Lover's Eyes
Two years had passed since the day. John hadn't been going to his therapist for over a year now, half in the hope of getting over it all by himself (he was a soldier for fuck's sake, he used to kill people), half because he really didn't want to talk about such private and heartbreaking details of his own life with someone you could very easily be defined a stranger. Who, if that wasn't enough, needed to be paid for you to blabber away for an hour. Not for him, thanks.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to actually put some effort into getting over the fact that yes, yes, Sherlock wasn't there anymore, and yes, he was falling absolutely inside himself and no, he had no interest in anything anymore. His limp had come back almost immediately after the day and it didn't seem to have any intention of going away anytime soon, which was just great by the way. A broken body suited a broken man pretty fucking well.
And yes, he had gone back to the flat after all. It hadn't taken him that long really, despite what he'd told Mrs. Hudson: a week after, he was back there. Desperate for anything that could remind him of Sherlock, he spent his sleepless night hugging the Union Jack cushion and crying and downing endless cuppas. And then when he did manage to sleep, it was never in his own bed. Mrs. Hudson had since changed Sherlock's bedsheets, but still they had that distinctive smell impregnated in them, the smell that used to make him turn his head every time Sherlock used to walk past him, the one he'd learned to love so much. All his clothes were still in his cupboard, his things were still arranged as he used to put them, his shampoo, his toothpaste, his.. Oh well, what did it matter now? He was gone.
He'd meant it, you know. When he had asked Sherlock not to be dead, in that grey London cemetery, touching the freezing cold black marble of his grave. Don't be dead. And then, when he'd raised his gaze to look at the woods in the distance, he'd thought he'd spotted a tall figure that was watching him. But no, it simply couldn't have been.. He must have been having hallucinations.
However, he hadn't believed for one second what Sherlock had told him over the phone, a few days earlier. It simply couldn't have been like that, he couldn't possibly have faked everything. Sherlock was a good man, it was his good man. And he had never even had the chance to tell him. So he'd told his tomb, he'd let the words float away in the wind, hoping that somehow, somehow they'd reach him. Where the fuck are you, Sherlock?
And then there were the days when he woke up feeling less broken. He'd shave and have a long shower, he'd wear a cosy wollen jumper and he'd step out in Baker Street, breathing in the cold morning air. And then eventually he'd walk past some florist's and everything would come crashing down on him: he'd buy yellow roses and he'd take a taxi to the cemetery where Sherlock was buried. He'd walk on the rocky path to reach his grave, he'd replace the withered flowers with the fresh ones and he'd lean down to kiss the cold marble surface. He'd talk to him for a little while, occasionally making small jokes to which neither of them would ever have laughed, "Since you've been gone the Earth hasn't stopped going round the Sun, you know", and then inevitably he'd end up messing it up and he'd start to cry, uncontrollably and painfully.
I miss you. I love you, and I'll always will. Please come back.
That day hadn't been different from so many others. The taxi journey had been more unpleasant that ever, however, but after all those years jumping in and out of taxis, John wouldn't even mind the rude drivers anymore. He just wanted to put his feet up, have a cuppa and finish reading that book, possibly while listening to Babel by Mumford and Sons on repeat. Stamford had given him that record as a present last Christmas and he'd literally consumed it, he loved it that much.
Before going into the flat, he said a quick "hello" to Mrs. Hudson, who was downstairs in her kitchen, probably cooking something delicious judging by the lovely smell that emerged from the room.
"Oh hullo John, had a nice day, did ya?" the old lady said, leaning towards him to get a kiss on her cheek, which John obliged to deliver. He then sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
"I s'pose, yes. Went to see Sherlock, bought the milk, usual stuff. But yeah it was quite a good day overall, thanks" he answered, raising his shoulders and giving the hint of a smile. "Bloody cold, though, I'm freezing my ars-"
"Alright young man, no such words here huh?" Mrs. Hudson interrupted him. "Go and make yourself a nice hot cup of tea and get comfortable, dinner will be ready at 6 alright?" she said, and then smiled warmingly.
"Why thank you, Mrs. Hudson. You're an angel."
John climbed the stairs and he took notice that for some reason his leg didn't seem to hurt that much that day. Maybe he was getting over it, after all. Maybe that was it. He opened the door of the living room, suddenly feeling cheerful, he removed his jacket and scarf - his scarf - and as he closed the door, a couple of things happened at once.
"Just in time, kettle's just boiled" said a voice from the kitchen. Problem is, it wasn't just a voice, it was the voice he'd longed to hear again for, what now, 30 months? It simply couldn't be. He dropped everything he was holding, at once - his coat, the milk, The Sunday Times and two or three letters still addressed to Sherlock, one from Mycroft that he'd been planning on burning in the fireplace that night - and John's heart quite literally stopped beating.
And then Sherlock's slender figure emerged from the kitchen, his quirky curls framing his pretty face, the icy blue eyes piercing John's soul, a tight white shirt tucked in the same black trousers John had been touching that very morning. He wore a smirk on his face, which suited him pretty well, it always had, but still.. Still it couldn't be.
Somehow John managed not to cry or freak out or anything. He simply decided to rush towards Sherlock and raise a hand to punch him right in that fucking pretty face, over which he'd cried so long for, but Sherlock managed to stop his fist by grabbing it in his left hand. John then raised his other hand, not giving up this easily on what he wanted to do. Still, the fucker blocked his move. And then, with John not really knowing what was happening, Sherlock's lips were on his, his hands cupping his face, his body suddenly all over his, and John couldn't help but kiss him back and give in to Sherlock's touch.
They'd done it before. Just once. The night before Sherlock went away. They'd never talked about it, never had the chance. And now there he was again, against all odds, inhaling deeply his familiar scent, falling apart in his arms. John felt tears stinging his eyes, he felt his knees go weak and suddenly he was on the floor, taking Sherlock with him and burying his face to his chest, hugging him as tightly as he could, sobbing away.
"Do not.." he managed to say, "Do not fucking dare leaving me like this, ever again."
As he was saying this, something came to his ear. Familiar notes from a familiar song, the one he used to listen to the most those days, the one that killed him every time.
Do not ask the price I pay for I must live with my quiet rage
Tame the ghosts in my head that run wild and wish me dead
Should you shake my ash to the wind
Lord forget all of my sins
Oh let me die where I lie 'neath the curse of my lover's eyes.