I do not own Sherlock or any charcters...
Sometimes, love just isn't enough.
The words ran through Sherlock's mind again and again, a relentless torture of his own making, as he stared silently at the coffin in the ground.
"Are you coming Sherlock?" The voice of John came from behind him but he didn't turn, couldn't quite bring himself to.
"Give me a minute John. Please."
"Yes. Of course." He sounded almost guilty but Sherlock didn't care. In that moment Sherlock didn't feel anything. He was numb, lost in a spiralling maze made up of his own thoughts.
Sometime love just isn't enough.
It wasn't.
After all those years, all those painfully lonely years of building a barrier, never allowing himself to truly feel. He caved.
He had ignored his brothers warnings, ignored his own warnings.
Stupid.
Caring is not an advantage. Caring is never an advantage and he had been foolish to believe otherwise.
Yet somehow he had managed to convince himself that it was okay, he could care. He had been so caught up in the joyous feeling that love created he had forgotten.
Forgotten how much it hurt.
Forgotten how painful it was when love goes wrong.
And now he was paying the price.
A single tear rolled down his cheek, quickly accompanied by more. He didn't bother to wipe them away.
Sometimes, love just isn't enough.
Love didn't stop her from taking the short cut across that road.
Love didn't stop that lorry driver from talking on the phone.
Love didn't stop the two colliding.
Love, he concluded, was evil. Wrapping them in a its false sense of security only to rip away the very heart from a man who once believed he didn't have one.
Love didn't stop him from thinking, from believing, that she would be fine. That she would be ok and nothing would ever happen to her because he loved her. He loved her.
And that was enough.
That was supposed to be enough.
But it wasn't.
And now she was gone.
His Molly.
She was gone and he was so alone and so numb he could feel himself dying.
This was his penance, this was his punishment. For allowing himself to be happy, allowing himself to be loved even when he knew, knew that he didn't deserve it, didn't deserve her and her warmth and her care and her so painfully unconditional love.
He didn't deserve the way she would kiss him awake every morning. How she would sit there and let him tear her down because he was bored and then he would collapse and cry and say he was sorry and she would forgive him.
Everytime. Always.
So he would go now. He would go and drown himself in his drugs and ignore Mycroft's voice in his head calling him a coward.
Because that's what he was.
A coward.
A coward who would rather take drugs than face the pain he had brought on himself.
But then John would come and he would help him and he would never give up, never, because he cared about Sherlock Holmes and no matter how many time he would drag himself in a hole John and Mrs Hudson and Mary and Lestrade they would all bring him up.
They would all be there.
Because they loved him. He didn't and never will deserve it but they love him.
And as much as love can be cruel and painful it can be good.
Sometimes it isn't enough, but some times it is.
And it matters. In the end. Love always matters.