The apartment of 221B Baker Street was empty. For the fourth night in a row, John was unable to sleep. The sounds of the city streets below woke him. Every breath of wind that blew across the window shutters made him sit up in alarm, so sure Sherlock had returned. As illogical as it was, John would always check anyway, just to be sure. He'd make sure each window was unlatched, just in case Sherlock would return.
With a groan, John sat into one of the chairs in the living room, leaning back into the cushions and closing his eyes. The back of his eyelids were almost as dark as the apartment. However, it was there, on his eyelids, that he always saw the fall. His heart wrenched like it had been set on fire. John gripped his arm, his tremors returned. All he could do was sob.
Sentiment. Sherlock would have made fun of him for it, but that was all the more reason to cry. At least Sherlock's voice was in his head, telling him how silly this all was.
When the hours passed and he couldn't return to sleep, John got up and wandered to get dressed. He dressed warmly, and his eyes wandered over to one of Sherlock's scarves. Without hesitation, he grabbed it and wrapped it around his neck.
John left, his feet carrying him toward the place he knew he could feel some sort of peace. Some sort of closure. It was a long walk, and his limp made it difficult to continue sometimes. Sherlock would have made fun of him for that, too. But he wasn't here.
Finally he reached the grounds and looked down on Sherlock's grave sadly. He felt his chest burn again, but this time it wasn't as painful. Slouching down, John brushed off the leaves that had fallen on the top of the grave. His fingers traced the name, SHERLOCK over and over again. He sighed and sat down. There was so much he wished he could have told him before he'd gone. Before Moriarty had driven him to the edge of his wit. His arrogant, conceded, wonderful wit.
Their adventures kept running through his head after that, and John was relieved. Those were the happiest days of his life. Before he'd known what happened, John fell asleep on Sherlock's grave, his head resting comfortably against the cool stone.
Watching from afar, Sherlock smirked. John, always the sentimental type. He walked softly toward the grave, his feet making barely a sound. His dark trench coat shielded him from sight in the darkness of the night. When he'd reached John, he bent down.
It was easy to tell that John wouldn't wake at his presence His eyes twitched, indicating his REM cycle had begun. His breathing was slow and deep and peaceful. Sherlock reached out and placed his hand over John's. His pulse was slow and even too, his blood pressure low. He wouldn't wake up any time soon. Even if Sherlock didn't know the subtle indications, he would have known John. He'd seen John take countless naps in his chair at Baker Street, and knew when he was truly sleeping or when he was faking to avoid hearing Sherlock boast about his intellectual prowess.
Just as Sherlock was about to leave, John shivered in the cold. Likely his face against the cold stone wasn't helping his internal temperature, either. Sherlock sighed and sat down next to John, letting his body heat warm him. Soon, John was no longer shivering. Sherlock sat next to John until the first rays of sunlight began to touch the sky like golden fingers reaching out.
Sherlock stood and looked down on his friend, wishing he could have woken him. Wishing that he could give him his wish of being here, being alive. But he couldn't. Not yet.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, his voice catching.
Sherlock disappeared before John began to wake. When John awoke, he felt as though Sherlock had been there. It was a dream, though. It had to have been. When John felt it was time to leave, he placed a hand on Sherlock's grave and whispered, "I forgive you."