Sherlock watched in distant anguish as his friend's tears spilled over his own dead body, a fresh grave in the unsuspecting dirt. It was as if he were an angel, watching his loved ones as they struggled to pick up their lives where he'd left them. Only he didn't have loved ones, and he wasn't an angel at all. He had John, and John was his everything. John made him as close to an angel as he could ever be.
It was difficult to watch; he'd faked his death, lied to the world, and killed his own soul for the lives of those he cared for and who surprisingly cared for him. He certainly never gave a second thought to what those around him perceived of him – and they knew that quite well – but there was one whose every thought mattered. Though he would never tell, not even a hint, he absolutely desired to know every spec that crossed John's mind. Perhaps it was because he was difficult to read. Not entirely, oh no, for Sherlock could read any ordinary man's mind (and let's face it, everyone was ordinary), but John was something special. He was unpredictable in some ways, and just when Sherlock thought he'd lose him, he would always come right back to take his hand.
And so he watched, a painful distance that tore at his insides, as he witnessed his friend fall to pieces as a broken man. The kinship he felt towards John was unlike any he'd ever had – granted, he hadn't had many friends at all. But John, there was something different. A spark. A glint of hope. Something new. And watching that man, watching that wonderful, beguiling creation that he'd taken to so quickly, was the most difficult task Sherlock was ever faced with.
Sherlock could read the words on his friend's lips as they quivered, his trembling hands resting uneasily on his tombstone. "No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie." Those words twisted Sherlock's insides, his heart warming to know that his friend – his more than friend – still trusted him. John always had faith in Sherlock, even since the beginning. He could never thank him enough for such a beautiful gift. A cold wetness could be felt on Sherlock's cheek, something he hadn't felt in a long while. It wasn't pain, really, nor was it anything of the sort. As he gazed across the way, he could feel a smile inch across his lips. No, this wasn't sadness. This was love.
But his smile faltered as Watson continued, his lips trembling as they moved so terribly. "Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock. For me." Sherlock could almost hear the sorrow in his friend's voice, and it sickened his chest so horribly. "Don't be dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."
Sherlock's heart felt as if it were being ripped to shreds. Although he knew that what he did was for the best, that he had to do it, that he had to make that one final sacrifice, he was still swallowed by guilt. He'd abandoned his friend and lied to him along the way, leaving him alone just as he'd once found him. It pained him to see the one he loved most in so much unbearable pain, and pain that he had caused. It had to be done, it simply had to be done. If Sherlock hadn't sacrificed his entire life, John would be the one lying in that grave. That was just one thing that Sherlock would never allow. Never.
Ever since he met John Watson, a change began to occur inside of him. His body was cold, it always had been, but there was a center. One singular source of light, of warmth, of love. He was never one for love; he always thought of it as an inconvenience, a pointless barrier that could so easily be avoided. But it wasn't like that with John. No, John eradicated the barrier and brought the two of them closer together. Even if he didn't know it, even if he had no idea what he'd done to Sherlock, he had absolutely changed his heart and helped it to beat again. Sherlock couldn't ask for anything more, and he felt he deserved worlds less.
But as he stood there, staring through the fog at the one man he loved in all the world, there was only one thing he wished he could do. He desperately wished to run towards his love, throw his arms around his warm body and to tell him that he was home. To tell him that his miracle had been answered, that he wasn't dead at all. That he was his angel.