A short one-off Johnlock fic. This is my first attempt at posting a story - please be kind but reviews are very welcome. Disclaimer - Sherlock does not belong to me - but if he did he would be tied up to my bed right now x
"I Know!"
"Why?" John's voice was broken and barely audible as he struggled to stand after placing a fresh bunch of flowers on the grave. The flowers were Mrs Hudson's idea, she had told him to change the flowers regularly so that people knew that they cared and had not forgotten. He was grateful for the support of the walking stick once again, he had needed it more and more since THAT day and now he never left 221B without it.
"It's the only question I ever wanted to know!" His voice becoming stronger and angrier "The question I still want a bloody answer to Sherlock!" He stepped to the side awkwardly and let his hand rest on the cold black marble. He felt the smooth stone under his fingertips, remembering back to the night they had run from the police car.
"Take my hand" Echoed the deep voice in his would have done anything for that insufferable man. He pressed his fingertips harder on the cold marble, closing his eyes he somehow wished he would be able to feel the warmth of Sherlock's hand back in his. But there was nothing. Nothing except for the cold.
"I thought you were meant to be a genius!" He opened his bloodshot eyes and turned to glare at the unwelcoming name on the stone. "You should be able to find a way to NOT BE DEAD. I thought you promised me a miracle." His face softened slightly as he suddenly remembered that Sherlock only promised this in his dream.
It was becoming harder to separate the two anymore. The physically difficult, infuriating Sherlock that would drag him to every part of London, and even out to the countryside on occasion, was fading away and in his place was the dream. John would often dream of Sherlock standing next to the bed with the blood still trickling down his forehead. Sherlock's eyes were never HIS eyes though. They changed as time passed, became dull and discoloured. In some dreams Sherlock would reach out his hand, a silent plea for Johns' touch, which would surely disappear if he reached back. He was afraid of even flinching anymore hoping that the dream would last just a little longer.
In other dreams Sherlock would sit and talk, John could feel his weight alongside his feet at the bottom of the bed but he never opened his eyes fearing that this would cause the dream detective to dissipate. Instead he screwed his eyes tighter and listened to the deep intoxicating voice. Some were promises - "I will come back to you soon" "I will show you a miracle" "Things will be different", others were pleas - "Please don't be angry with me" "You have no idea how much you mean to me, please try to be patient" "Don't do anything stupid!".
John only dreamt of Sherlock giving him one reason for his actions. "I did it for you!" He soon dismissed that reason from his thoughts though, knowing all too well that Sherlock was selfish. John often reminded himself that he would never be important enough or indeed enough of a reason for Sherlock to take his own life.
Drops of rain brushing his cheeks brought John back to reality. He stood up straight pushing the feelings to the back of his mind. He hated showing his emotions, 'What would people think if they saw me crying over my flatmate' he thought to himself 'they are sure to think there was something more'. There had never been anything between them physically. There had been a few exchanged looks but they never amounted to anything, and John always felt secure when Sherlock placed a hand on his arm. Despite this, he would never have acted upon it, he knew that Sherlock was incapable of any type of relationship.
John started to walk from the grave, he stopped and looked around to ensure that there was no one to hear him utter his innermost feelings.
"I love you more than you could ever know"
'Why bottle it up any longer' he thought to himself 'this situation will never change!' He turned away and kept walking towards the gate fighting to hold back his tears.
A small trickle of blood appeared between his all too thin fingers. He hadn't realised he was pushing his palms into the tree with such force. He struggled to stay still, knowing that any movement would give away his hiding spot. 'John is very smart after all and would know that someone is watching him' the curly haired detective thought to himself. He stayed quiet, listening to the anger in John's voice, wanting to run over and remind him of the promises, but keeping quiet would be best. It wasn't safe yet. Not for John!
"I love you more than you could ever know" John's voice strong and soft at the same time pushed Sherlock over the edge and he felt the tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. They burned his cheeks as they fell silently. He had no answer for John, all he could do was watch as his friend walked away and try to keep him safe, as always.
'I know!'