Sorry – This is quite angsty, inspired by Steppenwolf's song Tenderness. Go listen, John Kay's voice is pure….well, you get the drift!
Disclaimer: I don't own John or Sherlock, but if you'd like to give them to me for my un-birthday I'd be very happy!
He knew he shouldn't do it, shouldn't torture himself, listening to sad music, but something had driven him to drag out his dad's collection of CD's and load a handful onto his iPod.
Steppenwolf – everyone remembered or had heard of them – they were the band that did Born to Be Wild, every would-be Hell's Angel's favourite song. John smiled sadly. They'd missed some of the more meaningful stuff, stuff that he had listened to with his dad on long car journeys, singing along at the tops of their voices.
Those had been good days, before his dad died, before his army career came and went, before the cruel hand of fate brought him into contact with the most irritating, self-obsessed, beautiful – no – bloody gorgeous consulting detective, and took him away again just as they had realised all that they meant to each other.
Six weeks. They had had exactly six weeks to take all they could from their relationship, to laugh together, cry together, to love like there was no tomorrow – and they did, that last night, cleaving together, bodies slick with sweat, faces wet with tears, fear of the unknown giving a desperation to their movements as tongues met and clashed in passionate kisses, and limbs tangled, pressing together as if they would each inhabit the other's skin, tenderly stroking when the heat died down and they were at last sated.
John looked down at the gravestone, tears pouring unheeded down his cheeks as the song moved, inexorably, to its close. He was going through his own personal hell right now, torn between not believing his best friend, his lover, was gone, and wanting to follow, to just end it all now. He knew he wouldn't. He knew, eventually, he would find the strength to strike back and prove – beyond any possible doubt – that Sherlock had not been the fraud he had named himself, in those last moments before…
No. He believed – he believes in Sherlock Holmes. He would clear his name. Clear the mud smeared by Donovan and Anderson, Kitty Riley and Moriarty. He'd clear his name and maybe then, when there was no more left to be done…..
Drawing himself up straight as the last strains of the song died away, he nodded briefly, an acknowledgement of the silent pact he had made, then turned and walked away.
Grey eyes watched as he walked away, he had noted the tears, seen the moment he straightened decisively. A frown creased his brow. He wanted to run after him, to hold him, to beg him not to do anything stupid….
'Just wait, my love! I will come back!'