This is divided into past and present time. Thanks for reading.
Attention: you will not fully understand it if you read it using the app, since it doesn't accept italics, bold or underlying. You can try, but it will get a bit confusing on what's past what's present. If you don't have a computer nearby, just open the mobile version, that should solve it :)
-/-
Lestrade is there, his clothes soaked by the April rain. She would've liked it. She likes when he interacts with other people.
But Lestrade's words don't make any sense. A taxi? What on earth is he talking about?
And then it hits him so hard he drops the cup he is holding.
A taxi?
-/-
The rare morning sun makes her blushed cheeks look so lovely he gets lost in the moment.
She laughs while her hands travel through his hair.
Her kisses meet his chest and he closes his eyes wondering how did he ever deserve this.
-/-
She wanted new silverware.
He mocked her.
"We already have one. Why another?" he knew what she meant but he couldn't give her that. His mind escapes to his nightstand. Not now.
"I need something." and she closes her eyes but he wouldn't dare say she's vulnerable. She's preparing to attack.
"Silverware?" and his tone is what makes it too much to bear, as if he knew something she didn't, the condescending tone she hated.
And her fists were clenched so tight he knew the fight was coming.
He pushed her to it.
He pushed her.
-/-
He loves the smell of her hair. It smells of gingerbread cookies and formaldehyde.
He thinks of easy smiles and lab practices when he thinks of her.
She closes her eyes when he plays the violin. She likes the Tchaikovsky Opus 65.
He masters it in 2 days.
He stores the memory of her smile in a special place in his mind.
-/-
"Toss it out" John says.
"Can't." It's her favourite.
"Mate sh-"
"She loves this plant. She's gonna come back for it." Because she will. She wouldn't leave what she loves behind. She loves this bloody violet.
"She won't get back to you. You know that, right Sherlock?"
She wouldn't leave her favourite. She will be back.
He's certain.
He waters the bloody plant everyday.
-/-
Her mess is different from John's. John had an organized mess, his army self that controlled even his laundry.
Her mess is unexplainable. For him it's chaotic, but she somehow manages to function with it.
He complains about it when they fight, but he secretly loves his small bit of chaos, small evidences of her existence dispersed through the flat, a little bit of the madness that balances his organization secured in the essence of her.
She will take care of the mess.
He will take care of her.
-/-
Her necklaces are scattered around the floor.
He can't believe she had the nerve not to put them back in their place.
He doesn't do it either.
This is the way she left it.
This is how it's going to stay.
-/-
"Mary and John invited us over. Maybe we should go." her voice distracts him in the middle of a deduction.
He doesn't answer. His mind is revolving around cases and homicides and deadlines.
"Sherlock?"
Jack Rosendale had a sister in Cornwall, and that sister had three daughters and one son-
"Sherlock did you listen to me?"
Her three young kids had the same black hair as the dad, but the older daughter Connie was undeniably blon-
"Sherlock?"
Rosendale had been striked with a blunt object and Connie happened to play lacrosse, but why would Connie Williams murder her uncle? Unless he-
"Sherlock are y-"
"WHAT?!"
She drops the purse she was holding.
No one says anything for a whole minute.
She picks the purse up and the treacherous tear that escapes her left eye doesn't make the sentence she says any less serious.
"I won't be treated like this."
He loves her while she darts through the door and out the flat.
He shows up to John and Mary's house awkwardly late and guiltily holding a vase that he hopes will make it up for earlier.
There's a matching one for her waiting on their kitchen table when they arrive home.
When she kisses his knuckles, she doesn't mention that they are bruised, but instead says the only thing that matters.
"You are a good man, Sherlock."
And it's everything.
And she loves violets.
-/-
Her shift starts in 15 minutes and she's never late.
He misses her.
He waits for her outside but she must have used another door.
She doesn't want to see him anymore.
He takes the long way home because he hates that bloody route, the one she made everyday.
He hates everything she loves.
He hates himself.
-/-
Mycroft comes over more often than what he would like.
Soon enough, it's clear why.
He even smiles when he talks to her.
That day, leaving the flat, he looks Sherlock in the eyes and whispers low enough so she doesn't hear it.
"You found yourself a lovely goldfish, brother dear."
"I'd like her to be kept safe, Mycroft."
And the way his brother arches his eyebrows makes him believe that she already was being kept like that for longer than he would've suspected.
Mycroft likes her tea and he visits them every Saturday.
Sherlock squeezes her against his chest a little tighter after his brother is gone.
-/-
He can't face taxis anymore.
