It had been two weeks since it happened. Two weeks of a completely empty heart. Two weeks of rejected phone calls asking for John to go to Sherlock's visitation, to speak at his funeral, to help lift his casket into the grave. John wouldn't do any of it. He was done.
He wasn't able to bear the thought of looking at his love's dead body right in front of him. He wasn't able to conjure up words about his feelings for Sherlock and how no one had ever known (besides Ms. Hudson, because one day she had walked in on John masturbating to pictures of Sherlock). He didn't want to let people see him cry hysterically over and over and over again because of that damn consulting detective.
But two weeks had been enough. John had to do it some time, and the time was now. It was a Monday, a day when there wouldn't be too many people there. John had spent hours at multiple supermarkets a few days before to try to find flowers to put on Sherlock's grave; eventually he decided on none, Sherlock would have deemed that as superficial. Instead he decided to bring both of their cell phones—John didn't need his anymore since Sherlock was gone. Sherlock's phone meant more to him than anything else.
Monday morning comes, and John gets out of bed after yet another sleepness night. That night was the worst; the knowledge that he would be standing next to a dead Sherlock was wrought throughout his dreams. John grabs his jacket, the two phones, picks up his cane, and heads out to grab a cab at 10 AM. Mrs. Hudson looks out the window after him, wishing she could understand his immense grief.
The cab ride seems to take forever. John's eyes pass over hundreds of streets, and vivid flashbacks appear before his eyes of the times he and Sherlock ran down them together. He shuts his eyes to try to make the visions stop, but they pursue him. He focuses hard on not crying in front of the cabbie; but by the time John pays the man, his eyes are red and dewy. He gets out and grabs his cane, hating how his leg has started hurting again since Sherlock's absence.
John treads up the long walkway to the cemetery with a fast-beating heart. The atmosphere here is eerie; dead trees extend their branches over the expanses of gravestones big and small that are scattered over a huge field of well-fertilized grass. The gates to the cemetery are rusted wrought-iron, and they once had a sign with the cemetery's name on top of it but it has since fallen down. Gravel crunches noisily under John's worn black shoes. He doesn't want to do this. He wants to turn back. But he reminds himself that his heart is beating, and Sherlock's isn't, and he continues.
John asks the lone man in the booth up front where he would find the gravestones with last names starting with "H." The solidary worker, an old man with scarcely any hair, two gold earrings in his left ear, and strange white scars on both of his arms, flips through a book of names with shaky hands. John stares at the ground as to not judge him further.
"I'm gonna need more than just H, sonny," the old man says in a stubborn voice. "What's the full last name of yer mate?"
"Err…" John stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I'd rather you just tell me where all the H's are, thank you. A-and he's not my mate."
"Well they're everywhere. Good enough for ya?"
I just want to walk around and find him on my own, dammit! I found him on my own when I walked into apartment 221B, and I'm going to find him on my own even if he's dead! John's thoughts rage against the man.
Wait.
221B, Baker Street. 221B.
Without answering the old man's question, John blurts out, "People get to pick their own plot numbers before they're dead, correct?"
The man scowls, but answers, "Yep."
"Can you tell me where plot number 221 is?"
The man groans and gets up from his leather chair, which has several tears in it. He leads John at an incredibly slow pace up through a winding network of gravel paths. John's breath is heavy from all of the walking, but fast because of his anxiety. He's seeing Sherlock. He's visiting the dead Sherlock. He shouldn't have come. He can't do it. He's not ready. He needs more time. He has to tell the man to go back—
Before John's thoughts can progress further into insanity, the old man interrupts him by stopping. John plows into his back, not paying attention. "Here we are, plot 221. Look around, sonny. I'm goin' back to the front," the man says. He briskly turns away and heads back down a hill, murmuring curses at John as he does so.
John takes a quick glance around before stepping onto the thick, overgrown grass littered with gravestones. He hears a crow call over his head—what a cliché way to set the mood, nature. The gravestones on this patch of grass are all roughly the same size and have exceptionally small writing on them. Shit, how am I ever going to find Sherlock's, John thinks as he steps onto the grass and starts to inspect gravestones. His head is down and he looks fervishly for any sign of the word "Holmes." He passes Adams, Browning, Slate, Perry, Meyer, Williams, Hart…where is Holmes? It has to be here somewhere! John crams his hand into his hair and sighs. His leg hurts. He wants to go home. He's not ready. He's never going to find Sherlock. The man he loves. Sherlock fucking Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes. Wait, was that-
SHERLOCK HOLMES
The grave is right in front of him! The gravestone for Sherlock is extremely small, dark grey, and looks incredibly new compared to the ages of decay around it. John's eyes stay glued to the name on it. He bites his lip and fumbles with his fingers in his pockets, and he decides to squat down as to read it better. His mind starts racing: I'm staring at Sherlock's grave. Sherlock is dead. He jumped off of a fucking building like an idiot and now he's dead and I will never see him again! He will never see me. Why can't I understand? He's DEAD. He will never move again. I'll never get to try and kiss him. He'll never hold my hand and take my breath away again. He never loved me. And still I'm in love with him. And he can't be dead this CAN'T be happening! God, why!
