I'm on a roll. Two complete stories (however short) in one week? It's a record! Lol. This came to me at 4am. So yeah. Lol! As usual, I don't own Sherlock. Otherwise Series 3 would start filming on time.
Love and Hugs, ginnygirl87

A Stolen Key

John Watson has never proclaimed himself to be a poet. But he can't stand the emptiness of Sherlock's gravestone. For someone so complex, just a name on a plain black slab just doesn't seem right. So he sets off to write something that can be placed there. But he can't, for the life of him, write anything. He sits up all night, writing words like 'brilliant', 'best man I ever knew', 'I miss him terribly', until he scrunches it all up in a ball and tosses it in the rubbish bin.

Exhausted, he begins writing something entirely different. Something more heartfelt. And a poem comes out-one that isn't so bad actually. He's a bit embarrassed by it...it's emotional and mushy, and Sherlock would definitely not approve. If people were to see it, they'd be confused by it, since he still prides himself on being 'not gay'. But it feels like an admission of the truth, and he feels quite a bit better when he places it, along with some flowers, by Sherlock's grave.

It isn't wrong-

-can't you see?

If I love you

and you love me.

And we could be together

for eternity.

…

But death has taken you

somewhere I can't be

So now I sit here,

pathetically

With a locked up heart

-You'll always have the key-

And I still love you

But did you love me?

Every week, John replaces the poem and the flowers, which become ruined by the dew, rain and weather. And every week, he sits and talks to Sherlock about the developments in his life, and about how much he truly misses him.

It goes on like this for almost three years.

One day, as John goes to Sherlock's grave, he sees a note and fresh flowers there, but his are gone. He frowns, looks around the graveyard as though he will see the culprit, and then opens the folded piece of paper.

John,

I cannot write poetry. It is one of my rare shortcomings. But you must know that you have changed me in so many ways, and for the better. Your poem has chipped away at my otherwise frozen heart and I have to say, although it is excessively sentimental, that I love it. And I love you. It's true. I started to realize it at the pool, with you strapped in Semtex. I thought I might lose you, and I couldn't bear the thought. So when you were threatened, along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, to be killed if I didn't jump off St. Barts, I faked my death so that you could live.

I'm so sorry John. I know I've put you through hell. But I had to remain dead so that I could destroy Moriarty's chain of command, his spider's web. It was an advantage to be dead in that way-it caught them off-guard. But in every other way-it was torture for me, John. And I miss you so much. Now my mission is nearing it's end and I can finally return. I hope that you will welcome me back, but I understand if you can't.

You have the key to my heart as well. As rusty and warped as it is.

Sincerely,

SH