He began to lose a lot of weight since he started walking the 3 miles to St. Bart's every day.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he has to cook for himself now.
She didn't even leave him some leftovers.
She spoiled him with that dreadful food of hers.
He knows he said it was terrible and he is sorry and he wants her to come back so he can apologize.
He just wants to apologize.
He wants her to know he is so sorry, so incredibly sorry.
-/-
He gets it three days before Christmas. He hides it in his nightstand.
Now the snow has come and gone, it's the middle of March and he can't bring himself to ask her.
He wants to be sure she will like it.
She deserves perfect and he won't let it settle for any less than that.
He hopes his mum doesn't mind that he changed the stone.
She preferred discreet rings.
-/-
"Mate are you sure you are alright? You shouldn't be here so soon..." John's voice sounds uncertain as they open the doors of the morgue.
"I'm sure." his footsteps echo as he applies more speed to them then necessary. He wants to be fast.
"Really?" John says, speeding up his pace so he can keep up with him.
"Yes." and John doesn't say anything else because he trusts him.
He's not alright, of that he's sure.
His fingers are uneasy in his pockets as he stares at the files he came to check.
It's not her handwriting and it makes him triple-check all the information it contains.
He only trusts her.
-/-
Two months after he gets back, after his resurrection from the dead, she kisses him.
He never forgives himself for letting her be the brave one.
He loves her more than anything for it.
Her lips taste like peach and his hands fall in love with the angle of her waist before he even feels the need to breathe.
When he opens his eyes, he wants to know all her secrets.
She already owns all of his.
-/-
He was playing the violin that night, but somehow the chords of Mendelssohn's Opus 67 change and before he realizes his hands cheated on him and now he is playing Tchaikovsky again. He hates all of Russia in that moment.
When he tosses the violin against the wall, the distinctive sound of wood cracking finally makes him snap out of the little control he still had.
"YOU BLOODY LIAR!" he yells in the room that was once 'theirs' but now is just 'his'.
He calls her phone to apologize afterwards but she doesn't pick up.
He didn't really think she would, but he called anyway.
He owed her that much.
He was sorry.
But she promised she would stay.
John doesn't ask anything about the shambles of his violin that are on the garbage bin when he visits Sherlock the next morning.
He almost wishes he did.
-/-
"It's dangerous." he says. She needs to understand.
"I know." she answers, and she kisses him ever so softly.
He doesn't lose focus. She's not grasping the situation.
"No. You need to go with Mycroft. He's going to take you to a safe place." her hands are busy playing with the contours of his face and he looks into her eyes silently begging her to do him this favour.
"Sherlock, I can't go. I have my work. I can't just leave and stay wherever that place is for as long as you think is necessary."
He closes his eyes because she always makes things more difficult for him. He turns his back to her and prepare to leave the bed because now, after this, he needs to work. He needs to solve everything or she won't be as safe as he wants her to be.
But she wraps her arm around his waist and kisses the back of his neck, her breath tickling his head.
"I will be alright."
And if he believed in God he would make a prayer out of that.
-/-
"Are those her clothes?!" John asks him, his voice shocked. John's been making so many questions to him lately.
He just nods. Yes, they are. Her clothes. Her favourites.
"What are they doing in the wash then?"
Isn't it obvious?
"I thought she would like her clothes washed when she gets back."
It's only logical.
John's eyes say more than any words could ever begin to try.
-/-
She loves ice cream so much he wonders if there's some deeper explanation.
When he asks her, she spreads mint-chocolate all over his face.
Her lips feel cold and sugary and he loves it.
He loves ice cream now.
-/-
He can't remember.
He can't remember what the fight was about.
He remembers her storming out of the flat (so unusual, not her style, he was the one that did those sort of things) and he remembers her yelling at him but he can't remember WHY.
Oh.
Right.
New silverware.
He bought a few new sets now but she's still not back.
Maybe he didn't buy the one she wants.
He can't bloody remember.
He is sorry.
If she would just come back and tell him exactly which one she wants, he would buy a thousand of them.
He would do anything.
-/-
It's raining.
Thunderstorm.
She loves thunderstorms.
He leaves all the windows of the flat open.
Maybe she will feel pitiful and come close them.
He is sure she's looking.
In the morning, the living room is partially flooded.
But he was sure.
-/-
There's a soft knock on the door.
He knocks down the chair on his way to open it.
It's not her.
"Who are you?" he asks bitterly. How dare she not be here?
The man looks embarrassed.
