Title: Recovery
Warning: Reichenbach feels.
Rating: T
Here, in the final resting place of so many, it seems colder and rainier than the rest of London.
"I'm saying goodbye," John tells the gravestone, squaring his shoulders and setting his jaw, clenching his left hand subconsciously. It's as though he's expecting a reaction from the rain-streaked marble headstone, as if he's waiting for it to sulk.
He rubs a hand over his mouth, shifts slightly, frowns.
"I'm er, I'm-" He clears his throat not because he needs to but because he's hoping to buy more time, "I'm saying goodbye for good,"
He swallows thickly, and a light gust of wind sails through the trees, dispersing the stillness that has come to settle.
"You're gone," He says the words quickly, as though each one burns his insides. "You're gone and God damn it there's nothing I can do about it, but I- I'm starting to see you places, and-" his voice breaks faintly, "And that's not right, Sherlock…"
He pauses again, pressing his lips together at the same time he goes to wet them, momentarily trapping his tongue in the compress.
"I- I keep hearing your footsteps, or catching sight of people's coattails as they go around corners, and every single time I think…" He draws a sharp breath, "… You know what I think."
"They're starting to doubt my sanity, and you know what? So am I. I need… I need to… I need…" The word that follows and the word in his mind are not the same: You. "Balance."
"I'm not going to get that balance if I keep coming here, because every time I do, it… It breaks everything apart."
The headstone remains standing tall and indifferent.
John reaches out. He strokes his fingertips along the onyx marble, wiping away raindrops, lets his fingers trail down to the bullion inscription.
Sherlock Holmes
"So…" He murmurs, before he's briskly taking his hand away and his eyes no longer illustrate his emotions, "Goodbye. Thank you for… Everything. For being you. For… reminding me what it's like to be… alive. It was… It was er, good. Good while it…"
He has to swallow again, sets his lips in a firm line.
He stays silent, just stands professionally straight, eyes closed, the trees whispering around him and the grass icy beneath his feet.
It's when he goes to turn away that he really feels it. The cold. It stops him in his tracks, makes him close his eyes all over again and freeze to the spot. A frown weaves its way through his eyebrows and his lips purse ever so slightly as the hairs on the back of his neck rise; goose bumps start to spread down his arms.
There's a presence. As far as he is concerned in that moment, there's someone or something stood right behind him, close enough that he would fall into its embrace if he were to turn around.
He looks up at the clouds, looks anywhere but the reflection in the marble, tries to calm his breathing, his left hand tightening into a fist as he tells himself repeatedly that there's nothing there.
Nothing there.
Nothing.
He stands for a minute, letting his heart pound just as fast as it would when they were hurtling after taxis or caught up in the thrill of a chase.
Then, John Watson walks home, and does not look back. Not even once.
To him, it's the start of getting better.
To Sherlock Holmes it's something else entirely.