"Lestrade called me today," John Watson said softly, legs curled up under him. "He has a case. Asked if I could come take a look."
The doctor sighed, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. The grass was slightly damp under him, but he didn't notice. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold stone he sat next to.
"I didn't know what to say. Still don't, honestly. Told him I could try my hand at it, but... Damnit, I don't know what they're expecting. I'm not you, after all."
He glanced over his shoulder at the stone he continued to lean against. Black marble, with the name 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' on the front of it. The irrational part of his mind waited for a response. Waited to hear that deep voice say something sarcastic about his lack of deduction skills. Of course, there was not a response. There never was.
John had been coming to the gravesite every two or three days for the past six months since that horrific day. Some days, like today, he would carry on a one-sided conversation. Usually about his day, as if they were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. Not that he got many responses back then either. He called it his coping mechanism - it was the only way to get Mrs. Hudson off his back sometimes.
Other days, he would sit there with his knees pulled up to his chest and just cry. He would cry so hard his entire body would shake. He'd practically cry himself dry, until his throat went painfully sore from the sobs that wracked his body. And lastly, more rare than the others, he would just sit there in silence. He'd stare down at his hands, stare at the small mound that had become overgrown with grass, which held underneath it the greatest detective in the world. His best friend.
Today was one of the better visits. He felt to be in a chatty mood. He moved on to talk about the flat, Mrs. Hudson (who kept trying to set him up on blind dates, bless her, the most recent being a really sweet girl named Mary), and even the occasional, awkward encounter with Mycroft Holmes. It soothed his mind, briefly, to carry on a normal conversation. As normal as conversation could be talking to the gravestone of a dead man, anyway. John never claimed to be sane, not anymore.
How much time had passed, he wasn't sure. He always shut his phone off when he came here. The sun was beginning to set, however, which was his cue that he should probably leave. Carefully, he forced himself to his feet, using the headstone to steady himself as he stretched his legs and reached for his sleek black cane. He ran his fingers along the engraving of the letters of 'SHERLOCK' affectionately, tears blurring his vision yet not falling, as he said goodbye, before limping back to his car to set off for home.
A set of piercing blue eyes watched from a distance as the man got carefully into his vehicle and drove away. A thin frown had formed on the lips of said individual who happened to be none other than the late Sherlock Holmes himself. Leaning against a tree, his coat collar flipped up around his neck, he crossed his arms at what he had just witnessed.
John's limp had returned. Leaning against the tree he had concealed himself behind, Sherlock brought his hands together, fingers pressed against his lips. He facial expression gave away nothing, but that observation pained him in ways he couldn't quite explain. He had fixed that limp. It was all mental. Why on Earth was it back?
Of course it had to be his mental state now, his grieving. It had to be his loneliness. The pain Sherlock felt got heavier. John still thought him dead, and so his limp returned. He hated this. He was tired of hiding, tired of having to be dead. He missed John. He missed his violin. As much as he hated to admit, if it weren't for Mycroft giving him cases in secret, he would be going insane. At least he was at an advantage, his brother knowing he was alive. If he didn't have anything to deduce, it would really be worse than death. Not that he would ever show thanks to Mycroft. He'd never hear the end of it.
In the pocket of his coat, he felt a buzz. He arched an eyebrow and pulled out his phone, curious who would text him. Mycroft usually called here recently...
'Anderson is a bloody twat. -JW'
Sherlock smirked. John's other coping mechanism had been to continue texting his phone. He didn't do it as often as he went to his grave, but still. He was actually rather glad he would.
'Always denies fowl play. Why Lestrade keeps him employed is beyond me. -JW'
Sherlock's thumb hovered over his phone. He always wanted to text him back. Tell him he was alive. But he knew that was an unwise decision. It was still too dangerous to reveal himself. But he was getting closer. They just needed to take care of one more thing ...
He shut off his phone and dropped it back in the pocket, leaving the cemetery to get back to Molly's. Mycroft was bound to be there by now, and they had work to do.
"John..."
"No. No, don't make me. Please."
"John, you have to."
"No!"
"DO IT JOHN!"
The next thing he knew, John Watson saw himself shoving Sherlock Holmes off the roof of the building, where he fell to his death. Again.
John woke up screaming. He was covered in sweat and gasping like he had just run a marathon. Eyes wide, he looked around frantically, only to find himself in the flat, in his bed. For a split second he calmed down, and then he darted out of bed, down the hall, and into the bathroom. Without even turning the light on, he collapsed in front of the toilet and started retching.
After a few minutes, he had properly evacuated any remainder of dinner out of his stomach. He wiped his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve, his whole body shaking. He rested his forehead on the cold porcelain and ran a shaky hand through his hair.
This was not the first time he'd had that nightmare. Nor was it the first nightmare that had that theme to it. No matter the setting, even though he found himself trying everything, John continued to kill Sherlock over and over again. Tonight had been real bad, though. He hadn't had a nightmare that had invoked that kind of bodily reaction since his minor case of PTSD when he had first got home from Afghanistan.
Gripping the side of the toilet, he shut his eyes tight, just trying to stop the spinning. He stayed like that for a good half hour until he was satisfied nothing else was going to come up. Then, he moved slowly to make sure his legs didn't give out from under him, and he made his way to the sink to brush his teeth and splash cold water on his face. Leaning against the counter, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He looked god-awful. He was as white as a sheet and his face had started to thin out over the past two months or so. His appetite was practically non-existent some days. He always tried to force himself to eat something, of course. He rarely finished a complete meal though, and found himself on multiple occasions picking at whatever was sitting in front of him. Ironic that he was now becoming more and more guilty of the same thing he used to constantly berate Sherlock about.
After a few deep breaths and another splash of water to his face, he felt confident his legs would let him get back to bed. He walked out into the hallway, but paused, staring at the closed door next to him. Sherlock's room... His heart clenched. He tightened his hands into fists, gathering courage, and walked into his bedroom.
A lot of things were left untouched. John hadn't wanted to get rid of anything. After a moment of standing in the doorway, he walked over and slid into Sherlock's bed, pulling all the covers over him and grabbing the pillow tightly. He took a deep breath - it still smelled like him. It wasn't strong, but it was there. Tears formed in his eyes and slid silently down his cheeks. He felt ridiculous, like a grieving widow. It sounded goofy, acting this way over a flat mate... John had come to realize though that perhaps he was a grieving widow. Sherlock jumping, Sherlock being gone... He was in love with him. He'd had suspicions about his feelings for a while, but that horrific day erased any doubt.
It was too late, though. It didn't matter. And so he lay there, pretending the warmth surrounding him was the man he was madly and painfully in love with, and eventually fell asleep once more.