"Hello. I am... I'm the taxi driv-"
He slams the door so abruptly that the chandelier still shakes for 5 minutes afterwards.
He doesn't want to talk to anyone that's not her today.
He can't believe she forgot his birthday.
-/-
The plant.
Her plant.
It died.
He looks at it on the kitchen table and, before he can restrain himself, the vase flies through the kitchen, the living room and out of the window.
He killed her plant, her favourite plant.
He didn't know violets shouldn't be watered everyday.
He recriminates himself for that.
Then, he learns everything there is to know about it.
He hates violets now.
It's his fault, all his fault.
He just wants her back.
He didn't know about it before.
He is sorry.
-/-
There's blood on the mirror.
On the floor.
On his hands.
He punched the bathroom mirror.
Her blood, his hands.
-/-
John shows up unannounced.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, because he thought he had made it clear he didn't want to see anyone.
"If Mycroft can't do it, I bloody will" John says, as he takes Sherlock's coat from the chair. "Get up."
He grabs Sherlock by the arm and ushers him to the door, so quickly that he doesn't know what to think of it.
"Where are we going?" he asks confused and a bit bemused because John's behaviour is so unusual it makes for a nice change of scenery.
"I'm taking you to see her."
No.
He stops dead on his tracks, all signs of amusement erased from his face.
Not even the strength of a thousand Johns will make him leave the flat now.
"Move your feet." John says, signing him to come outside.
"I'm not going anywhere."
John appears to have prepared for this.
"You are. I'm gonna take you there, even if you don't want to."
"I'd like to see you try." and there's no kindness in his words.
"Sherlock, this is ridiculous! I talked to Mrs. Hudson and she said you don't let her clean the place and you got mad at her over some necklaces she put on your nightstand? It's been 8 months. I know you loved her, we all did, but you need to start moving on!"
"Love." he says.
"What?" John looks like he is about to lose control.
"You said 'I know you loved her'. It's not the past tense."
This makes John's face drop. His hands drop down to his side and he sighs.
"You know Sherlock, I don't know how I can help you. I don't even know if I can anymore."
When he doesn't answer, John simply says:
"When you want to talk, you know where to find me."
But he doesn't want to talk to John. He wants to talk to her.
He has so much to say.
-/-
She was sleeping when he got into the bedroom. He tried to stabilize the tray with one hand while closing the door.
He couldn't and it fell, the fancy china he had picked dismantled on the floor. The noise woke her up.
"Sherlock! What is this?" her hair is messy and her voice is a little bit drowsier than usual, the sleep making her so adorable he almost forgets the disaster in front of him. "Is that... Eggs? And tea? Is that our posh china? Sherlock what is this?"
He looks embarrassed even when he tries not to.
"I- I tried to bring you breakfast in bed. I know that is common between couples and admired in the society, so I gave it a try, but this door just di-"
And the way she laughs and kiss him makes it all okay.
He lays his head on her chest and in that moment her heartbeat was the most beautiful thing he could ever hear.
When he picks up the destroyed breakfast, it doesn't matter, because she is still laughing.
He likes it more than Tchaikovsky's Opus 65.
-/-
He hates everything about this.
He hates the sun that is shining on him, he hates the ground he is kneeling on, he hates the fact that his brother came here before he did, he hates that she was here alone.
He is holding violets on his hands and he is sorry for everything.
He places them on the ground and his hands run through her name.
He misses her voice and her smile and her mess and he even misses the fights, and he would gladly lose all of them, because it doesn't matter, nothing matters, she can be right all the time, she can be wrong if she wants, she can be anything, he just needs her to be.
He hates the english language for forming the sentences he doesn't want to read.
"Molly..." and he never thought saying her name would hurt this bad. It had been too long. "I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry if I wasn't the best before, but please come home, come home and I swear it will all be better, I will be better. I miss you, I miss you so much, so much it hurts. Please Molly, please come home."
And his shoulders shake as tears silently leave his eyes and his fingers trace the pattern between her name and a date one year before.
She doesn't answer and that just makes him feel so alone he wonders if it will ever go away.
-/-
"Mummy, why is that man on the ground? It's going to get his clothes all dirty."
When Madeleine looks up from her father's grave, holding her son's hand, she sees the tall dark-haired man that is a few rows away.
"He is here to see someone he loves that went away too, honey." and Ben doesn't even acknowledge her answer, distract by the flowers again.
And when the man puts his hand inside his coat, Maddy thinks he will take out some flowers, a letter, a card, a picture, anything.
And the glimmering of the trigger prevents her from screaming for a second too long.
And then it goes off.