His therapist thought it would be a good idea, to breathe something than the memories of Sherlock. Six months after the fall, he moved out of Baker Street, and a year after that, was his last visit. Now, three years, four months and five days after Sherlock's death, he's standing once again in front of the same cold marble that is now Sherlock Holmes.
John walks closer, not looking away thinking that if he stared longer it'll bore holes in that thick mocking marble but John knew that he'll never win a staring game against Sherlock, never did and never will. Closing the gap, he ducks his head down to give him a quick small peck, it became a habit, a ritual, and a greeting for him. Sherlock never complained so he kept doing so.
"I know you don't like flowers but, I brought you one anyway." with his leg constricting him to kneel, he bends down to place a rose with petals that is pure white satin inside and red as blood at the outside just in front of them. "It's an Osiria" He said positioning to sit him self, his back turned to Sherlock so he can lean against him while he stretches his legs forward with his cane beside him.
It rained that morning, just before he arrived and the moisture of the ground found its way through his trousers but he didn't mind, it's been twenty two months and five days since he tried to move on and a little wet patch on the back is a little price to pay.
"Do you remember…" he said after almost half an hour of silence, "the drugs bust? You told Anderson," mimicking Sherlock, "'I'm a high-functioning Sociopath, do you research'" he laughs knowing that if Sherlock's there beside him he'd scowl at the name 'Anderson' and snigger at how good John was in failing to imitate him. There's a long pause and he sighs.
He feel tired all of a sudden, his heart caught in his throat and a tear is threatening to escape his eyes. So he closes them.
"And remember when you told me how London would fall if Mrs. H leaves Baker Street? Well, without you, I... Everything fell." He wants to talk more, but he finds it hard when you're fighting back a whimper.
"I don't need a case to drive my adrenaline high. I don't need a gun pointed at my head to keep me alive and pumping, and I certainly don't need a vest of semtex to know that you care and God you do because you're not a sociopath... You're nothing close to being a freak. You're perfect. You're you and everything is you, and that's enough..." He's breathing hard now, trying to grasps as much air he needs because it took a lot of strength and breath to tell Sherlock how he feels and still he knows what he said was not enough to sum his life with Sherlock, how badly he wants to condemn the heavens for taking him away from John. And in his ever so slightly voice he whispered, "I don't need a perfect life, Sherlock. I need you, want you."
The wind if not calm, was sympathetic. It humms John's little memory of Sherlock's violin playing, a sweet, painful melody that mocks him. The image of Sherlock in his dressing gown, the worn but gently handled strad tucked between his shoulder and chin, a playful smile painted across his frame and everything hurts again.
He lets the another minute to pass, trying to calm his self before he starts again "When I saw you, on that pavement... when I... took your pulse, it wasn't just yours that dissapeared. You took mine with you... the only difference was, I was breathing." But his heartbeat starts to pounce through his chest again, anger and regret fueling every pump of blood, hurting his ears with its loud deafening thumps.
"Seven months ago," he clears his throat as if it'll help the pain in his chest lessen, "I met a lovely girl. She's beautiful," he said "she..." he stopped to shift in his sit, his leg's starting to fall asleep "She, uh, makes me laugh, she makes me tea, she lights up the room and she likes me. She's everything I could ever dream of." He said, letting out a sigh and fighting the urge to clamp up instead of telling everything that Sherlock didn't need to know. "But... If God sent her to me... He forgot one thing" there's a brief pause which was immediately followed by a series of sobs, he wipes them gently as he tries to plaster a perfect outer smile, "She's not you."