John visited Sherlock's black marble grave every day, of every week, of every month, of every damn year.
Three years it had been since it happened.
Three long, broken, wasted years.
He could've spent those three years with Sherlock, instead of putting white roses on his grave once a week, holding back the tears he wanted to cry.
He could've spent those three years with the man he'd loved, gently showing Sherlock that he did love him, no matter what Sherlock thought of that.
John placed a fresh bunch of the familiar roses on the grave, leaning against the cold stone, his finger gently tracing the lines of the embossed SHERLOCK, which was stark white against pure black.
He stood upright, and his tears finally broke through the dam he'd formed. He fell onto the ground, kneeling before the pristine grave, his head bowed. The knot in his chest unwound as army-trained John Watson crumbled.
His entire heart was filled with grief, and he released it all, feeling it spread through his body, surging through his blood, from the tips of his fingers to the tips of his toes, before settling in his head, like a huge weight was pressing on his brain.
All the good things, all the bad things, everything that had made John love Sherlock… it all came rushing back to him, vivid as anything.
He held his head in his hand, shaking it back and forth.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…" he repeated over and over.
He'd never really acknlowleged Sherlock's death before, he'd just convinced himself that Sherlock was away, on holiday or a case or something… but now it hit him.
He was never going to see or speak to Sherlock ever again. He was never going to hear his deep, soothing voice, or see his perfect, defined face. He was never going to feel the same way. He was never going to love anyone as much as he had loved him.
John's knees trembled, and he fell sideways onto the ground, tears of unfathomable dispair trailing down his face, huge, heaving sobs tearing through his chest, burning his throat as they ripped into the still, winter air.
The scream emitted from John was echoed across the graveyard, and John could hear his sadness reverberating back to him, over and over.
He groaned, curling up into a tight ball.
As the tears still poured non-stop down his face, he decided that now was as good a time as any to say it.
He unfurled himself, and knelt in front of the grave again, still sobbing and gasping for breath.
"S-Sherlock…" he stammered, his voice shaky, still echoed by sobs, "I just wanted to say it now… before I get t-too nervous and do s-s-something silly! I just w-wanted you to… I just wanted you to know that I…" he paused,wiping his eyes, "I just wanted you to know that I love you. I loved you f-from the moment we met, and I will continue loving you until I die. Your death never changed that. I still love you. So, so much. I will never, ever stop loving you. You changed my life, Sherlock. You made it so much brighter, so much better."
He stopped stammering, and the tears slowly stopped falling as he continued talking.
"You made me feel so much better about everything. You made my world shine, you made my heart pound whenever you spoke, whenever we were close, whenever I was in the same room as you. You just… you just completed me. And I have hated not being with you. Losing you… seeing you fall… that was the worst day of my life. I feel so stupid. All the time we spent together, I saw you every single day… and I never told you. Never expressed love in any way, I just pretended I only saw you as a friend. That was wrong. I never saw you as just a friend. You always meant so, so much more to me. I don't know if you're listening, Sherlock, but wherever you are, know that I love you so, so much, and I will never let you out of my heart. I will never love another person as much as I love you."
He broke off, and closed his eyes.
A huge weight had been lifted off his chest.
He'd told Sherlock, whether he was listening or not.
John stood up slowly, placed his hand on the grave for a moment, and closed his eyes.
"I never knew you felt like that."
John flinched at the familiar, deep voice, and opened his eyes, standing upright. His heart ached, and he felt his eyes water.
"Oh, great, now I'm imagining you're talking to me." he groaned.
Back to the therapist, he thought.
"John, you're not imagining me."
God, John hated his subconscious. It was like it was trying to cause him pain.
"John. If you think you're imagining me, turn around. Prove me wrong."
John's hands clenched. He inhaled audibly, and closed his eyes for a moment. One lone tear slipped from under his closed eyelid, and he turned around, still not looking.
"John."
He silently cursed his subconscious, and opened his eyes.
Emotions smacked into John. He listed each one as it surged through his head.
Pain, love, confusion, more pain, anger, shock, more confusion…
The emotions swirled through his head, and John took one stumbling step forward, hardly daring to blink.
Sherlock was stood in front of him, alive and well. He was still wearing his navy-blue trench coat, with his royal-blue scarf.
John had bought that scarf for him.
And he kept it. After all this time.
John didn't know what to say. He was just stood, shocked, in front of the apparently alive Sherlock Holmes.
"But… you were dead. I saw the post-mortem. It was you… I know it was…" he finally choked out.
"Have you forgotten who my brother is?" he asked flatly.
"You arranged this. You knew this would happen."
"I assure you that I did not intend to inflict any harm onto you, John."
"You LEFT me, Sherlock! I loved you so, so much and you just dropped me and swaggered off! It was worse than seeing the men die in Afghanistan! You tore me apart!" he yelled.
"John…" Sherlock said slowly.
"How? How did you do that? Leave the man who LOVED YOU! How in the hell could you?" John shrieked.
"John, you need to just relax." Sherlock said calmly.
"HOW THE HELL CAN I RELAX?" John screamed, at the top of his voice.
Sherlock swallowed hard, and bowed his head in shame.
"I'm… I'm so sorry…" he mumbled.
John's unbelievable tidal wave of fury stopped burning through him, to be replaced by a soothing sense of pity and longing.
He darted over to Sherlock, and wrapped his arms around his waist. He cried into his shoulder, apologising for his outburst again and again.
Sherlock, of course, didn't cry, but he held John close to him, wrapping his hand in his hair as John sobbed his heart out into his shoulder.
Sherlock pulled back from John, earning a disgruntled, tear-stained glare from him.
Sherlock grasped both of John's hands, and held them on either side of him, looking deep into John's eyes.
"I truly am sorry. If I had not done that…" he left the sentence hanging.
John's eyes flicked from Sherlock's eyes to his lips, and his eyes widened.
John stepped closer to Sherlock, and used one hand to stroke down the side of his face. Sherlock's eyes never left John's.
"John, what are you do-" Sherlock started, to be silenced by John's finger against his lips.
John made a shushing noise, then replaced his finger with his own lips, gently pressing himself into Sherlock, his arms curving round his neck.
Sherlock took the initiative and teased John's lips with his tongue. John opened his mouth, and accepted Sherlock's tongue, increasing the sweetness behind the kiss.
He held himself against Sherlock as tight as he could, and tilted his head so he could deepen the kiss.
Sherlock responded enthusiastically and slid a hand into John's hair, holding them closer together.
Both of them groaned simultaneously, and John felt himself get hoisted oh-so-slightly off the ground and Sherlock pulled him as close to him as was possible.
John pulled away just and inch, and whispered against Sherlock's lips,
"I love you."
There was a pause, and Sherlock released his hold slightly on John.
John felt his feet touch the ground again, and he pulled completely away from Sherlock.
"What's wrong?" he asked, confused.
"I just… I think that I may…" Sherlock paused, his eyebrow raised, "I think that I may love you too."
John let out a joyous shout, and flung himself into Sherlock's arms, kissing him again and again, holding him tightly, worried that if he let go, he would lose him again.
The world just melted away that afternoon. They strolled through London, shoulders touching, holding hands casually. Oh, they got a lot of funny looks and confused stares, but John didn't care about what other people thought, for once.
For the first time in three years, John felt happy.