There were some things John knew Sherlock would never get. Such as why he was talking to his tombstone. It didn't matter that Sherlock wouldn't hear him; he needed it.
He hated the way the headstone reflected everything. To John, it was like Sherlock was still watching the world. He was still able to know everything about a person from what they wore to the cemetery. Looking at his reflection, he wondered what Sherlock would see?
He'd see the stains on his shirt and know he'd hadn't done laundry in days. He'd see the chips in the nails and know he'd been biting at them like a child. He'd see things on John that John didn't notice. He'd see John touching the headstone and wonder why. For someone with the brain the size of a planet, Sherlock was terrible at feelings.
John wasn't so good at them. The past months had been a special hell for him. Afghanistan had been a hell, obviously. His shoulder gave a little throb of approval. But physical pain was easy. The hardest part of being in the war was being at home. The nightmares and the fear of sleep. But then, somehow, he found Sherlock.
Sherlock was like no one John had ever met. He was simply more than John could ever put into words. Working with him had slowly pulled John out of the darkness that he'd been in since his return. He left as though he owed Sherlock his life.
John didn't know what he felt for Sherlock. He was more than a friend, but not a lover. They never even toed that line. Not that John was gay, but there was a reason all those girlfriends left him; it was always the same. Sherlock needed John. John couldn't let Sherlock leave him. So, he needed to keep Sherlock safe at all costs.
John started to walk away from the grave. How could Sherlock do this to him? There was no fucking way he was a fraud. No one could pretend to be that brilliant. It was impossible. There had to be some reason.
A clash of thunder made John jump. He realized that darker clouds were rolling in. Good, he thought. If a tear escaped him, no one would notice. He wasn't much of a crier. Or much in the way of displaying emotions. He could bottle everything up. It was easy to say he'd process it later. It was a defensive mechanism he'd had since his youth. That's why when he lost his temper, it was a sight to behold. He'd go on for hours, slowly releasing all the emotions that had built up. He knew it wasn't healthy, but he didn't care.
He was far beyond caring at this point. Losing various family members, pets, comrades, even patients, was nothing compared to losing Sherlock. It was like every cell of his body was missing something. Most mornings when he woke up for work, he wondered why he was still on earth. It was pointless.
He felt his phone vibrate. It was a text from Mycroft. About three months ago, Mycroft had gotten him a job in the government. He still didn't quite know what he did; he followed orders, just like any good solider. They'd be simple jobs, but obviously ones that Mycroft needed someone he trusted. He didn't trust his own secret service, but the flatmate of his brother could be trusted.
The car is waiting. Further instructions inside. And try not to break any noses this time. -MH
Sighing, John climbed in the car. One time, he was frustrated and punched the wrong guy. So, maybe he broke a nose, but how was he supposed to know that the guy was an undercover agent for some enemy country?
Looking around, John spotted the envelope on the seat. Sherlock was right; Mycroft never talked in person if he could avoid it. The envelope was unusually thin. Inside, there were only two words and two letters. The handwriting was unmistakeable.
I'm sorry. SH