These are the Times
These are his favorite times, when its just him and John. He runs his fingers over the scar on John's shoulder and John smiles and leans into the touch.
These are his favorite times, when Sherlock has his arms wrapped around him and they're whispering, lulling each other to sleep with their soft voices. He always stays up just a bit longer than Sherlock just to feel his presence and to stroke his lover's raven curls.
These are the worst of times, when John lays flowers on Sherlock's grave, remembering how the consulting detective said goodbye to him before plunging to his doom. The flowers are gone by the next day, so John lays more.
These are the worst of times, when Sherlock picks up the flowers John laid on his grave and returns to a small flat with them in hand. It's just him in the flat, him and millions of flowers in various states of decay. Him, the flowers, and the memory of a certain John Hamish Watson, whom he dares not visit for fear of his life.
These are the best of times, when he is reunited with Sherlock bloody Holmes. He embraces the consulting detective, a man he believed was dead. His best friend. His love, returned to him by some miracle. Sherlock dodges his swinging fist. They embrace. He weeps.
These are the best of times, when John is no longer just a memory wilting with the flowers but a real, living person once more. He cries with John and kisses John and accepts everything John throws at him, from insults to caresses. He tells John of the flowers, and of everything he did while they where apart.
These are the times of 221B Baker Street, and these are the men that live them.
