Mourning and Moving On
SHERLOCK'S P.O.V.
M.H. – John is fine. He's moving on, he's in a relationship; stop delaying and finish the job you've started.
In Mycroft's text Sherlock felt the double-edged sword of relief and jealousy.
Who was this woman to think she could take his place at John's side? Who was she to think they could have anything close to what Sherlock had had with him?
And then he felt guilt. Who was he to begrudge John the one person who seemed to be getting his life back together? What kind of a man faked their own death and left their friend to deal with the consequences?
A man without a heart, Sherlock's mind hissed at him.
"I have a heart," Sherlock muttered to himself, rolling over and putting his back to the now-silent mobile, "I must have."
He remembered the feeling of exhilaration as he'd ran through the London alleyways, knowing all he had to do was glance across and see John there, forever at his side: loyal, trusting, helping, caring. John had cared more about Sherlock's wellbeing than Sherlock himself.
He remembered going to Angelo's, listening to John deny they were dating. He hadn't been bothered by the insinuations, not like John had, and eventually he'd realised that the labelling didn't matter to him at all. All that disturbed him was John's insistent refusals; as though the allegations were something bad, something to be shunned.
He remembered coming home late, when they were both exhausted after a case – too tired to eat, too tired to drink, too tired to do anything but sleep. When John was so tired he didn't even bother climbing the stairs, they just stumbled into Sherlock's bedroom and slept beside one another, comfortable and uncomplicated.
He remembered looking down at John from the rooftop – because lately any reminiscing had been accompanied by a sharp reminder of that day – and feeling the fierce desperation inside for another option, one that didn't include leaving John behind. By then it was too late though, he'd known it even as his mind rebelled against the idea, as he murmured his last goodbye, shed a final tear and threw his plans into action.
He fell asleep with John's yell ringing in his ears and tearless sobs shuddering through him.
JOHN'S P.O.V.
John awoke with a smile on his face for the first time in nearly a year.
He rolled over, and looked down at the woman curled up in bed beside him, her red-gold hair splayed messily across the pillow. The spill of freckles across her cheek and the long shadows of her eyelashes on his cheeks seemed so lovely and innocent and so utterly her. There were a half-smile curving her lips even now. She never had bad dreams – at least not in the past week they'd been sleeping beside one another – and John had found he didn't either when he was with her.
"'Morning," she murmured, reaching up to trace his jaw with her fingertips, he blinked and looked down into her suddenly open eyes. The pure blue of her irises glittered. It was so cliché, he knew, but she had the sort of eyes a man could fall into.
"Good morning, Mary," he whispered back, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, brushing her fringe out of her eyes and then reaching to pull her against him. They lay beside each other for a while, enjoying the feeling of togetherness, before she suggested a cup of tea and they set about their morning regime.
He wanted to grin at that. They had a routine. They – John and Mary – had a small home together, a comfortable happy house tucked away on the outer edges of London, they had a big bed and a morning routine. They had each other. But, most of all, John had Mary, someone to fill that gap left inside when he'd found himself bereft of Sherlock.
John stopped, his hand pausing mid-pour and tipping the sugar for Mary's tea on the counter accidentally. He was terrified and pleased to realise he'd hardly thought about Sherlock in the past few weeks. Since meeting Mary his nightmares had lessened and then stopped, he'd stopped sinking into those terrible periods of wallowing that had previously seized him…he'd just stopped grieving for a man who was never coming back.
Mary walked into the kitchen, chuckling at the mess he'd made on the kitchen top and reaching out to grab the spoon from his hand. He dropped it with a clatter, turning to her and pulling her into her arms. They were close in heights, so he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet pomegranate scent of her perfume and pressing a kiss to the hollow beneath her ear.
They pulled back, she was blushing ever so slightly, smiling dazzlingly. "What was that for?" she laughed a little breathlessly.
"Thank you, Mary," he said simply, "without you, I…I don't know what state I'd be in right now. But I certainly wouldn't be happy – and that's because of you. It's because you're lovely and charming and beautiful and witty and because I love you." Her creamy skin tinted to a pretty pink and she leaned up to kiss him deeply.
"And I love you," she sighed against his mouth when they broke apart. He pressed their bodies together and held her warmth against his, and in that moment it seemed like the events of the previous year hadn't happened, like he'd been with Mary forever and always would be.
They stood together, happy and besotted and kissing each other lingeringly until long after their tea went cold and the sun had risen to the middle of the windows.
SHERLOCK'S P.O.V.
Sherlock was worried, he was biting on his lip and watching the seconds of the clock tick by. It was an annoying habit he'd acquired, watching the clock, when time had mattered very little to him before.
The clock reached it, the exact second, minute, hour and day of his fall. He counted the seconds, recalled the events. He ticked them off mentally: that was when John called my name, and when the cyclist hit him, and when he checked for a pulse, and when the medics removed the body…
He wondered where John was. He wondered if John would bring flowers to his grave.
He wished he could see his dear doctor soon.
JOHN'S P.O.V.
John was out of breath; both from all the dancing and from how ridiculously well Mary wore that pretty black dress of hers.
She walked over to him, grinning and chatting away with her friend Lizzie. The double date had been Mary's idea – a good one. He and Mike, Lizzie's husband, got on great, and the girls couldn't have been having a better time.
"John," Mary sighed and he pulled her close and kissed her lightly on the mouth, her eyes were dazzled and her face radiated joy, "are you having a good night?" she murmured in his ear, arm wrapped around his neck.
"I'm having a wonderful night," he replied earnestly, kissing her once more and letting her move back and take a seat around their table. He glanced down at his watch, it was 10.45pm and he wasn't even tired. Absently, he noticed the date…Hmm…he thought, disturbed briefly, there's something significant today…did I forget something?
But Lizzie drew him into conversation about his time at medical school, a topic full of funny anecdotes to keep the tone light and happy. He didn't dwell; if it was important, he wouldn't have forgotten.
It wasn't until he was back at home, Mary already in bed waiting for him, that he looked down at the little blue scarf hung over the back of the living room door, his one and only memento of his friend. The realisation struck him like a freight train and he dropped onto the sofa, aghast.
How could he forget?
He hung his head in his hands, suppressing the sudden welling of grief.
How could he forget Sherlock?
But he was forgetting. He was moving on, more and more every day. With a sigh he stood, leaving his jacket on the back of the settee and walking into the bedroom to sleep. If Mary noticed the tears in his eyes she made no comment, just kissing him goodnight and letting him curl himself against her back as they fell comfortably asleep.
I'll visit the grave tomorrow, he told himself as his eyes slid shut. I'll take some flowers, he thought, and then, immediately, no, Mrs Hudson would've taken some already, and anyway, Sherlock wasn't much for displays of affection…
SHERLOCK'S P.O.V.
Sherlock had snuck out of his safe house, curiosity getting the better of his once again, and made his way to the London cemetery where he'd find his grave.
He lingered there all day, watching miserably as Mrs Hudson came and went. Molly stopped by, tearfully leaving her own bouquet. He watched and he waited. When darkness fell, he found a bench to sit on, and when night deepened he face the growing reality: John wasn't coming.