It was not a habit of one John Watson to wallow in mourning for long. Being a doctor forces a person to walk hand in hand with death on regular basis, being a soldier, a captain, forces a person to see the people he works with dying on the battlefield. Being both, well...
But Sherlock. He was not another patient, another comrade, nor another friend. He was... he was the friend.
It wasn't then the first time that the doctor would find himself at the graveyard where Sherlock's tomb rested. Instead, it would be a normal thing, week after week, come rain or sun, seeing him at dusk, just watching the tombstone, sitting nearby it, in silence.
What was unusual was him dozing off leaning on it. That day had been especially stressful. For one, it was one year from the day. And then he had been called in urgently at the A&E where he worked now, and he had to spend the entire day treating the victims of a multiple car wreck. It was later than usual when he arrived at the graveyard and he was definitively more exhausted than he'd been in a long while. He sat down on the patch of grass near the stone and leaned on it. John breathed heavily, losing in the end the battle with tears that had been going on the whole day.
"You know, they say that time heals all wounds, but really... I think they're overestimating it." he murmurs eventually. "I can't stay long, just a little bit. Today it's a year since... and I'm still coming here every day or so. Even Mrs Hudson is worried about me, and that is saying something. Really, Sherlock..." he kept telling the tombstone about the day at A&E, how he would have liked to see some of the injuries, and then he fell silent. Without realizing, he dozed off, in the crisp weather, leaning on the marble.
"Don't be dead... Sherlock" he was repeating those words like a mantra, and kept on, dreaming about falls and wings and coats in the wind.
Nearby, hidden behind the very same tree he had used the year before, Sherlock assisted to the scene. He had noticed how John was still limping slightly since the funeral the year before, and that it hadn't gone away, though he refused to use the cane, that he seemed thinner and... worn off. As he listened to his blogger blabbering to the empty grave, Sherlock didn't feel relieved that he was there at last. He had spent a year trying to keep John from the front of his mind (sometimes uselessly, especially in the lulls between missions), even if he had requested frequent updates from Mycroft. That man, that soldier, the doctor, the blogger, everyone had a facet with which they regarded him, but Sherlock knew better. He knew he had to look at John. And what he saw, there at the tombstone, seemed to break something in his carefully constructed armour of aloof disinterest. He hadn't wanted to show himself there. He had wanted to wait for John to go home, he had planned on following him there: the chase was finally over, he could come back, he had wanted to do that in the safety and privacy of his home. But then, John had fallen asleep. Sherlock could not believe, for a second, that it had happened, but his keen eyes obviously told him otherwise. Gazing around he saw that no one was there, and he decided to risk it and get nearer. John's shoulder would ache if he stayed there, the weather in June unpredictable enough that it was damp and not so warm, and he would be stiff if he stayed that way. As he approached, he heard John murmuring something in his sleep. When he made out what it was, he had to swallow several times to keep from making a sound (that he didn't know what would be). He discarded the coat he had on even in that late spring day and draped it onto the sleeping man, making sure the it covered him properly.
Then he set to wait, staying crouched on his haunches in front of his doctor. John seemed to relax slightly when the coat was put around him: the shoulders loosened, the breath evened out and got deeper. This was probably the reason why his eyes snapped open suddenly just a couple of lungfuls later. It couldn't be... but... his smell... in dreams you don't smell things... he thought, John's immediate vision filled by the collar of the black coat, of Sherlock's coat. Sherlock observed his sudden waking in the waning light of the sun and waited, sweat forming on his palms, eyes twitching and starting to burn. John's hands took the coat, touched it, he brought it to his face and inhaled deeply, unaware (or maybe totally aware?) of being watched by the owner of said coat. John closed his eyes again, tight, the flesh between the eyebrows was pinched and the breath started to be ragged and uneven. Sherlock crawled on his knees until he was at mere inches from John and was going to touch him, but he had to stop mid-movement when,
"Do not touch me, please." John asked. His eyes opened slowly, gazing into the consulting detective's ones, showing a range of emotions that made Sherlock dizzy. Sherlock didn't move, then, leaving everything to John. The doctor forced his breath to deepen, his nerves to calm down. He was angry and happy at the same time, he was hurt and relieved, his heart was in pain but soared with joy, singing its happiness. Sherlock tried to follow this plethora of emotions racing in his friend's eyes but was quickly overwhelmed.
"John..." he started, just to be interrupted.
