(A/N: BEHOLD FOR I HAVE NOT PERISHED! I'm not gone. Just stuck. And working so hard to fix that, but it's difficult. This little gem is something I wrote GOD knows how long ago and, during a moment of boredom, found again. It was going to be longer, but I realised that it didn't need to be. So I touched it up, finished it, and decided to post it. :) Hope it meets your fancy. :3 Please don't kill me. }:] )
John stood over the tombstone, Sherlock's name glinting in the last rays of the day. The silence was only broken by the sound of birds singing. God how John hated that sound. They were mocking him. His loss. Always so cheerful when he could only feel misery. It's been almost a year since Sherlock… since Sherlock left. Both Molly and Lestrade have both felt the grief of loss, accepted it, and were now on their way to recovering. John, however, still felt the sting, the burn, that accompanied death. Eyes trained on the name, John slowly rubbed his chest, leaning heavily on the cane in his left hand.
With Sherlock gone, John's limp had returned and he had gained a new psychosomatic injury, a constant hollow ache that blossoms from his chest. He had also begun having nightmares, but not of Afghanistan. No, those would have been a blessing compared to the horror that replays over and over again when he closes his eyes. John shook his head, dispelling images from behind his closed lids.
Every day for the last year, John had faithfully visited Sherlock's grave. On holidays, John would bring the same bottle of cheap champagne pour himself and Sherlock a glass. He would sit, leaning back against the grave, sipping the bubbly liquid, and simply talk. He would talk about work. He would talk about Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He would talk about how all holidays seem pointless now. How they all seemed hollow and superficial. He would talk about everything except him and Sherlock. That subject was taboo.
John would sit and talk till his glass was empty, till the bubbles had died in Sherlock's glass, till the sky began to darken. He had to fill the silence with something. The silence could kill him. And when it grew too dark to see or when the throbbing pain in his leg grew too strong, John would slowly stand, pour Sherlock's glass of Champaign over his grave, and stride away without saying farewell. The words "Good-bye" hurt too much.
But today was different. Today was a special sort of holiday. Today was Sherlock's birthday.
John shifted, taking the weight off his left leg, clearing his throat. "I-" the words died on his tongue. John tipped his head to the sky, sighing shakily. "It's your birthday today." John tucked his chin against his chest, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking another deep breath. "H-Happy birthday," he choked out. "Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson all wish you a happy birthday too. Heh," John gave a small chuckle. "I'm sure you would be scoffing right now. You'd be insisting that there is no need for congratulations. You'd be saying that celebrating the day of your birth was illogical and pointless. That it is no more special or different than any other day of the year." John tried to laugh again but it turned into a sob.
"God, I miss you so much," he gasped. He closed his eyes, unconsciously rubbing his chest as he composed himself. John reached into his pocket pulling out a small package, carefully wrapped in a rich blue paper with a black ribbon tied around it. "I-I got you a present. It's not much, but, you know, it's the thought that counts. Yes, yes, I know. 'Sentiment,'" John scoffed waving his hand in the air. "But let me have this. Please. It would make me feel better. If just a little bit." He thumbed the silky ribbon before quickly setting the present at the base of the headstone.
"I have to go now. Night shift." John dug small circles with his shoe. He stood there for a minute or two, staring at the ground, his brow furrowed and eyes glossy. He sniffed before taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Happy birthday, Sher-Sherlock," the name came out a choke and the tears were finally released, silently sliding down. John's hands flew to his hair, pulling at the greying strands. "I can't do it anymore. I can't keep living this lie that everything has been or ever will be okay. Y-you are … were such a big part of my life, I don't know what to do now that you're gone." John couldn't stop the words that tumbled out. "I miss you. I need you. I love you," his voice hitched, barely a whisper. "There. I said it. No going back. I love you, Sherlock. I love you. I love you. I love you."
John saw nothing through his tears. He heard nothing but the words echoing around him. "I love the way you smile and the way your eyes light up when you're on a case, especially a difficult one. I love the way your hair curls around your ears and the way your nose flares when you're thinking deeply. I love the sound of your deep voice and I love the way you say my name." Each shuddering breath grew more and more difficult as his chest and throat began to tighten. "I love the way you fiddle with everything when you're bored and the way you lounge about, sprawled over any surface no matter how small. I love the way you can know a man's life story with a glance and yet I can still surprise you." John's voice became a whisper. "I love the way you tease Mycroft and insult Anderson. I love the way you adore Mrs. Hudson like a mother, even though you would deny it if you had the chance. I love the way you look at me or listen to me or touch me, even if it was just a bit of contact…" Finally the downpour slowed to a dribble. "I love you for all your brilliance and idiocy and strengths and faults. I love you. I love you and I never got to tell you…"
John grew silent, his shoulders shaking as sobs wracked his body. "I can't do this, though…" he whispered. "I can't keep coming back. Each day. It's just a reminder that you're gone and didn't even know…" He took two deep breaths and stood straight. John gripped his cane tightly as he turned to walk away. After two steps, he stopped, looking over his shoulder back at the grave for one last time, the small present still resting at its base.
"Good-bye, Sherlock," he whispered before walking off, his limp more pronounced than ever.
Sherlock waited till John passed through the rusting gate of the cemetery before taking the long walk to his empty grave. He really needed to stop this. The whole point of faking his death was to remove the threats, not visit London every chance so he could pine after the life he had. And yet here he was, spying on John and waiting for him so Sherlock could get a glimpse of his flatmate to determine his health. Each time it hurt. It hurt to see how heavily the man leaned on his cane. It hurt to see the new creases in his face, the spreading grey in his hair, the way his hands trembled. It hurt to see how thin he had become.
At first, Sherlock's mission didn't call him too far from London, allowing him to return at least twice a week. Then the change was gradual, barely there. But as the list of Moriarty's operatives grew shorter, the distance he needed to travel grew longer. Soon Sherlock was lucky if he could see John once a month. But now Sherlock was nearing the end of his list, the snipers that Moriarty employed being the last three names to take out. With the aid of Mycroft, Sherlock had been able to pinpoint the location of Lestrade's to-be killer: hiding out in Glasgow. Coming from South Africa, Sherlock decided to take an extra day to visit London, to see John.
Now he was deeply regretting the decision.
His extended absence made the changes far more prominent. It certainly didn't help that it was Sherlock's birthday. Sherlock could remember the first few holidays after his "death". John would do as he always did to celebrate anything: splurge on some champagne and share it with Sherlock. Except the first holiday John drank the entire thing himself and fell asleep on the grave, clutching at the grass. Since then, only two glasses were poured and the rest of the bottle was disposed of in the trash by the gate.
But this time, John brought something other than the champagne. In fact the champagne was suspiciously absent, indicating a short visit. It was difficult to discern what John had brought due to the distance, but Sherlock was almost positive that John carried a package within his coat. So he waited for John to finish, as he always did to give John that bit of privacy, before investigating for himself.
Drawing up to the polished marble, Sherlock expected to feel that same sense of strange calmness fall over him. Each time he followed John's footsteps to the empty grave, Sherlock's mind seemed to settle, an inexplicable phenomenon that remained consistent throughout each visit. However this time the stillness failed to soothe Sherlock's buzzing mind. Instead, every detail jumped out at Sherlock and he could see where John shifted in place, where John had anxiously dug his toe into the ground.
Following the soft indents on the grass with his gaze, Sherlock finally saw the package that John must have left.
It was small, a simple box wrapped in blue paper with a black ribbon. Curious, Sherlock slowly reached out to pick up the present. The present that John had left. The present that John had brought and left for Sherlock, for his birthday. Shaking the gift softly, Sherlock frowned when he heard nor felt anything shift inside, making it almost impossible to predict the contents. There was no way he could know beforehand. And Sherlock hated not knowing. It was almost enough for him to tear into the present like the child he once was.
But the memory of how John limped out of the graveyard stopped him.
Whether John knew that Sherlock would actually receive the present or not, he had obviously put a lot of thought and time into the small present. A strange surge of warmth filled Sherlock. It took him a moment to identify it: Sentiment. Sherlock scoffed lightly. He had never thought much of the emotion, seeing it as a weakness to be exploited.
Unfortunately that's exactly what happened. John limped into Sherlock's life and never left. And they always leave. At first Sherlock hadn't been able to figure how John could possibly benefit from sticking around, but as the weeks turned into months and into years, Sherlock realised that John stayed for nothing more than Sherlock's companionship. By that point it had developed far beyond acquaintance or companionship, or even friendship. John had put his roots deep in Sherlock's life and mind and the metaphorical heart that he shielded so strongly. But Sherlock didn't mind. He had John and was happy.
But then Moriarty appeared and tried to take John. The absolutely crushing fear that overtook Sherlock causing his mind to stall. All he could process was the bomb strapped to John's chest. There was nothing he could do that would save them both, save John. And just when he was about to sacrifice everything, Moriarty's mind was changed, leaving Sherlock with the daunting fact of just how dear John was to him.
Sherlock tried to not let it change anything. He made an effort to keep his own desperate crush at bay and he mostly succeeded. But there were times where his eyes would linger, where he unnecessarily touch, where his jealousy would rear its ugly head. Still. Life went on as normal, but it wouldn't last.
Moriarty returned and with a vengeance. He destroyed Sherlock's reputation, not that Sherlock could care less. And then Moriarty promised to destroy the one thing Sherlock loved anymore: John. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were included in Moriarty's threat, and, while both were important to Sherlock, they were also completely unnecessary. Sherlock would have done anything Moriarty asked to save John.
Sentiment gave Moriarty something to exploit. Sentiment caused Sherlock to fake his death. Sentiment left a growing, aching hole in Sherlock's chest for each day he went without seeing John. Sentiment made Sherlock carefully unwrap the present that John left him. Sentiment forced the air from his lungs and tears to the corner of his eyes. Sentiment clenched Sherlock's hand and shakily lifted the soft material to his face.
A scarf, not handmade by any stretch of the imagination yet still brimming with so much thought. Overall, the scarf was a steel blue, but Sherlock easily saw the different coloured threads. Sherlock rubbed the cloth between two fingers as he catalogued each colour. There was anything from green to light blue to even an almost silver colour. But the most frequent shade was a deep blue that reminded Sherlock of John's eyes just after a chase and they stood breathless in the hallway. He quickly grew lost in the hue.
After a moment, Sherlock came back to himself. Still clutching the strip of fabric, he quickly and quietly left the cemetery. As he traveled back to the temporary headquarters Mycroft set up for his visit, Sherlock came to a decision.
He would end this mission as soon as he could. Not that he would rush it, no. Sherlock planned to be thorough. He would make sure that Moriarty's web was properly dismantled. But he would no longer make time to visit London when he could. It was a sacrifice, but a necessary one.
Especially if it meant that he would be with his love sooner.