Well this is my new Sherlock story, I know it's really angsty (is that the word) I guess so... anyway I'm sorry. I've been in that kind of mood after I watched 'The Reichenbach Fall' I think everyone does though... Anyway, on with the story!
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock or your tears (those are Moffat's)
John stood over his grave in the fading sunlight. His grave. Sherlock's grave.
It had been 3 months since he fell and 3 months since the last time John had been to his grave. He knew he should've visited every other day like Mrs. Hudson did, but he couldn't bring himself to it. He never knew what he would say and just standing there would bring all the flashbacks rushing for him to remember. He just couldn't do it, it was too painful.
Yet, here he was standing next to his grave. Just like he feared, the flashbacks started pounding him.
At the funeral when he punched Mycroft for causing this; or when Sherlock just met him and knew everything about his tortured past just from the way he held himself or his speech pattern. The way he played the violin at all hours of the night and kept John awake. The way he shot the wall when he got bored and always had at least one science experiment involving human body parts going on in the kitchen.
And even the way he insulted people when they didn't understand his way thinking.
All of a sudden John's eyes started to water and he looked down in shame.
"Why am I crying?" He wondered to himself, wiping his eyes forcefully. Although he didn't want to keep thinking, he couldn't stop himself.
He remembered the way Sherlock never ate unless John forced him to, and even then he barely ate. He thought about Sherlock's coat and his scarf; the way he always wore it outside no matter the temperature. He remembered Sherlock's mass of dark, black curls sitting on top of his head.
And his cheekbones. His gorgeous, sharp cheekbones.
He hit his hand against his head multiple times and sighed. He doesn't deserve to think of Sherlock this way. John knew Sherlock would never love him the way John loves him. He remembered the first day he met Sherlock, and he said he was married to his work.
Even if he knew this, and even though he tells people who mention that they are together that he isn't gay, he couldn't help it. He loved Sherlock's brilliant mind and it crushed him to know that people thought he was a fraud. It crushed him to know that he missed his chance with him. It crushed him to know that he fell, and it absolutely killed him to know he is never coming back.
John opened his raw eyes to realize it was completely dark except for the street lamps illuminating the night sky. It shone over Sherlock's grave causing it to glitter. He also noticed that sometime in the time he was here, he had collapsed to his knees. John stood up slowly, ready to leave, but before he did he went up to Sherlock's grave and whispered so quietly that even if you were standing a few feet away from him you never would have heard.
"I love you Sherlock, and I miss you every day. I'm terribly sorry and hopefully one day you can forgive me for not visiting sooner."
With that, he turned around and slowly walked back to 221B Baker Street to sleep away the pain of losing the man he loved so dearly. The only consulting detective in the world. A man named Sherlock Holmes.
Don't blame me... I'M SAWRY! IT'S NOT MY FAULT! BLAME MOFFAT AND MY FEELS! *Cowering behind my chair*