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I was wrong.
I can see it in his eyes, in the tightness of his jaw, in the fist that continues to clench and unclench against his right leg. I can see his thoughts as though they were written out on his face, can practically feel the tension radiating from him, filling the space between us like a wall meant to keep me away.
I don't like that space, want to tear it down and reach for him. I want to just take his hand in mine and run until all the tension and negative thoughts have been blown away by the wind, until the only thing that's left is us and the blur of London in our wake. I want to run until our lungs beg for air and we end up back at the flat, breathless and laughing, like that very first night. I want things to be as easy as they were then.
But I was wrong and he is angry.
The space makes the backseat of the taxi feel even more confining. It presses down against me, almost painfully so. It makes me feel trapped and agitated. It makes everything uncomfortable: from the seat beneath me to the clothes on my body, even the sutures they had used to close the wound on my forehead don't feel right. I can't sit still, can't focus, have to squeeze my hands into fists until they hurt, so I don't claw the stitches out in frustration.
I want out, need out – contemplate jumping from the moving taxi. There's just too much noise, too much of everything, only made worse by the fact that this was entirely my fault. I made a mistake, I misjudged the situation, I was wrong.
I was wrong.
"Sherlock…"
John's voice cuts through the din, slices me open with surgical precision the way it always does. Can still feel the anger in it; can still hear the hurt and disappointment I've caused, but there's something more to it, undertones I can't quite place a name to. Don't care right now, don't want to care about anything now, shouldn't care… care too much.
I don't answer him; it wasn't a question. The taxi barely has time to stop before I break free of its confines. My head is pounding, spinning. I stagger slightly in my rush to the front door, to the safety and comfort of the flat. Lean against the wall of the foyer, breathing in lungfuls, letting the familiarity of the place engulf me, shield me, bury me. I can't stop my body from trembling, can't stop the flood of emotion that bombards me, making me want to scream and punch a hole through the wall until throat is raw and my knuckles bleed.
I close my eyes to block it all out, feel John leaning against the wall to my right, almost shoulder to shoulder with me, so close I could take his hand in mine, lace our fingers together. So close I could wrap myself around him and hold him tightly to me, forget this entire night. I want to, don't think he knows how much I want to.
"Sherlock…"
His voice again: slicing through even my most stubborn barriers. Brace myself for the argument that I'm sure will come. It doesn't. John merely sighs.
It's quiet in the foyer, neither of us moving, neither of us saying the words that need to be spoken or the apologies that should be given. I hate the silence; hate how it hangs over me, over us.
I recall our very first night together, leaning against this same wall, filled with high spirits and easy laughter, the space between us nearly non-existent. Wonder what he would have done if I had taken his hand then, if I had held him… if I had kissed him. Calculate how things would have been different. Would things have been different? Hard to say, can't think, still can't focus.
Could have lost John tonight, could still lose him, even after everything.
John's hand rests against my shoulder. It's meant to be reassuring, but it's just more discomfort. I long for his touch, for more of it, and yet my body flinches from it. Silently curse myself as he backs away.
He sighs again.
"Do you—do you need me to stay?"
The anger is gone from his voice, replaced by concern, worry, about me. Shake my head, even though my insides scream for me to say yes. I want him to stay, need him to, but this isn't home for him anymore. I'm not home for him anymore. I say goodbye, meant it as: goodnight, meant it as: I'll see you soon, watch his face crumple at the remembered words.
The hurt is back beneath his eyes, his face always so expressive. He nods once and turns for the door. "Mary will be wondering where I am."
I watch him go. Want to call after him, want to start the argument just so he has a reason to stay, can't stand the sight of him leaving. I change my words; I say goodnight, meant it as: I'm sorry.
He doesn't turn back, can't tell if he heard, can't tell if he understood. My words are left hanging in the air, in that space between us that won't go away. I don't like the taste of them: too heavy on my tongue, don't like the way they sound. Now it feels too final.
Now it feels too much like goodbye.