It tore him to pieces. He stood long after the others had turned and walked away- stood and begged and prayed that the name on the stone before him was wrong, that what he had seen and heard was wrong and it was all a dream-
But it wasn't. It wasn't, and John had failed... he had failed to save the one person he would die for. Lestrade had to tug him, but John held no resistance, only dragging behind him with hollow eyes and no expression readable to the DI's eyes.
He visited the grave again dressed in black, a month later. Molly had dragged Sherlock- to an outlook over the grave, to make him see what he had done. Yes it had hurt Lestrade and even Molly too, despite her knowing he lived. Even Anderson and Donovan shed a tear... but John.
"John..." He whispered upon seeing the outline of the doctor, aching for being gone for so long that he could barely recall the man's voice.
Watson drudged past the lines of headstones and came to stop several feet away from the grave on lead feet. "Why is he hesitating?" Sherlock whispered more to himself than to Molly. "He's hurting, Sherlock." Came the mortician's soft reply.
Slower than before, John proceeded, the object in his hand now visible: a single scarlet rose. This rose he placed at the foot of the stone which bore Sherlock's name, and stood silent at the foot of the grave. After nearly an hour of making up the excuse to make sure it was clean around his resting place, John turned to leave and made it back to the spot he had hesitated on before. To this Sherlock furrowed his brow.
John's breath quickened and his vision grew blurry, and the second they betrayed him by sliding down his face he ran back to the grave and pressed a kiss to the name. "Stole a kiss-" He tried to joke through the lump in his throat.
A stray tear ran down the cheek of the alabaster prince atop their perch. He wanted to go home.
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