Every Sunday, John Watson had a ritual. He woke up early and put his clothes on. In the kitchen, he prepared a complete English breakfast for two. He sat on his chair, next to the small table in the living-room and he waited a bit. Maybe his flatmate would join him today?...
After 30 minutes of waiting, he started to eat. He let Mrs. Hudson clean the table, listening to her saying all over again that she wasn't his house-keeper.
Like every Sunday, he did buy a bunch of wildflowers. Like every Sunday, he took the cab. When he arrived, he just stood there, holding the flowers and started to talk.
« Hello Sherlock. I'm back... »
No answer. Sherlock was so silent.
He knelt in front of the grave, slowly putting the bunch of wildflowers down, just saying:
« Did you have a lot of cases? I'm sure you are quite busy now... »
He just sat on the grass, look at the dark marble tombstone with His name written in golden letters. Sherlock Holmes.
John asked Mycroft to add a few words under it, something like « A bright mind gone forever » but the elder Holmes made him realize that He wouldn't have like it. It wasn't Sherlock style.
The blond stayed there, sitting on the grass, just talking about his week, the work, his patients. Everything that Sherlock would have qualified of dull or boring. At these thoughts, he smiled.
He looked at his watch. He was there for nearly an hour now. It was time to go.
John just stood up and looked at the dark stone. He looked again at the name. Sherlock Holmes. He realized again, like every time he came here that Sherlock was gone. Gone forever. Tears started to roll out of his eyes.
« You were the only one Sherlock. You were a prat, an annoying bastard but I miss this now. I miss you... I... I love you Sherlock. I love you so much. But I never had the strength to tell you properly. Now you are gone and I can't tell you. I can't tell you that I love you.
-Your feelings are shared. »
A voice. That voice! His voice! John would be able to recognize it between thousands. But it was impossible. Just impossible. His heart had stopped for a second, his whole body had reacted. He couldn't move. But he had to. He had to be sure that it wasn't something he was imagining. Again. Like he used to do for nine months now. And so, John just turned to see the truth.
He was standing there, skinnier than ever, his piercing grey eyes scanning him. He wasn't smiling or anything, he was just waiting. Waiting for John's reaction. And John's reaction was quite violent.
Without noticing, the shorter man had punched him in the face. Sherlock fell down a bit. John waited for him to get up and cried:
« Three years Sherlock! Three fucking years!
-I'm sorry John...
-You are sorry. Sherlock! You can't realize what I've been through. I saw you kill yourself. I saw you jump of that rooftop and then lie on the pavement full of blood! I felt guilty! I thought that I didn't see that you weren't feeling good! That all that stuff about you being a fraud was touching you so much... I... »
John stopped when the detective put slowly his hands on his shoulders. They looked at each other, deep in the eyes. John saw guilt and sadness in his friend's eyes. He understood how hard it must have been for him. Sherlock was the one who broke the long silence between them.
« Let's just go home... Let's go home together. »