John squeezes his eyes shut so the tears will stay inside, but they come out anyway. His hands have become fists. His light brown eyes scan the rest of the grave marker: the date he died, his mother's name, an absence of an epitaph, and—that's it? John's eyes are at the bottom of the gravestone. That's all he gets to remember Sherlock by?
He blinks away his tears and scans it again, this time looking at everything more closely. Still nothing. He again gets to the bottom of the stone and—oh dear God there's a pair of feet there.
Those shoes are familiar.
John's eyes look upward.
That's his coat. That's his exact same coat.
John scoots backwards and slowly rises to a standing position.
He's facing none other than Sherlock Holmes.
John opens his mouth, then closes it. He blinks furtively, but Sherlock is still there, smiling as if nothing is wrong. John examines him closely: same trench coat, same mop of black hair, same bright eyes and scrutinizing look, same pursed lips; same Sherlock.
Still in disbelief, John manages to choke out, "No."
A smile is all his companion gives in reply.
John extends a hand out to touch him; maybe it's just a ghost? His hand alights gently on the dark blue fabric of his coat, and nothing changes. Sherlock doesn't move, and John's
heart skips a beat at the touch. He's touching Sherlock. A dead man.
"How?" John gasps.
"Sometimes jumping off a building doesn't kill people, John."
John tries to ignore the way his stomach flipped when Sherlock spoke. "Yes it does! It always does!" He retorts, trying to maintain a casual tone.
"Well, I was about to say your guess is better than mine, but it's actually not because truly I figured out what happened but I'm not actually going to tell you because it bothers you; also I thought you had gotten better at deduction, but apparently not. Sad. When was the last time you
shaved?"
John's lips were forced into a smile after the first word. His heart beats three times too fast in his chest and his mind swims with happiness. He's alive, John thinks to himself. He's absolutely alive.
After a few more seconds of silence, John can't bear it any longer. He lunges forward and grabs Sherlock into a massive hug, squeezing him tighter than ever before. At first Sherlock stands there with his arms by his side, refusing; however, after a few seconds of feeling John's heart beating against his own, he puts his arms around John and hugs back with an even greater ferocity. The two men stand there hugging for what seems like forever and a second at the same time. Neither wants to let go.
Sherlock's emotions are going wild. Should I try it? he thinks as he rubs John's back and feels their bodies so close. His heart is beating so fast, I think he… and Mrs. Hudson kept giving him looks when he was near me… and the way he acted on the phone before the jump. He's got to. I need to stop sounding like a child; but, God, he's just so cute! Sherlock smiles behind John's back and starts to pull away from the hug. He notes the way that John's fingers cling to him as he pulls away. Yes, that was definite. Go, Sherlock, go go go.
John starts to completely release himself from Sherlock's grasp, but the taller man pulls him forward. Their faces come within inches of each other. John's eyes widen at the close proximity, but Sherlock's stay in their unreadable state.
Sherlock finds that his arms are around John's waist, and John has slowly put his arms around Sherlock's neck. Oh. My. God. they think simultaneously. After a few moments of awkward but still strangely comfortable silence, John murmurs, "So…you were dead, and t—"
His lips are stopped by Sherlock's.
John draws in a sharp breath and immediately kisses back. His hands go up and entangle themselves in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock pulls John in even closer so that their bodies seem to combine into one. Their mouths form a fluid rhythm, dominance going back and forth. John discovers that he can feel Sherlock getting hard when John sucks on his lower lip; he repeatedly does that to drive the other man crazy. Sherlock drives his tongue into John's mouth and flicks it around, feeling the warmth and wetness that is John's mouth. John pushes back into Sherlock's mouth and explores with his tongue, brain completely dead by this point. They stay, twisted in each others' arms and kissing, for about five minutes before Sherlock has to stop. He has a full-blown erection and was about to rip off John's shirt before he realized that they were in public, specifically in a graveyard.
