You don't know what you have till it's gone
John made an effort to visit Sherlock's grave at least once a week. If it was down to him he'd be there all day everyday but his friends had put a stop to that very early on. Between Mrs Hudson, Molly, Sarah and Lestrade he always seemed to have something to occupy his time
John had stayed in 221B Baker Street with Mrs Hudson and sometimes, just sometimes, he would forget that things were so different now. He'd come home with the shopping after having another fight with a chip and pin machine expecting to be greeted with a witty remark and a kitchen half blown up with experiments. He would even wake up in the middle of the night hearing the soft sounds of a violin coming from the other room, These were the times that all other sounds in the flat were smothered with John's not so quiet sobs and prayers for Sherlock to come home to him.
His room upstairs had long been abandoned as he slept in Sherlock's now. His scent still lingered in there and it was truly the only thing that kept John Watson's heart beating these days. Every night he fell deep into his nightmares but it was no longer the war that haunted him. It was Sherlock. Standing on that roof. Leaving his note, before jumping to his death, when all John could do was stand and watch. Three small words, forever unspoken now plague his every minute of every day. In life Sherlock had never known how John felt. "What was the point in admitting feelings you know won't be returned" was always his excuse. But it's true what they say, "you don't know what you have till it's gone" and now every movement around their flat, every time he puts new flowers on the grave or even talks to their old friends makes him realise he is more than ever, in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Standing now on this cold winter's afternoon, he finally decided he had the courage to tell Sherlock how he felt. Even if it was just telling his grave.
"I was always so scared to tell you Sherlock. To be honest I was surprised you didn't figure it out yourself being as brilliant as you are" He paused and let out a long breath before continuing.
"Okay then, here goes nothing. I love you Sherlock. Yes me, stupid idiot Dr John Watson fell in love with you, the world's only consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes."
John was kneeling on the ground in tears now, head in his hands so he was completely oblivious to the shadow emerging from the trees until it lifted him off the ground and turned him around. Suddenly he was face to face with the man whose death he's been mourning for so long now. The same pale skin, those chiselled cheekbones and the dark curly mop of hair on this head unchanged. He looked up into eyes that were very much alive. Sherlock then lent over so they were level and whispered in John's ear
"I love you too, you idiot"
The tears filled both their eyes as they were joined together once more in a frankly bone crushing hug, Neither said anything more, their silent words of both hearts speaking loud enough for anyone to hear.
Sherlock was home, he loved John and John loved him. Moriarty was dead and so were his henchmen. Nothing could be better. And so the two men stand, perfectly content in each other's embrace, neither man wanting to let go for fear of losing the other again.
Slowly the sun sets over the graveyard and Sherlock and John make their way home. Back to their home, to the welcoming arms of happy friends with many questions, but they couldn't care less. They had each other now, more than before. Nothing was hidden anymore. They had acknowledged their feelings and there was no denying, they were in love.