Winter

It's a cold Sunday morning. It's the kind of cold that creeps into your bones and freezes every fiber of your body. The wind bristles through the dead leaves on the trees around him and there are heavy, dark clouds in the sky promising snow.

But he doesn't care; he doesn't even feel the cold, for he is waiting. John would be there soon. He would come. He always does, no matter what.

Sherlock Holmes stands in the shadow of the trees, a save distance between him the grave.

His grave.

He had to die to save his friends, but he can't quite leave John. This was a risk he was willing to take. He needs to see him. Again and again. See that John Watson hasn't forgotten him. See that he is alright, that he's still hanging in there.

And then, out of nowhere, there he comes, slowly making his way to his best friend's grave, his eyes sad.

I wish I could tell you that I'm still alive, John.

John stands still next to his grave, just staring, when a sudden gush of wind makes him wrap his jacket closer around his body.

I'm right here, John. So close. Just turn around, I'm here.

Sherlock can see him mumble something. He always does that. He mumbles. If only he could hear it. He fights the urge to sneak a little closer.

The first snowflakes begin to fall. Sherlock doesn't move. Neither does John.

Everything is still for a while and they both just stare into nothingness until the slight snowfall gets heavier and soon big and icy snowflakes whirl all around them. After what seems like an eternity, John slowly turns around, the snow slowly soaking his jacket.

John, just look over here. I'm here.

But he doesn't. He doesn't see him, only a short distance away, hidden by the shadows of the trees and the grey curtain of snow.

And then, he walks away, away from his grave, wet to the bone and an unreadable expression on his face, leaving a trail of footsteps on the white carpet on the ground.

Spring

When spring comes, flowers start blooming all around the cemetery. It's another Sunday and once again, he's waiting. There's a light breeze in the air and the graveyard lies peacefully, only disturbed by some squirrels chasing each other around the trees and his footsteps on the grass. Sherlock leans against a tree in the shadow, the same spot he always takes to observe.

The sun is blazing down, not a single cloud in the sky. It could be a beautiful day, but the second he sees the agonized look on John's face, the peace is gone and replaced by sheer despair. Sherlock fights the impulse to forget all of his plans and just run over to the grave and show him that he is, in fact, still there. Not dead and buried, but living and breathing.

I'm alive, John. Don't worry anymore.

But he doesn't. He can't. There are important things to be done.

Sherlock can see the limp has gotten worse since the last time.

Oh John, what have I done? I'm so very sorry.

John sighs deeply, Sherlock can almost hear him thinking. His own thoughts wander back to his tiny flat he had recently moved into. It's empty with no one to talk to.

I wish I could talk to you. I miss talking to you, John. Sometimes I do and then I remember that you're not there. I wonder if you do the same.

He doesn't even have his skull to keep him company. Not that the skull could replace John. He had always been alone for most of his life, always the freak, the weirdo, the one you better stay away from.

And then John had come along and everything had changed.

His only friend.

The only one he ever had.

The only one he ever needed.

And he had left him.

Summer

This Sunday John brings Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't come here in a while, but she always brings flowers, just like today. Always not his housekeeper. A smile twitches across Sherlock's lips.

They talk for a while and smile. Again, he's left wondering what they are talking about.

Mrs. Hudson then pats John on the shoulder and turns, probably to find some water for the flowers, but he could care less, because the smile on John's face fades quickly and is replaced by the sad look he wears every time he comes here.

You need to let me go, John.

John comes here too frequently, he's not letting him be dead. Not that Sherlock wants him to. John believes in him.

Still, John, you need to let me go.

This time, Sherlock is the first one to leave and to turn his back on the grave, yes, his grave. He walks away from John, away from his friend.

He doesn't see that John briefly looks in the direction of where he had just stood a moment before, then shaking his head and quickly smiling at Mrs. Hudson who's on the way back to him.

Fall

The leaves crunch under his feet as he unhurriedly paces to the oh so familiar tree that always hides him from John's sight. It's getting colder with every passing day.

He looks around for a few minutes, but the graveyard hardly ever changes. Boring. Nothing new to deduce.

Anyway, John would come any minute now. A light drizzle starts coming from the skies.

Half an hour ticks by and Sherlock begins to feel uneasy.

Where are you?

One hour.

But John, you always come.

Two hours.

Did you forget me, John? I know I wanted you to let go, but I didn't mean it.

Three hours.

An unknown fear starts nagging at him. John really didn't come. For the first time the graveyard stays empty.

Sherlock makes his way back to the street and calls a cab.

"Where to?", asks the cabbie.

"221B Baker Street".


thanks to my friend Eve for suggesting the title, it may or may not be a song title.