"Don't... don't say anything. Yet. Please. Let me... let me catch up, you know I am not like you." John tried a small smile, succeeding. Sherlock couldn't help himself and threw his lanky (and lankier than John remembered) figure to his blogger, who was just quick enough to catch both of them before they fell on the ground. Sherlock's face was pressed against John's shoulder, inhaling him deeply, realising just in that moment the real extent of how he had really missed John. He started mumbling something against John's skin when John's arms went around him and squeezed him so tight it was difficult to breathe properly, the doctor's face in the detective's hair. Sherlock didn't realize he was crying until he felt the damp, salty flavour of the tears themselves on John's collar.
"Hey, I'm here. I'm here, Sherlock," John's voice caught on the name and he had to draw another long breath "Sherlock, dear, I'm here... " he kept on telling platitudes on those curly hair, while the hands rubbed Sherlock's back, both soothing and confirming his presence, not even noticing the use of the endearments. Eventually, he made out what Sherlock was praying on his neck. A string of "sorry-s", "Missed you-s" and something else that was utterly inaudible was being said against his own skin, which, he noticed, was damp. He reached out with a hand, cupping Sherlock's cheek and lifting his face. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, not unlike John had done few moments later. He seemed to take back part of his composure and when he deemed to be ready, he raised his face and met John's eyes.
"John..."
"You. Utter. Bastard." John said, looking seriously at him, the voice strong and unwavering, "You wanker. Damned may be the day I met you and followed you." Sherlock was hit by every word but John's expression didn't match them. It was one of those situations in which he found himself at loss, missing some social clues (but, really, in this case, it was more about not wanting to upset John more).
"I'm sorry... " Sherlock murmured. John's eyes softened at that, blinking away the stray tear that would appear there.
"I'd like to say that 'It's ok', but it really isn't," John answered "yet, at least. You will have to explain me everything, Sherlock, I don't want to be left out from your great plans anymore, I don't want to be forced to go through a year or even a day like the last one again. I don't think I can." Sherlock looked at him in astonishment. John didn't seem... shocked or overwhelmed. Between the two, he was the one that had cried like a child (luckily no one was there to see it), the one who had needed comfort. He had tried to get himself ready to calm John down, to avoid a panic attack. As usual, his blogger surprised him. Sherlock made to lean in on John and kiss him, but John stopped him with a finger on his lips, the point of the index covering that ridiculously attractive cupid's bow.
"Don't you dare kissing me the first time in a cemetery and leaning on your tombstone," he said, a small smile appearing briefly on his lips "I don't really need a memory like that. First things first, we're going home," the sound of that word made Sherlock recover from the shock of being stopped but not rejected, "and then you're going to explain and after I'll decide if it's the case."
Sherlock didn't expect John to hug him tight again for a brief squeeze before getting up, popping his back out of the awkward position it had been forced into. Sherlock was still on the ground, watching him in astonishment.
"Well? Come on, off the ground you, you'll ruin that suit definitely," John said, extending a hand to his detective. Sherlock took it and squeezed it, raising gracefully with his long limbs
"John Watson, you are astonishing," he said, a hint of wonderment in his voice. John smiled smug and answered
"Well, we can't be all as brilliant as you all the time, but I do have my moments, you know. Come on, let's go home," he repeated, and started walking. Sherlock hesitated for a second, watching John's back and smiled when he saw that the limp was gone. He caught up with him in a couple of strides and look down to him. John was smiling and hit him with the good shoulder when he got near.
"Another stunt like that, and I'll be the one planning your death. Long and hurtful, understood?"
Sherlock just nodded and fell back into step with John, like he had done so many times in the past. They would go home and he would tell John everything, about Moriarty's orders, about the bullets that could kill him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, about dismantling the organization, about finding Moran in London and getting him to Mycroft. He would tell him about Molly's help, about his tears on the roof, about the fact that he hated doing that but that it was needed to save their lives, to save John's life. John would yell at him angrily and even shove him, telling him that he was an idiot and that he could have told him regardless, because the last year had been hell, he'd been suffering so much, especially thinking that he might have stopped that somehow, when there was nothing to stop. Sherlock would just take it all, because, let's be honest: a shove was so much less than a punch, and John deserved to be angry. They would then calm down and the doctor would take some deep breaths. His jaw would set with determination and he would raise his eyes on Sherlock's, the expression softening at the sight. Then John would cup his face, lean in and, just a inch from his mouth, murmur "Tea?", and Sherlock would lose it, closing the gap between them and kissing him sweetly.
And they were finally home.