A/N: Hello dearest readers. Feel free to britprick as this story is self beta-ed (I promise I don't mind constructive input). Also, I am regrettably and irrevocably American, so I apologize for any funky-ness on that front.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything. Yet. Muahaha.
Alright. Here you go. Enjoy.
Since his best friend had fallen to his untimely death, John had developed a few new habits. Since he lives alone again, he has no reason not to let himself go. The flat is as much as a mess as it ever was, even with the removal of Sherlock's belongings, because John has given up on tidying the place. John doesn't move away from 221b. He can't imagine life anywhere else. Then again, he couldn't imagine life without Sherlock, and yet...
He sits down in Sherlock's armchair, settles down into the cushion, inadvertently smells the chemicals and detergent and just general Sherlock-ness that hasn't managed to wear off yet. He draws in a ragged breath and sips his tea. It is Sunday. John has been visiting Sherlock's grave every Sunday for the past three months. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson comes with him. Once he was joined by Lestrade. But no one other than John keeps up the religious visiting of Sherlock's grave. