John sat on the veranda of the house he had shared with Harold. It was late afternoon and he was sipping his coffee. On the table beside him were an empty tea cup and a leather bound book. The tea cup would remain forever empty; there would be no more green tea to scent the room. The book had a piece of paper sticking out of it. John sighed picking up the book he stroked the cover; the leather was warm from the sun, softened by the passage of time and the handling it had received from Harold. Smiling he opened it. The piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up; it was a faded photograph of himself with Bear and Harold. His finger slowly traced over the image of Harold. His chest felt tight, he could hardly breathe. Carefully he placed the paper back in its place where Harold had left it. Placing the book on the table he sighed again. A single fat tear rolled down his cheek and dripped onto his shirt. He couldn't believe that Harold was gone. One minute he was hale and hearty and the next he was just….. gone.
Life was cruel John thought; they had risked their lives for so long saving others, had been wounded numerous times and still had somehow managed to survive. After Samaritan had been defeated they'd carried on for a while but then Harold had decided to stop. He'd never given John a reason for his sudden decision, John had got used to not knowing all the answers, and pressing Harold for his reasons at the time would not have helped. So they left the city and lived in a house that Harold had owned for a long time. Now, when they had finally settled down and were looking forward to a long and happy retirement, Harold had been taken from him.
5 years was all they'd had, 5 short years together after the fall of Samaritan. Harold wasn't that old, mid-sixties wasn't old by today's standards. But those 5 years had been happy ones he conceded. They had loved and laughed a lot, they had filled in the time with meals out, cinema visits and trips all over the world together. Life had been quiet and relaxing for them both. Visitors were few and far between, Shaw had come to visit occasionally. It was usually when she needed help with something that only John or Harold could do. John felt it was probably an excuse to visit Bear and in the end they had let her take him with her. Other visitors had included Detective Fusco and Zoe Morgan, though neither of them had been out to the house since the funeral.
Harold's and his working relationship had moved from employer and employee to friendship and then they had realised and declared their love for each other. Precious moments were stolen in the library and the subway, in John's loft and various safe houses, always aware that the machine and Samaritan were watching. Sometimes these moments were over quickly but occasionally they had been able to take their time. Once they had left the city and the numbers behind their lovemaking had been leisurely, vigorous and more frequent.
A sad smile lingered on John's face as he palmed his crotch, his involuntary arousal brought on by the thoughts of their lovemaking. He ached for Harold's touch, hands so soft and gentle touching his body. Lips warm and inviting. He missed his lovers scent, the aftershave he wore mingled with the smell that was uniquely Harold. He missed the bespoke suits and the frustration he sometimes had felt trying to get Harold out of them. He closed his eyes as he let his hands and imagination take him once more to Harold's loving embrace. He stroked his chest, pinching his nipples. His hand undid the buttons on the fly of his pants; spreading his legs wide he gripped his erection firmly. He was completely lost in his fantasy as he caressed his cock from base to tip; remembering the way Harold would fondle the crown of it, smoothing the leaking precum over it. He rolled his testicles around in his palm; he was close, so close. He felt in his mind Harold's mouth closing over his cock, sucking and stroking bringing him to his climax.
But he couldn't come now; some part of his brain wouldn't let him. He knew Harold wasn't there anymore, knew it was his own hands around his penis and that stopped him. For him life had come to a standstill when Harold had died, his soulmate was gone. In these moments of despair he no longer cared if he experienced pleasure ever again.
Readjusting his clothing John picked up the cups and the book and took them inside. He carefully put Harold's cup away and placed the book on the table, by the armchair that Harold had so favoured when he wanted to read. The weather outside was fine; the sun was just going down, Harold's favourite time of day. In the spring and summer they would stroll around the garden in the twilight hand in hand. Harold would talk about the flowers, where they came from, which ones he liked the best. Occasionally they would walk barefoot in the garden in the early morning, the grass damp with dew, the scent of the flowers rising as the sun rose in the sky. Sometimes John had thrown the ball for Bear, who had loved to run around the garden so freely. There were seats at various spots around the large garden, sometimes they would sit and rest and watch the sun come up or go down together.
As he walked around the garden now alone he stopped at one spot in particular, it was under a large tree. He sat on the bench; it was warm from the afternoon sun. He leant back against the tree. This was the spot where he'd first made love to Harold outside. His smile was wider this time, it had taken a lot of persuading to get Harold naked in the open air, but he'd managed it and they had made vigorous love under that tree. They had returned there often to do it again and again.
John's hand strayed to his crotch once more, this time there were no feelings of overwhelming sadness, this time he remembered their lovemaking with joy. He opened his pants, spreading his long legs he touched his cock, his arousal grew rapidly. His hands gripped his phallus, moving in a rhythm that brought him to his climax quickly, Harold's name on his lips. Only then did the tears fall silently, freely, tears of joy mingled with the tears of sadness and loss. His heart ached so much, he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay, it felt like a betrayal of Harold's memory to want to move from the house, but it was so painful living in a place where every little thing reminded him of Harold. He was more alone now than he'd ever been in his life. He needed something to do, a purpose, a job, the words choked him up, they had been some of the first words Harold had ever said to him.
Slowly he walked back to the house; it was almost dark by the time he went inside. Tomorrow he decided he would contact Shaw; see if there was anything he could do to help her.
3