There is logic. There is truth. There is rationality. Assumptions, deductions, conclusions.
Sherlock's world makes sense.
At least it used to.
Sherlock's brain is a palace. For every single thought there is a drawer in a wardrobe in a clean, white room. He's got them catalogued, ordered, he put tags on them with descriptions in a neat and tidy handwriting.
Sherlock keeps his mind in good shape, he protects it, he gets it cleaned at least twice a week, ensuring that all the unnecessary data has been deleted, he doesn't let enemies near his palace.
It works well. For a while.
John Watson doesn't make sense.
Most humans don't.
John Watson is war, is nightmares, is grassandsand, is smiles, is sleeping in, jumpers, tea, crap telly, tanned skin, soldier, sun and rain.
The first morning, after their first night out together, after their first case together, after their first crime scene together, their first laughter shared together, their first chase through London together, it feels like fresh air, after a thunderstorm. Sherlock frowns and goes to his palace.
There is a new room. It's not white nor clean, it's red and green and blue and beige and yellow and all the other colors and there is a huge wardrobe and when Sherlock opens it, all the content falls out of it, almost burying Sherlock. There are tea mugs, jumpers, there is a telly, there is a laughter, a wink, a gunshot.
And when Sherlock gets up, he sees it. At the back of the wardrobe there is a post-it. John it says. Sherlock tries ripping it off, but it doesn't work and no matter how hard he tries, he can't delete John. Nor his jumpers or all the other content.
Sherlock flees out of his palace.
From then on, Sherlock's life with John is one enormous experiment. He observes, that, especially on nights when they have caught a criminal and can't stop laughing, due to some ridiculous hormones, on those nights, when they sit in the living room together, silent, enjoying each other's company that the John room seems to get filled with more and more data.
Sherlock attempts several times to delete the room and its content, but it never works. Not, when John is mad at Sherlock, when he's furious and he stomps off. Not when Sherlock is mad at John either and flops himself on the sofa, pouting.
It doesn't make sense.
And then there comes the time, when Sherlock dies.
Although, he doesn't really die. He just disappears. John is safe and that satisfies Sherlock. At least it should. When he opens the John door on the first morning, in his new life, after the last conversation with John, after his last day alive, after his last day as Sherlock Holmes, after the last time he heard John's voice, looked into his eyes, after his last and final act, he finds buckets of salty water and then there is another post-it, it says void. Sherlock doesn't understand.
He tries to clean the room. It's the only rational and entirely reasonable thing to do. He doesn't live with John anymore, so he should be able to delete him, as he doesn't have any daily effect on him anymore. It'd be logical and plausible to delete jumperteasmilesjohn now. It's not physically possible though. Sherlock can't move.
It doesn't make sense.
He goes to see him. Just to make sure, he's okay. He's not, though.
Sherlock sees him sitting at Angelo's. It looks strangely obscene to see John sitting alone with his head in his hands. Angelo sits with him after a little while and Sherlock finds himself fighting the impulse to run across the street and to throw himself at John, on John, in John and wrap his arms around him. When John looks up, Sherlock sees tiredness and tears and then there is nothing more. Empty. He's gone before John recognizes him and when he goes to bed this night there is a tugging in his chest and there are tears running down his cheeks and when Molly comes in and he tells her that he might get a cold and explains all the symptoms to her, she pulls him into her arms and rocks him silently and Sherlock thinks that this is probably the worst cold he's ever had, because right now he feels horrible, his throat is pinhole thin and suddenly everything aches. Molly tells him that she understands and that it's okay and she stays with him until he falls asleep.
When he wakes up, Molly is already gone. In two hours one of Mycroft's men will pick him up and then Sherlock will board a plane to Switzerland, as Arthur Carlton. Every single minute of the next weeks is planned into detail. He'll have to run and hide and chase and deduce and conclude and for once Sherlock is not on fire.
When he goes back to his palace, he can't open the John room. It's locked and no matter how hard Sherlock tries to open it, it doesn't work. He should be glad. He isn't, though.
When he comes back from Switzerland/Germany/Poland/France/Canada/Mexico/China/Ireland, it's seven months later and Sherlock forgot who he once used to be. He was Arthur Carlton, he was Neil, he was Toby, hell he even was Gloria at some point in time. He doesn't know who he was, who he is, who he will be. Right now he is Bernard, working in a bookstore, with ginger hair and clothes that don't really fit.
He didn't think of John very often. He tried several times to open up that particular room, but it never opened up. It was as if his brain had tried to protect him, to protect itself from their worst enemy; that is sentiment. Emotions are a distraction, a severe distraction and they don't make much sense.
But now that he's back in London, chasing Moran, he can't really fight it anymore. Every fiber of his being wants to be back in Baker Street, wants to take John in his arms, wants John to punch him in the face, wants to tell John about the John room in his brain, wants to run down an alleyway, if only John were there, right behind him, saving and protecting him, always the soldier, always the loyal, faithful, truthful, reliable friend.
He sits in a white room in his palace, on a white writing desk, with a white piece of paper in front of him and he holds a pencil in his fingers. Sentiment, he scribbles down. Illogical, is what he puts behind it. Rationality is what he writes underneath. Logical follows.
He stares at these words until his eyes hurt.
It's been two weeks since he came back to London. He has managed not to see John, which gives him some sort of satisfaction. He's still able to control himself, his world still makes sense.
That is until John bumps into him.
It happens on a Monday morning. Sherl- Bernard is hurrying through the bookstore, careful to play his part, his role, in his arms a stack of books then something someone stops him and all the books fall on the floor. Before Sherlock sees him, before he looks into his eyes, before he hears his voice, before he feels his hand on his arm, he already knows it's him. He senses him, he smells him, he feels him. He looks up and meets John's eyes and he suppresses a sharp inhale. They're bluer than he remembers them.
John doesn't recognize him.
He orders a book about the solar system with a title that Sherlock has already forgotten by the time he has entered in into the computer. "Stargazing much?", Bernard asks, as if trying to make conversation, because that's what people do, right? Sherlock knows that John loves the stars, knows that he's intrigued by the solar system, fascinated by the universe, but Bernard doesn't and that's why he asks.
John shrugs. "Not really. It's for a…friend actually." Bernard smiles and Sherlock wonders who that friend is, that knows the solar system, loves it even.
"He's a lucky guy", says Bernard and winks, Sherlock cringes inwardly because John doesn't smile back.
"He's a dead guy, that's what he is", says John with a voice, that Bernard never heard before but Sherlock has heard it in the graveyard and it makes his stomach clench. Bernard looks confused, Sherlock wants to pull John into his arms and hold him, until he smiles again.
"Will be delivered by tomorrow", says Bernard, referring to the book and John nods him a goodbye. Before he reaches the door, Bernard calls him back because Sherlock wants to, needs to. "Your friend…what was he like?"
John stands still for a moment and Bernard thinks that he's trying to find the right words, but Sherlock knows that this is how John looks, when he fights back the tears. "Good man", croaks John and leaves the store in a hurry and Bernard blinks and Sherlock gasps for air.
Seven months should have been enough. Enough for John to forget about him, to move on, to find a woman, to leave everything behind.
It really, really doesn't make sense.
But then Sherlock or Bernard, or maybe both of them – he can't quite make it out – runs after John and reaches him just outside of John's new tiny flat and Bernard says that there is something really urgent he needs to discuss with John and that he'd rather have that conversation inside, while Sherlock is shaking and unable to think.
John looks a bit confused but he lets Bernard in nevertheless. "So, how can I help?" asks John while closing the door. Bernard says that it's a nice flat and Sherlock thinks that this is a horrible flat. John nods. "So how can I help?" he asks again, growing a bit impatient.
"I needed to see you." Says Sherlock.
"You", he whispers and then falls silent again. Bernard is long gone now and Sherlock feels insecure somehow. He doesn't know what to do, what to say. So he just stands there, looking back at John, not daring to move. John blinks. Sherlock sees him swallow.
John nods to himself and then, after a few more seconds of frozen time, John stumbles towards him and he throws himself at Sherlock, in Sherlock's arms and he fights You bastard, you bloody bastard, I hate you, God, I hate you and hugs I missed you, Hell, I even missed all the fingers in my kettle, do you know how much I missed you? him at the same time. Sherlock is a bit overwhelmed, so he just puts his arms around John, holding him close and closer until John stands still, his face pressed into Sherlock's shoulder and his arms wrapped around him tight.
Much later, when they lie in the dark, side by side they will talk about this. They will talk about the small kiss that John presses on Sherlock's lips, they will talk about Sherlock's absence and how they're going to catch Moran. John will tell Sherlock that he's still angry with him and that it's going to take a while and Sherlock will tell John about the John room that is now open again. They will talk until the sun comes up and bathes them in golden light.
But for now, all there is, is John and Sherlock, here in this tiny flat on a Monday somewhere in London and Sherlock thinks that maybe it does make sense after all. Or maybe it doesn't.
But that's not the point.
That's not the point at all.