Sherlock stared in silence as he watched his friend mourn over the grave that was supposedly his own. He had visited this exact spot a number of times, 34 times, to be exact. Each time he came, he would watch John, and each time, John would watch that dreaded grave. It brought a pang of what Sherlock thought was sorrow to his heart, but he knew that only watching would be for the better.
When he ventured to the graveyard that day, he would have never expected anything to go amiss or to be different than any other day. It was rainy with a strong wind; Sherlock almost debated not going because of it, but came anyways. That was his first mistake.
His second mistake would be standing under a large, decaying tree. On any other day, this would have not mattered, but on a day with exceptionally strong winds, it meant everything.
Sherlock's third mistake would stepping out directly into the open when a branch broke off of that dreaded tree.
As many may know, a tree branch does not just snap and fall like a feather, it cracks like thunder and pounds into the ground. And what does one do when they hear such a loud sound? They look for its source. This is where Sherlock's third mistake becomes eminent. As John turned to look for the source of the chaos, his eyes passed over Sherlock Holmes and froze there. Sherlock knew then and there that he was not going to escape. So instead of running away, he walked towards John.
John appeared to be stunned, understandably, of course. His eyes had widened and he appeared to have stopped breathing momentarily before speaking. Even from a distance, Sherlock knew what John had said. Sherlock.
When Sherlock had slowed to a stop, John was standing only six feet away, but he had yet to say anything other than his friend's name. At this range, Sherlock could see tears building at the corners of John's eyes, or maybe they were just some of the few raindrops that had begun to fall. He wasn't sure.
"John," Sherlock murmured, looking over his battered and beaten friend. As John took a step forward to inspect the consulting detective, Sherlock noted the worsening of John's limp. He had noticed the return of it after only three visits, a fact that had worried him greatly. But this was not on Sherlock's mind as John's hand reached out and gently touched his sleeve, his hand flinching back with surprise at its solidity.
"Sher… lock…?" John said slowly, his voice cracking as he came to the realization that this was real.
"Hello, John," Sherlock said in his dark tone, straightening his chin slightly.
"No.. Nonono.." John said, the words falling out of his mouth and clattering to the ground as he stepped backwards, away from Sherlock, his leg almost causing him to fall over, "You... You were dead."
Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, "It appeared as though I was," he said steadily, "That was the point. Come, sit." He took the stunned army doctor by the waist and carefully led him over to one of the worn benches that were scattered across the cemetery.
"How did you? Where the hell were you? Three years, Sherlock," John said all at the once, the words crumbling out of his mouth; he would have asked more, but Sherlock's raised a hand to stop him.
"I'll explain when we get home," he said vaguely as he pulled out his mobile, "A car is on its way." He clicked softly at the device, writing out a message to Mycroft:
Send a car to the cemetery for John; he saw me. –SH
Ignoring whatever reply Mycroft may have sent, Sherlock slipped his mobile into his pocket and returned to studying the disgruntled man beside him. John's pupils were dilated, and a small bit of sweat and begun to seep from his forehead; his skin was pale and his eyes were shadowed by dark bags. Sherlock carefully reached a hand out and set it gently on the panicking doctor's forearm. "It's alright, John."
John was silent as tears poured over his cheeks and rain began to seep in larger quantities onto them. "I asked for a miracle but…" he mumbled, lifting an arm to rub the moisture away, only for the areas to be replaced by raindrops.
"I know," Sherlock mumbled.
"You were dead..."
"I know."
"We buried you."
"I know."
John was in a stunned silence, his body trembling violently beside Sherlock. Sherlock stared down at him then shifted closer, wrapping his arms around John carefully. "It will be alright," he murmured as John's face fell into Sherlock's woolly coat.
Had it not been for the heavy sadness and betrayal hanging in the air, this moment would have been beautiful, though Sherlock knew this perfection did not exist. The moment was over soon as Sherlock's mobile buzzed and he fished it out.
The car has arrived; I'm assuming that we're going with our plan for if this were to happen? –MH
Yes, thank you. –SH
… Sherlock responded with one hand, keeping his comforting hold around John. "The car has arrived," he said, carefully releasing John and getting to his feet before helping John up as well. "Let's get you home…"
Sherlock led his friend on to the car, a secure and protective arm around his waist, catching him on every stumble. When they reached the car, Sherlock carefully opened the dark door and John climbed in. He shut the door with a solid thump and took a step back onto the sidewalk. With a click, the car's doors were sealed, a look of confusion on John's face. "I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, watching as John attempted to open the doors, thumping his fists against the solid window.
John's broken figure slumped against the door, his face trembling as tears began to stumble down his cheeks in large clusters. "Sherlock," he mumbled, his hand raising to the window as the car began to pull away, leaving Sherlock alone on the sidewalk, rain pounding down into him.
Sherlock didn't bother to stop the empty tears when they came, lifting his chin slightly as they cascaded down his cheeks and into his wooly coat. "Goodbye, John," he said, knowing he couldn't hear him, his feet frozen to the pavement. A figure came out from nearby, an umbrella in one hand. He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "It's for the best," Mycroft said, giving his brother a sympathetic look before retreating into his own car, away from the rain.
Sherlock's final mistake was making John go.