John takes a step backwards and looks away from the man he just kissed, blushing furiously and completely dazed. He sits on the ground on top of where Sherlock's body was supposed to be, to take everything in. Every few seconds he glances back up at Sherlock; he has his hands in his pockets, looking up and off into the distance like nothing at all happened. And this is what gets John angry. Sherlock always acts like nothing happened. Reaction to jumping off a building? Not dying, and subsequently not caring. Reaction to actually living instead of dying from jumping off of a building? Asking John when the last time was he shaved. Acting like it was no big deal. Then kissing John out of the blue, for no apparent reason. Reaction to kissing John out of the blue for not reason? Acting like nothing happened and looking at the fucking clouds.
He's always done this. He always ignores important things. He always acts like nothing matters when it actually does. And John is sick of it.
"Sherlock," John struggles to say in a calm voice.
"John," the other man replies in his usual, curt fashion.
"What just happened?"
"Well, you came to the graveyard to visit my dead body, which happened to be actually very not-dead and standing in front of you, and then there was some personal contact, and now you're on the ground. Any more questions?"
"What the fuck, Sherlock!" John roars and stands up. He advances on Sherlock. "You kissed me, asshole," he spits into Sherlock's face, hating that these emotions and those words have to go together.
"Oh yes, that did happen. Your point?" Sherlock continues to gaze into the distance and does not look at John once.
"Does it even matter to you? That you kissed me?"
Sherlock hesitates. Just tell him the truth. Just tell him that you love him too. "Yes."
"Then how come you're acting like the dickhead you usually are? How come you're standing there with your hands in your pockets, not looking at me, not looking like you give one fuck in the world? And, god dammit, how do I still find you cute?" John half-screams his words, not even flinching at the last sentence. It's already been said, he can't change anything.
Sherlock doesn't move; he doesn't know how to respond. He racks his brain furiously for how to solve this problem, but for all his years of research he never learned how to deal with emotions. Specifically bad ones.
John clenches his fists, wanting to knock Sherlock's head clean off. He continues, lowering his voice, "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. Dead. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
Sherlock cuts his eyes to the blonde quizzically.
"It killed me, Sherlock. I didn't eat for three days. I slept too much. I ignored all my phone calls. I didn't go to your funeral because I couldn't stand the thought of you lying there dead in front of me. Instead, I stayed in bed and did nothing. Nothing at all. Do you want to know why?"
A flicker of sorrow crosses Sherlock's expression, but he maintains his placid look quickly. He swallows hard and nods for John to go on. He wants more than anything to rush over, to hug John, to apologise and explain everything—but something keeps him from doing so.
John's voice snaps him back to reality. "Because I love you, Sherlock."
The strained but still sincere words throw Sherlock's heart into a flurry. They're what he'd wanted to hear for as long as he could remember. His heartbeat quickens and, for once, he smiles. He smiles a genuine, big-toothed grin, cheekbones raising higher than previously fathomable and eyes sparkling. He loves me, Sherlock thinks. He really, truly, actually loves me.
Sherlock reaches out for John but John jumps back, hatred blazing in his eyes. "I may love you," John says, voice quavering, "but it doesn't mean what you did is okay. I thought you were dead, Sherlock. You tried to kill yourself. You didn't care about me—"
"Yes I did!" Sherlock bellows. He snags John's arm and grips it tightly, staring into the eyes of his love. "I care about you an infinite amount," he whispers.
"Obviously not, because if you did, you wouldn't have tried to jump off of a building. Let go of me!" John wrenches his arm from the taller man's grasp. He starts to walk away, but Sherlock follows him doggedly. He shouts after John, pleading him to turn around and forgive him, screaming, "I love you" with no abandon.
After a few minutes, John whirls around. Tears sting his eyes as he sees the extremely dejected face of Sherlock. He feels his heart beat loudly in his chest as he makes his decision. He says, "I still love you, Sherlock. And I'm glad you love me. It's great, actually. Wonderful." He pauses to take in the smile Sherlock allows for a second. "But you broke me in half. I'm never going to be able to look at you the same. You've always been an ass to me, and this is it. You showed up today like nothing was wrong, like always, and this time there's something really wrong. I can't take it anymore. I don't know what I'm going to do, or if I'm going to come back to you, or anything; all I know is that now I'm leaving. Good-bye, Sherlock. Bye."
He takes off in the other direction as fast as he can, clutching his leg in pain. The worst part is that he knows his leg is always going to be in pain now.
Sherlock stares after John, tears flowing freely down his face, signature scarf blowing fiercely in the wind. He stands there until dark, his brain devoid of thought and bursting with emotion.