Author's note: All the usual disclaimers apply – I don't own the show or the characters, only the words on this page. This takes place in the cemetery at the end of 'The Reichenbach fall'. As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
Grave reflections
by BHP
"I was so alone. And I owe you so much."
The words were quiet, but the utter silence of the deserted cemetery carried them clearly to Sherlock's straining ears.
He'd known, logically, that this course of action would be difficult. That it would have an effect on John, particularly. Now it was becoming clear that those effects would fall firmly into the 'bit not good' category.
A week ago, he would have asked John to explain where he'd miscalculated. Miscalculated: a word he'd barely used before meeting John. A word he'd never needed, being so sure of himself.
Certainly, he'd changed since John's arrival in his life. Logic still governed his mind palace, but certain oddities had begun to make themselves apparent. The room dedicated to John was growing exponentially, filling with odd fragments of time: John's laugh, an exasperated sigh, an eye roll, and a fondly murmured 'Idiot'.
And he found himself unable to delete these moments. Indeed, he found himself unwilling to even contemplate deleting them. Was this what friendship truly meant?
John's presence in Sherlock's life showed how caring had its rewards.
Logic predicted Sherlock might not survive the execution of his plans. But Sherlock found himself hoping – appalling sentiment – to one day be able to tell John just how true those ten words were. For them both.
SHJW – SHJW – SHJW
John knew about loss and pain. He'd experienced them both before. He'd lost patients in the field, he'd lost colleagues, and yes, over the years he'd lost friends.
But this was different. He'd never felt pain quite like this. As if he'd watched Moriarty rip the heart out of his chest and crush it before his eyes. Yet he had no choice but to keep on breathing, existing; to keep seeing Sherlock falling from that roof.
The world was willing to believe what it read in the newspapers; people wanted to see a great man humbled and destroyed, proved ordinary.
Sherlock had never been ordinary. John would never believe that. And no matter what Sherlock had said in that final call, John knew Sherlock had never lied to him. He would believe in Sherlock until he died.
The world could believe whatever it wanted. John knew Moriarty; knew the truth.
But you couldn't change the past or bring back the dead. You had to move on, move forward.
He wished Sherlock had talked to him, asked John to help him find another solution. But his friend had acted alone, as he so often did.
John nodded once, honouring that choice. He believed in Sherlock. Head held high, John left the barren grave with two things intact: his dignity and his belief.