A/N: Hey there. This is my first Johnlock fic and my first fic on this account at all. Wheey. Anyway I hope you enjoy this... This is just sort of an angsty introduction to what comes later. SLASH IS GUARANTEED, LOVED ONES. DON'T BE NERVOUS ABOUT THAT. Anyway, read on. Review if you like. Yeah. K bye.
Every week John Watson would shuffle silently across the dewy grass and arrive in front of his undoing. He would stand in uncomfortable silence for a moment, glance over his should to make sure no one was there, and talk. His voice would often catch in his throat but he never let the tears fall. He held them in like the soldier he used to be.
John would stare at the engraving on the slab in front of him and take a gulp of air to keep his emotions at bay. What he would say differed each week, depending on what his now mundane life brought to him. But every week he would end with the same thing. John would sigh softly and utter something he would never let anyone hear lest they get the wrong ideas.
"There's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock. Don't be... dead." One more glance over his shoulder and then he was gone. Off to catch a cab and wallow in his disappointment and boring daily rituals. Every week, his limp would threaten to arise to the service as he walked away with a heavy heart. And every week John would focus his energy on keeping it from appearing again, he had to. He had to stay sane somehow.
When he was almost out of sight, a dark-haired man would glide out from behind a nearby tree and watch him as he hailed a cab. Sherlock would link his arms behind his back and stand in the same spot his former companion had. Standing where John had moments before almost allowed Sherlock to trick himself into thinking he had his friend with him again. Like he had his only friend with him again.
But every week, Sherlock would lose part of his well-crafted exterior and feel true emotions. His mask would fall from his placid face and sadness would take its place. The tall man would form his hands into a steeple-like position and stare down at the tombstone with his own name inscribed on it. Some weeks John would lay flowers delicately across the grass, others it would lay bare. It didn't make a difference. Sherlock could feel the impact he was having on John's life, and it bothered him more and more every day.
Some weeks, Sherlock almost wished John wouldn't show up. He wished John would slowly forget about him and eventually only come on the anniversary of his death each year. He wished John would find a wife or a new flat mate, someone to replace Sherlock's overbearing presence in his life. He often wished John would allow him to become a fond memory in the back of his mind, only calling upon it at scattered times. But above all, he wished he hadn't hurt John in saving him. He wished that John wasn't a broken man now who hid everything from the world.
"You would be a lot better if you hadn't met me." Sherlock mumbled beneath his breath, barely audible. He rubbed his hand across the gleaming tombstone. "I'm not a hero, John. I never will be. To you, I've played the villain. To be fair, we were both dealt a terrible hand the moment Moriarty stepped in. I'm just sorry you had to be involved in all of that, John. I'm so sorry."
"You know, little brother... For someone so keen on avoiding sentiment, you watch over John quite a bit." Sherlock spun around to face his older brother with a scowl. Mycroft swung his trademark umbrella and crossed one leg over the other before continuing. "He comes here every week and every week here you are, Sherlock. What does that say about where you stand in terms of caring?"
"Mycroft, what are you doing here?" The younger of the Holmes brothers repositioned his hands in a steeple formation beneath his chin and furrowed his brow. He would never admit it to his sibling but Mycroft had risen a point in Sherlock's overactive brain. Always one to scoff at sentiment, he had now become the prime example of such acts. Wasn't secretly observing how John continued to miss him not only to serve for his benefit? John was the only person who ever admitted to needing Sherlock's presence in his life, and very possibly the only person to ever genuinely like Sherlock. Things like being missed, that used to matter very little to the detective, now were the only things keeping him sane.
"It has been over a year since he's thought you were dead." Mycroft stated in his usual posh tone. Sherlock almost interjected with one of the various reasons he had to keep his being alive from John, but his brother continued. "Every week he comes and every week so do you. Just to observe. This can't be healthy. I worry about you even more now, Sherlock. Your caring so much while still holding up this façade can't be an advantage for anyone."
"It's a progress report of sorts, Mycroft." Sherlock intoned, working his hardest to discourage all his emotions from entering into his voice. "I have to be positive that he is getting on, that he's okay. I must be assured that I did not affect him too much."
"I could inform you of that via a simple text." Mycroft's eyebrows rose in skepticism. Sherlock could see his brother's emotions written across his face as clear as any other deduction. Disbelief, worry, stress, confusion. "The surveillance system I am sure you were well aware of when you resided at 221b is still active. I can check up on John much more efficiently than you can during your once a week trip to your own grave, Sherlock."
"You could lie. Obviously." Sherlock nearly scoffed at his brother's inability to understand, but refrained. Being misunderstood had become an occupation for the detective during his lifetime. "I observe, Mycroft. It's what I do and how I survive. If I can't see that John is fine with my own eyes, there is no way I can rely on the thought that he truly is."
"Have you ever occupied the idea that perhaps his well-being is no longer of your concern?" Mycroft raised a finger to hush Sherlock's eminent objections. "At least for the time being, not a permanent position. Until your work is done it might be best to disconnect yourself from prior attachments, or rather your only prior attachment."
"I find it interesting that after all these years, you are still under the impression that you can influence my actions." Before he was fully aware of it, Sherlock was tensed and angry. Mycroft's suggestion to simply stop checking up on John was not one Sherlock was prepared to allow occupy his thoughts. Even he wasn't able to properly deduce the reason behind his now-engrained need to make sure John was okay, but he did know that if he didn't he would fall apart. It was a strange idea to Sherlock, letting emotions control his well being, but so it was. He now obtained an inherent urge and necessary desire to make sure his only friend would always be okay. "I'm not a fan of sentiment, dear brother. Never will be. But as I am sure you are aware there are always exceptions even with me. John is the exception."
Mycroft held his brother's steely gaze for a moment before breaking eye contact. He sighed and uncrossed his legs. The older Holmes placed his hand on the tombstone for a brief second and let go.
"As you wish." Mycroft moved his hand and motioned he was preparing to depart from the graveyard. "One thing, Sherlock. Do you plan to tell him? Since he is your only exception, do you plan to release him from his pain?"
"I have full intentions to reveal the truth to him when the time is right, Mycroft." Sherlock sighed out of alien emotions. "Only, however, when I can be assured he is completely safe. If there is any threat of John being endangered at my expense, I cannot risk it. He may be unhappy, but he is alive and will remain so."
"Only on the outside, brother." Mycroft stated over his shoulder. "On the inside, he is very much dying."
With that, Mycroft left Sherlock to sort out his thoughts alone. Mycroft's words had struck something in Sherlock. Was John really dying without Sherlock? There was no way to deduce such things. The only thing Sherlock was able to deduce was that without John, he very well might die a real death.