He watches him from afar, Sherlock. Hidden among the trees. Nobody can see him, he is like a shadow, a mere shadow that stands behind the tree trunks.
He looks at him from a distance, his John, his dear old John. He didn't change, except for a few wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth. For the rest he is always the same. He smiles. Sherlock smiles too, but his heart is crying.
And after smiling he also cries, silently. They are just small tears that fog for a moment the blue eyes of the detective. He do not bother to dry them, he do not care. It's useless, it's boring, and he knows that even after having dried them, they would come back again.
And he continues to watch from afar. He looks at that little church, old, gray. And the bells can be heard along with the joyous shouts of the people, while John is standing there, and next to him there is a woman. She's not ugly, she's not beautiful, she is normal. Sherlock cannot say with precision. He does not understand women. For him they are all the same, except one.
"Mary" he hears. It must be her name. Sherlock looks at her carefully. Blonde, green eyes, pale. She is not the type suitable for John. No one is the type for him. Sherlock is what John needs. Not a dull, common girl, like so many others.
But Sherlock knows. He knows he does not deserve the affection of John, neither his love. He abandoned him for three years. It 's normal, it is quite obvious. John has a new life, as he deserve. Sherlock looks at him one last time. This time he decide to dry the last tears flowing down his cheeks.
"Be happy John." Murmurs, and he goes, as he came, like a shadow. Into the darkness.