A/N: SenpaiNoSasuke asked for some Johnlock to the theme of Bonnie Tyler's "Say Goodbye." And so here I am, delivering precisely that. Hope you like it, bb, although I've no idea what it wound up becoming! It's like angst-fest mixed with a happy-ish ending to keep myself from going crazy? Idk idk. :T

Somewhere inside is burning;

I don't know why it's hurting.

Hoping for just one sign in your eyes

That tells me you will be staying.

Where can I go to find you?

What must I do to feel you?

I was looking but too blind to see

You were there, right by my side…

…What can I do to hold you,

Now that I know I love you?

Never found that our hearts felt the same

'Til the cold light of day stole our dreams.

The sound of rain triggers an epiphany.

Or perhaps it isn't the soft pelt of water droplets from the crying clouds that trigger it after all (oh, he likes that. Sounds poetic. He's becoming quite the writer from his damn blog, the one he hasn't updated in over a year). Perhaps it's instead the feeling of stiff grass beneath his demin-covered legs, the way the dirt gets under his fingernails. Perhaps it's sitting here, alone, back propped up against the sleek and glossy grave marker of the late Sherlock Holmes that triggers it.

Whatever the reason, it dawns on John with the intensity of a hundred clock chimes, banging around in his head until the final stroke hums and fades into the distance like a dying piano note. It occurs to him with that much finality: this is it. This is the closure his therapist, Ella, was trying to get him to reach; this is the fact he's been denying all along. This is it.

He's in love with Sherlock. Or was; he can't be sure. Knowing the consulting detective, this could be a trick, a magic trick, like the rest of it he tried to lead John to believe in the end, on that fateful phone call. Everything is fluid; nothing sticks, has solidity, when Sherlock was an enigma in life and certainly could be one in death.

(A miracle would be nice. It would be proof that these ideas aren't entirely insane. One miracle, Sherlock. That's all that's been asked for.)

But now that this startling epiphany has come and gone, what can John do with it? How does he even feel about this, knowing the only man he loved or might ever love (because women are his preference, they always have been, before. But Irene. She was right, wasn't she, in the end? The damn Woman. The one who ruined so much) is dead? Or isn't, and is playing some cruel joke that's punchline is long overdue?

John shakes his head, water dripping off his hair, landing on his nose, his cheek, his soaked clothes, the ground. He wipes his face and tilts his head back, feeling his eyelids flicker as they remain closed off from the grey sights of the world above and around him.

Whatever he decides, whatever he feels; it can't be worse than this. Than the chill of rain, the beautiful plips the drops make as they strike his clothes and the stone supporting him. It can't be any worse than the numbness inside and outside his body, taking over what little left he has of himself that make him John Hamish Watson (doctor or soldier or neither or both, the labels don't even factor in any longer).

Sighing, John forces himself to stand. He feels old, as ancient and as newborn as the blackholes in space. He is going through the motions, a branch caught in the tide, pulled out to sea.

He walks off, letting his feet guide him with their memory of paths previously tread, and he's both glad he forgot an umbrella and regrets it, and he definitely know she was foolish to sit there for an hour as he had, and he is certain of the head-cold he's already developed, and the possibility of pneumonia.

But that, of course, is irrelevant because John loves Sherlock, he realizes that now, and it just stings and burns like no other, slowly carving out his heart.

(Moriarty wanted to burn Sherlock's heart. Guess he got John's instead. Because this is his fault, entirely his. Without Moriarty, Sherlock would be alive and as much of an annoying dick as ever, and God, he misses Sherlock so much he could cry.)

And could Sherlock has ever returned an ounce of these feelings? That's what hurts the most, because John is sure he couldn't have. Sherlock doesn't feel things that way; John said so himself. So why would John be an exception? What, because he's his only friend? Ah, exactly. Friend. That's all he would ever be, because Sherlock would find it trifling and pointless if they were more than that. Feelings – sentiment – is a weakness of lower intellect, in Sherlock's mind. John is so sure of this. Which is why this is so painful.

He jaggedly exhales and violently bangs his head repeatedly. His chest feels constricted. He feels the scorching heat of tears behind his eyelids. He wants to fall to his knees, he needs to breathe.

Panic attack. Don't need to be a doctor to diagnose this right out of the gate.

John hyperventilates for a moment, and then, yes, since he refuses to cry, here comes the hysteric laughter. God, he wants so badly to feel Sherlock under his fingertips. One more miracle, Sherlock. Just one.

John scrambles to his feet. He falls against a monument and grips it as tightly as he's able. He's shaking. With cold or grief, he can't differentiate.

Then he feels warmth all around him before he blacks out.

x/x/x

When John comes to, he's in a small car, lying in the backseat. Someone is at the wheel, but the car is parked. The lot is empty. John sits up. The graveyard is just nearby, so he hasn't gone far.

"I've made a mistake," the person in the driver's seat says lowly, softly. And it sounds like him. But it can't be him; he's dead. John felt his wrist for a pulse and saw his bloodied corpse on the street.

(But anything can be faked if you make someone see what they expect to see. Magic tricks.)

"I thought you could handle this. I thought I could resist revealing myself to you. I thought danger would remain at bay. But I was wrong on all accounts."

He turns. His face is grim. He's pale, he's gaunt, he's an odd mix of genes that somehow makes him beautiful in an alien way, his angles chiseled and smooth. Sherlock. Unmistakably Sherlock.

"And you know how I hate being wrong. So we must correct this, John. Beginning with: I'm alive. And I've stated the obvious for you so you don't think me a hallucination."

John can say nothing. His head is swimming. He wants to kiss this man, hold this man, strangle this man, forget this man. He wants none of which he can have, nor permit. So he opts instead to swallow, part his lips carefully, and reply, "That's a start. Now how do you want to go about correcting the rest?"

Sherlock's lips twitch at a smile and he turns back to the wheel to turn the key in the ignition and shift gears to pull out.

"By showing you my progress, explaining, and earning your trust again enough to help me finish what it is I've begun since playing opossum."