AN: Do I really need to start yet another fic when my others remain unfinished? No. Will I start one anyway? Of course. This will be a series of drabbles ranging from 100-500 words per chapter depending on how much John has to say. For the chapters coming after this it will be mostly dialogue.
Harsh breaths in a quick succession filled the air forming a sharp rhythm. John focused on the sound as he finally came to stand in front of the dark stone with white letters carved out, forming words with a painful clarity. Sherlock Holmes
He couldn't remember the last time he stood here. Actually, that's not entirely true. He simply doesn't want to remember. I was so alone and I owe you so much. When he'd said it he didn't even realize how true it was. But it's better not to dwell on the past isn't it?
He flexes his fingers instinctually around the hand-hold of his cane and shifts his feet, as if preparing to run. It's a tempting idea, bolting away and never looking back. A wry laugh forms in the back of his throat, choking him, as he considers the idea. There's no way he'd manage a sprint like that. No these days.
So instead he halts his fidgeting and squares his shoulders, setting his jaw firmly, then begins his mission. That's how he thinks of it. It's a challenge he's issued to himself. And order he's given himself.
Days ago, nearly two weeks now, when he awoke from a dark nightmare with Sherlock's name upon his lips he recalled his often uttered prayer Please don't be dead. Nearly a year since he first spoke it and the plea is still unanswered. He realized it was time to accept the fact it would never be answered and he had to act accordingly.
On the battlefield there is always death. He knows this. He always has. And a proper soldier shouldn't ignore it. They shouldn't run desperately towards life and abandon their fallen comrades to the decay within the earth. Shouldn't leave their memories alone, lingering by moss covered trees and stone pillows.
No, a proper soldier should honor the fallen, befriend their shades. Never ignore them. Grief is one thing. Cowardice is another. And if there is one thing John Watson isn't, it's a coward. A single thought consumed his mind, until he finally relented. Go see him.
So now he's here, to bear witness to Sherlock's shade. To hold an audience with black marble and hope that somehow Sherlock can hear him. Because there are a lot of things he left unsaid. And damn him if he's not going to take advantage of the fact that Sherlock is finally silent. He just wishes Sherlock would reply. He'll outlive god trying to have the last word. If only that where true.