"Breathe your smoke into my lungs
In the back of the car with you I stare into the sun
Still not too old to die young
The lovers hold on to everything
And lovers hold on to anything"
Jonh remebers it like it was yesterday. Their first kiss. He could still taste the cigarette on Sherlock's tongue. He wanted to preserve the look of shocked bliss on Sherlock's face.
"J-John, you just kissed me."
"Yes I did. Did you mind?'
"No. It was... rather enjoyable."
"Then let's have another."
They got kicked out of the taxicab, but it was worth it.
"I chased your love around a figure 8
I need you more than I can take
You promised forever and a day
And then you take it all away"
A quick survey of the flat at 221B Baker street would make it seem as if someone was waiting for a date.
Two places at the table were set.
Two glasses of wine.
But dinner lay forgotten and the two bedrooms were now superflous.
John would have many fond memories of this night. God, Sherlock was a screamer.
"Place a kiss on my cheekbone
Then you vanish me
I'm buried in the snow
But something tells me I'm not alone
But lovers hold on to everything
And lovers hold on to anything"
A snowball fight seemed childish to Sherlock at first, but when they fell over into the snow, he could sneak a few kisses from John.
He was cute with that little button nose of his, ruby red.
"I chased your love around a figure 8
I need you more than I can take
You promised forever and a day
And then you take it all away"
"I'm so sorry John."
He held John.
He knew Johns tears were usless.
They wouldn't bring his sister back to life.
He held John.
He would hold him for not much longer.
He knew what was coming.
He loved John.
He couldn't tell him of the oncoming storm.
So he held him instead and enjoyed their last few days together.
"So, Lovers hold on to everything
And lovers hold to anything"
"This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
"Leave a note when?"
"Goodbye, John."
"I chased your love around a figure 8
I need you more than I can take
You promised forever and a day
And then you take it all away"
Fuck his therapist.
Fuck the newspapers.
That was his Sherlock.
His Sherlock was not a fake.
His Sherlock held his hand when he was alone in the world of depression.
His Sherlock kissed his nose every morning.
His Sherlock infuriated him.
His Sherlock loved him.
His Sherlock was not a fake.
He loved his Sherlock.
He hated his life.
He wanted to feel what Sherlock felt.
'Oh good.' He thought.
'I have a crowd.'
He looked at the people milling down below Bart's.
He closed his eyes.
He stretched out his arms.
"I'm coming for you Sherlock."
His arms were twisted around, his eyes still closed, the steel vice of Sherlock's lips gripped his.
"No John, I came for you."
They would both remember that day.
They would both remember the salty taste of each others kisses.
They would never forget.
Till death did them part.