I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world.
John insisted I get one of these blogs--even held my violin hostage--so here I am. Now it just keeps me going. It's become a place to express my torments rather than to discuss my cases.
Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had switched out in the middle of this monologue and had seen most of it. ”I’m…” Sherlock genuinely couldn’t think of anything to say. He’d suspected something like that for a long time, but for him, love was uncomfortable, sex had always been rather neutral, and he knew he couldn’t provide for John the way he clearly needed and wanted. ”I’m sorry, John. Thank you for telling me, though, I feel much better informed and…attached.”
John froze, realizing he’d just spilled everything to Sherlock. Then again, he had no idea if Herron was an open book like Liam or a closed one like Avery, so he may as well have been talking to Sherlock the whole time. ”Er,” he said with an awkward clearing of the throat. ”Better attached how, exactly?”
"I know you better," Sherlock replied. "I’ve always known the facts, obviously, but the emotions are always another matter." He frowned a little and sighed. "My head hurts, John," he said, clearly strained. "Emotionally, not physically, it…it’s like I said all that time ago, I need you. That, to me, is deeper than love. Love is chemicals. Symbiosis is necessary for life." He shut his eyes and relaxed into bed again, despite having been there for months. "We’ve both demonstrated on numerous occasions that we are entirely dependent on one another, not like a junkie needs his fix but like a man needs sleep. We’ll go mad without one another. We allow ourselves to be vulnerable for one another. We feel safe with one another, at least I hope you feel safe, though in all honesty, I don’t think I’d feel safe with me." He frowned and shut his eyes. "I think I’m…drifting off again…don’t go, John…happ…y…birth…"
"Sherlock?" John sat forward in his chair. He couldn’t lose Sherlock again, even if it was only to sleep, not now, not right when he’d gotten him back. "Sherlock, wake up, please, okay?" He got a noncommital grunt and a sigh as a response, and John decided he’d just have to wait. Again.
John was back the next day, of course, having had no sign of Sherlock waking up and having been ordered to return to his own bed that night by Mycroft. Sherlock had still been out, the doctors having said that he’d worn himself out the day before, and John plopped himself in the visitor’s chair, taking Sherlock’s hand while he read Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the fifth time.
It was eighteen hours before Sherlock—or rather, Liam—opened his sleepy eyes. ”Woah,” he said in the voice of a child. ”I slept a lot.” Liam yawned and stretched before looking at his atrophied arms. ”My arms got all little. I don’t like it, they feel wobbly.” Then he saw John and burst into tears of joy. ”Hello, angel,” he said, reaching an arm out to him. ”I knew you’d be watching over me when I woke up.”