John watched as they left the restaurant, eyes full of an indescribable pain. As soon as they were gone, he sat down heavily at the table and put his head in his hands.

"I should've known," he muttered. "I should've known."

"John…" Sherlock murmured sympathetically. He sat down across from his lover and took one of John's hands in his own.

However, John yanked his hand out of Sherlock's, giving him a murderous glance.

"Why'd you have to tell them, Sherlock?" he asked in a choked voice. "Why?"

"I…I was just trying to help…" Sherlock said, momentarily stunned. He stood up and backed away, giving John a bit of space.

"You didn't help," John said bitingly, "All you did was make things worse. That's all you ever do!"

He was yelling by the end of his outburst, his face red. All of the diners were staring at the unhappy couple now, watching the drama unfold.

Sherlock's face wore a look of total shock, his skin pale. Then, he stepped towards John and, ever so gently, tapped his hand three times.

John looked down at his hand, then back up at Sherlock, a horrified look on his face.

"Sherlock…" John said in a broken voice.

The detective backed up, shaking his head sadly, eyes beginning to water.

"I'm sorry." John offered shakily. It was all he could say.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment as hot tears slid down his face.

Then he turned and ran.

The thick London air filled Sherlock's lungs as he walked down an alley towards nowhere, trying to calm down. He was holding his jacket in his hands, allowing the misty rain that was falling to soak into the thin fabric of his rumpled white shirt.

Night had fallen, suffocating him like it was made of jet black silk. Dim light pooled on the alley floor from various flats and lampposts that lined the streets.

Sherlock didn't really know where he was going. For once, he didn't even know where he was.

I would go home, but I don't know if I have a home anymore.

He turned and slid down the alley wall to sit on a stack of old newspapers, pulling out his phone to thumb through his messages.

3 New Messages

From; John Watson

I'm sorry.

From; John Watson

Please come home.

From; John Watson

I love you.

Sherlock sighed heavily and looked up at the dark sky above him.

Minutes later he was lulled to sleep by the steady drip of rain onto the pavement in front of him.

A soft beep echoed through the silent alley.

1 New Message

From; John Watson

I'm coming to find you. I'm not going to let this go.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and he sat up from where he had been leaning against the alley wall. He looked down at his phone.

Only half an hour.

There was one new message from John. After a moment of hesitation, he deleted it without reading it.

I don't care anymore. All I ever do is fuck stuff up.

According to John.

Sherlock didn't know his heart could hurt this much.

A few moments later, Sherlock heard footsteps running somewhere close by and a figure appeared at the end of the alley. The person turned and looked down the alley, then began to walk towards him.

Sherlock's heart began to beat faster…then stopped altogether for a moment.

Is that…

The figure came into closer view and Sherlock's suspicion was confirmed.

John.

The doctor was soaking wet, not having put on his coat before coming after the detective. His hair was plastered to his head, small beads of water dripping down his still figure.

"Sherlock," he said, out of breath.

Sherlock stood up slowly, facing John threateningly.

John didn't shrink away. He walked closer, his eyes alive and full of an apologetic grace.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "None of this was your fault."

He reached out and gently took Sherlock's cold hand in his own.

"You did exactly the right thing, and I…I was the one who fucked up, Sherlock." John looked sorrowfully at the detective.

"Can you ever forgive me?"

Sherlock stood there for a moment, unable to think. Salty tears began to fall from his eyes, mingling with the rain.

"Yes," he said in a choked voice. "God, yes, John. I…of course I forgive you."

John was crying now too. "You have no idea…the guilt I had…"

Sherlock pulled John in close, wrapping his long arms around him. "I know…I know…I love you so much, John."

John slid his arms around Sherlock. His lips met the detective's, tasting smoke and mint, tasting home.

They rocked back and forth in the pouring rain, held tightly in each other's embrace, lips meeting in a never-ending stream of kisses and reassurance. It soaked their clothing, running in rivulets down their arms and backs as they cried into each other's shoulders, in relief and grief and guilt and just pure love.

oOo

And it's not a cry you can hear at night

It's not somebody who's seen the light

It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah

oOo

The End