Hot. That was the one word to describe his tears: hot. Hot and burning as they trickled down his face, leaving stinging trails that would dry on his cheeks. He refused to wipe them away. So many times he had almost lost him and never cried. Today, he cried openly in the cemetery, in front of all these graves, all these tombstones, and most importantly, in front of him.
Because he had lost him.
Of all the ways to die, he'd ended it himself.
And that was a terrible way to go when you are Sherlock Holmes.
John's hands were clenched into tight fists, forced into his pockets so they wouldn't throb from pain, from misery, and from anger. Sherlock had left him. He had admitted he was a fraud and he just left. For an eternity. But John wouldn't let go that easily. Sherlock was alive; he had to be. He had denied being that—that man with intellectual observance and deductive reasoning, the only man who John thought understood him. And not in the way Sherlock understood everybody else. Sherlock Holmes understood John Watson like he understood himself: despite the complexities, the oddities, the quirks, he understood with defiance and depth.
But John knew he was real.
He was the real.
The real, the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
The tombstone was black with his name carved in it. Nothing else. Only his name. Maybe because that's all he wanted to be remembered as: Sherlock Holmes. Nothing else, just him, his being, his demeanor. Maybe because the other things he was couldn't be written on a tombstone; they were only to be cherished, remembered, not to be written.
John sighed and cleared his throat, staring down at the ground, playing with patches of dying grass. The graveyard
was so sad, haunting. He wished that he wasn't here any longer; not himself. He wished Sherlock wasn't here, here in the graveyard, in the ground. He didn't deserve it. This place was too dreary, too gray…. too boring.
John could see himself in the tombstone—the black, shiny, new tombstone that would soon be tarnished by rain, by grass, by nature, by time. He looked at himself: tired and grimy. He hadn't slept in days and he couldn't force himself to shower.
This was the second time he'd visited Sherlock's grave. It hurt more than the first.
He kept thinking why Sherlock had chosen this one: Sherlock knew his work was dangerous and he wanted to have a nice stone to mark his place. But why this one?
John felt it was for him. Not for Mrs. Hudson, not for Mycroft, not Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan. The shiny reflection that showed whoever stood in front of the grave—that was for him. Because Sherlock knew he'd be the one spending the most time there. Maybe it was to show him how he progressed. Maybe it was to show him that he was watching too.
His eyes carefully inspected himself in the reflection of the dark, dark tombstone, and his head cocked to the left, pondering why. But then his eyes widened at the realization, and his lips parted to let a gasp escape from his system. He stared at the reflection, telling himself it was a lie, not to turn around, his brain was fooling him, stop!
But he turned around.
Despite his brain's arguments, he turned around.
And he smiled.
"Sherlock," he sighed, tears burning at his lower lashes, but he didn't mind because they burned for him, they burned for Sherlock out of joy.
And Sherlock, with his angular, stunning cheekbones and his collar popped up to make him look cool, smiled back. "Hello, John," he said. "I'm back."