I have never written angst before. I do it now because I had a friend in need of fanfiction to read. She fell asleep before she could read this, but I finished it anyway. I hope you enjoy!
Sherlock couldn't help himself. Normally he could control any indication of sentiment. Not anymore it seemed. Not that it mattered.
He got the date of his funeral from spying on John. He'd done so too many times to count, or what was healthy. He's crossed the line so many times, he couldn't remember any boundaries. Standing by the trees as John and Mrs Hudson stood close by 'his grave', he felt the urge to run towards them, to him, and touch him. Not in anyway vulgar or inappropriate, just a reminder that he was here. Perhaps his hand. He had liked it when he held John's hand while running through London; it let him know that he was there.
Mrs Hudson was raging after John had mentioned he was angry. Of course John was angry. He had every right to be. Still, it sent a stabbing pain to Sherlock's gut; guilt. Unfamiliar.
"Okay, listen, I'm not actually that angry, okay?"
Mrs Hudson took a wavering breath. "Okay, I'll leave you alone to… you know," her tears cut her off, and she walked away.
Guilt swelled in Sherlock's chest again, but he couldn't help but feel better. Better him dead that her. Not that she knew that. Not that he was actually dead.
He watched John turn around, making sure that Mrs Hudson was far away enough to be unable to hear John. Typical, Sherlock though with a bitter smile. Always making sure no one would 'talk'.
"Um… hmm…" He paused, unsure of what to say. Sherlock scrutinized him now, trying to figure out what he would say before John said it. Nothing. Too far away to tell.
"You told me once…" John began. He cleared his throat and continued, "that you weren't a hero." Sherlock sighed and shook his head slightly. He didn't think John would ever let that go. "Um, there were times I didn't think you were human," Sherlock was suitably unsurprised by this; most people had the same reaction. He looked at the floor in shame, and nearly missed what John said next.
"But, let me tell you this. You were," Sherlock hated the were nearly as much as he hated himself at that moment, "the best man, eh… the most human… human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. Right, so… there." Sherlock felt a warmth creep up his body, and the urge to touch John's hand and let him know he was there was overwhelming. He held back.
John took a deep breath; steadying himself, Sherlock supposed. But for what?
John looked back again. What could he be planning ondoing that he didn't want anyone to 'talk' about?
He moved forward and put his hand on the tombstone. Simple, oh so simple. However, Sherlock realised that John believed that was the closest he'd ever be to Sherlock. It pained him. For the third time that day, guilt filled him. However, it had an undertone of confusion. Did this mean that John wanted to be close to him?
Sherlock nearly jumped when John began to speak again. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." John said the last part in one breath as tears nearly overcame him. John sighed a nearly imperceptible "'K" before starting to walk off.
Sherlock sighed; suddenly, the emotions were gone and he was left with nothing.
He began to walk back.
A warmth enveloped Sherlock once again.
"Oh please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead." He was so broken. Sherlock really wanted to be there. "Would you do… just for me; stop it. Stop this." John was angry. What was it Sherlock had heard again?
The five stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.
He realised he had to come back before the last stage, whenever that may be. In addition, he felt mortally unable to observe the fourth stage.
While recalling a nearly-forgotten fact, John has started to cry; bowed head, audible sniffs. This was almost unbearable. The need to feel those strong, calloused hands in his hands was horrible.
John stood straight. Not a normal straight. Shoulders back, head high, legs together and arms sternly by his side… no. Not this.
Sherlock could see it. The army training. John's defence mechanism. It was staring Sherlock in the face and there was nothing he could do about it. John sent then tombstone a small nod, turned briskly around, and walked away. Traces of his limp could be seen.
His face was stony; he could feel it. It was automatic for Sherlock now. When emotion too strong for him to handle occurred, he looked unfeeling but felt a whole lot. It was better that way. Especially now.
Knowing he had to leave, to breathe, he walked away from the graveyard with too much on his mind.