, if it wasn't for you inconveniently getting yourself shot?"
"That's... part of it. And that I wanted..."
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You are brilliant, but you are not omnipotent. And you are gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, but you are not bloody Cupid who goes traipsing around in a tight plum shirt and trousers instead of a nappy, shooting people and making them fall for you against their will. You weren't then and you aren't now. He used you! You are like some cat who falls off the telly, gets up and says 'I meant to do that'. You had no control and you convinced yourself you liked it that way. Of course you were curious! Everybody's bloody curious at thirteen! You wait a few years, figure some stuff out, stew in your own juices, then go find someone your own age to figure out a bit more with! You weren't some special case and my God now I'm yelling at you and fuck fuck fuck I'm sorry. Fuck."
Sherlock pulled to the side of the road.
"It's...all right. It's fine."
"No. No, it bloody isn't fine. You don't get to try and calm medown and comfort me. It doesn't work like that. You... I should be.." He looked into Sherlock's eyes, then quickly turned away. Sherlock caught his face with his hand and gently turned it back towards him, reestablishing the eye-contact, keeping his hand against his jaw.
"What, John. You... should be what?"
John looked down to where Sherlock's hand was still against his cheek. "I should be comforting youSherlock. I just want to hold you because... because I hurt that you hurt, and because I hurt even more to think that maybe, you might not hurt. And that probably doesn't make any sense."
Sherlock dropped his hand down to his lap, but remained staring into John's eyes.
"Because, I've been through rehab, twice. I know what it is like when your brain is convinced you understand something that happened, but it's got it all wrong." He looked down at his leg, and ran his hand along his thigh. "And I also know what it is like for a part of you to be so injured that the nerve endings just don't transmit. Like you don't feel. And then there is pain when you finally do." John's hand rested on his injured shoulder. Sherlock placed his hand lightly on top of John's. "And I should, just hold you. There should be some glowy healing power and you should just cry in my arms or something. You should sob until all the pain is gone. And then, I'm not really sure what I'd do next, to be honest. But, you're not going to cry, are you?"
"No, John. I'm not likely to."
"I didn't think so."
"But you can still hold me. If you want to."
John put his arms around him. He thought it would be somewhat awkward, holding this much larger frame leaning into him from the driver's seat. It wasn't. For all his height, Sherlock was narrower than John and he held him tightly. Sherlock felt stiff and awkward at first, but John refused to let go, and the taller man started to feel much smaller, sinking a bit into his chest.
FILL 6a/6 Confession (past child molestation)
"You think it's because of you! God, I'm slow sometimes. It's... His wife found out who he really was, because of you. Like I found out who Mary really was. So that's why you were dragging this out of storage in your mindpalace. You think you are to blame. You think we could have lived a happy little lie, Mary and me, if it wasn't for you inconveniently getting yourself shot?"
"That's... part of it. And that I wanted..."
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You are brilliant, but you are not omnipotent. And you are gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, but you are not bloody Cupid who goes traipsing around in a tight plum shirt and trousers instead of a nappy, shooting people and making them fall for you against their will. You weren't then and you aren't now. He used you! You are like some cat who falls off the telly, gets up and says 'I meant to do that'. You had no control and you convinced yourself you liked it that way. Of course you were curious! Everybody's bloody curious at thirteen! You wait a few years, figure some stuff out, stew in your own juices, then go find someone your own age to figure out a bit more with! You weren't some special case and my God now I'm yelling at you and fuck fuck fuck I'm sorry. Fuck."
Sherlock pulled to the side of the road.
"It's...all right. It's fine."
"No. No, it bloody isn't fine. You don't get to try and calm medown and comfort me. It doesn't work like that. You... I should be.." He looked into Sherlock's eyes, then quickly turned away. Sherlock caught his face with his hand and gently turned it back towards him, reestablishing the eye-contact, keeping his hand against his jaw.
"What, John. You... should be what?"
John looked down to where Sherlock's hand was still against his cheek. "I should be comforting youSherlock. I just want to hold you because... because I hurt that you hurt, and because I hurt even more to think that maybe, you might not hurt. And that probably doesn't make any sense."
Sherlock dropped his hand down to his lap, but remained staring into John's eyes.
"Because, I've been through rehab, twice. I know what it is like when your brain is convinced you understand something that happened, but it's got it all wrong." He looked down at his leg, and ran his hand along his thigh. "And I also know what it is like for a part of you to be so injured that the nerve endings just don't transmit. Like you don't feel. And then there is pain when you finally do." John's hand rested on his injured shoulder. Sherlock placed his hand lightly on top of John's. "And I should, just hold you. There should be some glowy healing power and you should just cry in my arms or something. You should sob until all the pain is gone. And then, I'm not really sure what I'd do next, to be honest. But, you're not going to cry, are you?"
"No, John. I'm not likely to."
"I didn't think so."
"But you can still hold me. If you want to."
John put his arms around him. He thought it would be somewhat awkward, holding this much larger frame leaning into him from the driver's seat. It wasn't. For all his height, Sherlock was narrower than John and he held him tightly. Sherlock felt stiff and awkward at first, but John refused to let go, and the taller man started to feel much smaller, sinking a bit into his chest.