Unfinished Business.
Chapter One. Observation.
John stood over Sherlock's grave, eyes closed as he was unsure where to look. Couldn't look down, knowing what hid beneath the ground. Couldn't look ahead, not with that name engraved in neat letters across a gleaming headstone. Couldn't look up, with the sky that had no right to be so bright on such a dark day. And he certainly couldn't look left or right, because of who he knew would not be at his side.
So he kept his eyes closed for just a few seconds longer, before he finally let himself say what he wanted to. When he opened his eyes, he forced himself to look ahead, but he couldn't really see anything. It was like his vision had turned off, in favor of seeing the memories playing in his head. And finally, he was able to begin talking.
He felt a bit strange, monologuing to no one. Because even though he knew Sherlock's body lie a few feet under him, Sherlock wasn't there. He was talking to a rock, and he knew that, but this was the only place he could think to do it.
John said his words, not bothering to keep his voice from breaking. He tried to explain to Sherlock how much he'd meant to him, how much he cared about him. How much he missed him.
Before it became too much for him, he begged Sherlock for one more miracle. Because if anyone could pull it off, it'd be Sherlock Holmes. "Don't be," he paused, momentarily unable to even comprehend the word, "dead." He pleaded, not really hoping, just trying his best to express the thing he wished for the most in that moment.
He walked away holding his head as high as he could, feeling it was the best way to counteract the darkness that was pressing down on him. He couldn't give into it, couldn't give up on his miracle.
When he found himself back at his flat, he wondered what he was doing there. He hadn't been able to go back to Baker Street since he lost Sherlock, but suddenly he felt it calling to him. 221 B was his home. He knew it would feel empty, and sad, without his flatmate, but he knew he could never live anywhere else.
As he laid down in the small bed that had never felt like his, he decided to go back tomorrow to discuss the rent with Mrs. Hudson. He'd never be able to have another flatmate, he knew this, so the price would probably go up. But he didn't care. He needed it.
X
Sherlock stood a good distance away, watching the small crowd that had gathered round his grave for some reason or other. He didn't bother to hide himself, they couldn't see him.
He watched intently as everyone made their peace with him, examining the entire ordeal until there were only two people left. His landlady and his flatmate.
His lips involuntarily twitched as he listened to them discuss their anger with him, knowing they didn't mean any of it. Mostly, anyway. And then he watched Mrs. Hudson walk away, leaving only John standing over the freshly filled in grave.
A part of him wanted to move closer, to observe his friend more carefully. So analyze every movement, every word that fell from his lips.
But, for once, he didn't want to intrude.
He did listen, though. He heard every confession, every plea, every tremor in his voice. John was saying them to him, after all. The least he could do was listen.
Watching the doctor march away from the grave was like watching a movie. He'd suddenly gone from broken man who'd lost a friend to steady soldier who could face any fate.
He followed him of course, silent an invisible, always a few feet behind. Followed him everywhere.
And he sat next to him in his apartment, watching him constantly flicker between pain and resilience. He was relieved when the man climbed into his bed, since it had been almost three days since he had slept. At least he was finally trying to get some rest.
Of all the times Sherlock found himself bored with just sitting around, he was fascinated with a sleeping John Watson. He'd seen him sleep before, of course, since they had lived together for quite a while. But it was different now.
Because now he ran no risk of disturbing him.