The Inevitable: Johnlock Fanfiction

Perhaps...

There is always madness in love. But there is always some reason in madness." -Friedrich Nietzsche 

POV: Watson

"I can't accept the idea that you're my best friend," Sherlock remarks, a blatant distaste on his face. "You clearly don't match my intelligence."

I wet my lips, a wave of hurt rolling through the bottom of my stomach. Forcing myself to not say anything, I watch him ramble on across from me. Mycroft forced the three of us to go to some diner to talk it out. Sherlock's apparently the only one still talking, I screwed my lips tightly together a long time ago, and Mycroft is sitting there with a dead expression.

Sitting there and taking his insults with nothing to say is harder than anything I thought. Worse than seeing him jump, worse than the fear that I lost him. Now he's there, alive as ever, he's within my grasp and yet he's farther than ever. He hates me, I repulse him because he doesn't know who I am. All the memories, they're just mine now. All the secrets, he's forgotten it all. Those first words I dreamt about, that first handshake.

"You aren't particularly alluring," he continues, not bothering to even take a breath before spitting out the next insult. Sherlock turns to face Mycroft, "Did you convince me to befriend this man for your own purposes?"

Mycroft shakes his head, his face still remaining motionless. I catch a slight and sudden tilt of his head, the only indication of sympathy.

A few more scathing comments get flung my way, and Mycroft finally gets up and interrupts Sherlock. No not Sherlock, he's not Sherlock anymore. He's... just a stranger.

"Dr. Watson, apologies for my younger brother," Mycroft glares at him.

"I don't wish to inconvenience you, but would you mind staying with Sherlock in Baker Street? Perhaps that would somehow trigger his memory."

The idea of him degrading me further made me cringe, but I nod nonetheless. We walk out in silence, and Mycroft gives a curt goodnight before entering the symbolic black car. Sherlock easily waves down a cab, and that simple action causes my heart to give a jolt. It reminds me of all those adventures, yet he just thinks it's a cab.

Both of us enter the cab, and I move away to the left side, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. The sky is a dreary color and I look out the window, London passing by in a blur of pedestrians and bright lights.

Getting to Baker Street, Sherlock quickly leaves the cab, and I'm left to pay for the fare. If I squint, maybe I can pretend he's still the same arrogant douchebag I knew.

Once we enter the flat, I stand there hesitantly. Eventually, Sherlock speaks up, "I know this place, though you were my flatmate so I don't remember much about it."

I offer a small tense smile and turn away to make tea, our normal routine. Our. Trying to ignore the scathing looks from Sherlock, I wait for the kettle to boil. The flat is silent, the atmosphere tense and uncomfortable. He's still staring at me, no doubt trying to gauge my worth. Eventually, I hear the whistling sound I've grown accustomed to, and I quickly jump up to get the water. I pour it into one cup, and I awkwardly look up at him. "Would you like some tea?"

"No," Sherlock responds, narrowing his eyes at me.

I cough uncomfortably, and bringing up the scalding liquid to my lips, I take a large gulp, the burn not bothering me. Once, so long ago he  made tea to comfort me. I still remember those molten eyes, soft and tender as he smiled. The shoulder that I cried on when the world seemed to stop.

"May I use your phone Dr. Watson?" He asks, his tone sarcastic when calling me doctor. "I believe I left mine somewhere."

I jolt, taking a sharp breath at the familiarity of those words. "Yeah, here." I hand it to him, focusing my attention on the intricate pattern on the table, trying in vain to forget the same action I did so long ago.