The weather was cloudy. The wind shaking the trees in occasional gusts. Mycroft hadn't even bothered to turn up for the ceremony. But that would be expected. When Mrs. Hudson walked away, John stayed behind.
Stayed behind to surprise Sherlock with what he did. Sherlock had not realised. He had had no idea.
John had buried many friends fallen in battle. Sherlock hadn't thought he would be any special. People died, especially in a war. Moriarty was his war. Casualties were inevitable.
John knew war. He knew its demands, their certainty.
But there he was, asking for a miracle, for Sherlock to return. Holding back the tears; first lessons a soldier had to learn. And John almost crying. For him. He had had no idea.
He had started to fall for John during their first taxi ride together, when John had not told him to piss off. He had had a definite crush on him by the time they shared their first laugh after chasing after London's worst cabbie.
John's face in a laugh. With him. Not at him. It was beautiful.
His love for John had been settled with a bullet.
It was unwavering, he had never questioned it since. No need to. He loved John.
Loved his courage, his kindness, his loyalty, his calmness. Him. Everything. It was a fact of life. Nothing Sherlock spent time thinking about.
He had never wondered whether he should do anything about it. Just like he didn't think whether he should blink or breathe. He loved John, that was all. A condition of existence like any other.
Never had he thought whether John loved him. Not once. It just hadn't occurred to him. Unnecessary to think such things, when John's company was all he wanted. The praise given and an occasional passing touch more than he had ever dreamed of. More than he had ever known.
So easy to see now that he had been wrong. Made a mistake in not wishing for more. For settling. But he had not known.
He had taken it for granted that for John he was a comrade-in-arms. Love, yes, but for a friend in battle. The loyal attachment one had in the field. Love that knew the risks, knew not to look behind, to not linger. It moved on. But this. He had had no idea.
How clearly he saw it now.
Had he known, he would have found a way not to make John watch.
The bittersweet last glimpse he wanted for himself should have been just another comrade falling in battle. John making the best, most experienced witness. Seeing another casualty go down on the enemy lines.
No. It was a lover killing himself. He had not known.
How could he have known? There were always the women. The huff over "confirmed bachelor" references. If John were to have homosexual tendencies, surely they would have manifested themselves by now. He wasn't a young man after all and he wasn't afraid.
The annoyance with him, the "don't give me that look". He had taken it to be the irritation of a colleague. Something John had to put up with because they were fighting together on the same side. How could he have known that "don't give me that look" meant "I love you"? No, he couldn't have known.
John had not known either. He wasn't a timid man. He would have done something had he known. He was not inexperienced with love.
Now they both knew. Now. Too late. Too soon. Not the right time. The nature of knowledge: something that has always been true, learned. Becoming acknowledged.
He followed John from the cemetery. The limp would get worse. There was nothing he could do about it.
He stood out like a pink suitcase in a skip in Ho Chi Minh City, a tall, pale alien. He had a flat in District 4 near the university. A tiny bedroom and a large sitting room/kitchen with a balcony looking out in to the dingy street.
He had tried calmer surroundings, a Buddhist monastery in Tibet, but he did not like the quiet. He preferred the crowds of the city, the possibility of something happening.
He hated the heat.
He had not known what it was to miss someone. The only one.
Time was supposed to take care of the pain, heal his longing for John. Hour after hour of remedy. It had been an incorrect hypothesis.
Time stuck its claws in him, dug its nails deeper. The ticking of the clock reminding him of every second he was not with John. Of every moment he was not where he belonged. The hurt constant.
To feel a part of you gone, the physical nature of it. No switch to turn it off. No assurance that all will be well. No treatment to go through. A permanent wound bleeding.
It didn't get better.
Regret. Newly acquired knowledge making one re-evaluate past decisions deeming them incorrect. A useless emotion as time allowed no revisions.
If he had dared to dream.
If he had not seen how John felt.
If he had known sooner.
If he had known what it was to miss.
An abundance of ifs where there used to be none.
Move on. If only. A gaping hole in him. Where John used to be.
He would wake up, that first disoriented second before reality caught up, and be looking forward to his day, to learning something new. Before the emptiness of the day ahead dawned on him, he was content. Until the pain swallowed all enthusiasm in one voracious bite. Left him hollow.
He did what he had planned: his research and studies, questions he had pondered since university. But they had no meaning. He might as well think about nothing. The nature of knowledge.
And it didn't change. He didn't feel any better as the weeks and months drew on. His life had become an empty charade of motions.
He had always found meaning and purpose in his work. Always. Now it was a secondary twiddling, something to fill the hours with. The hours of what was not. Of what he had lost. Of what he had never had. Never.
The pain – his only companion. His lover, his friend. All he had of John.
What it is to know for certain, absolutely. Without a doubt.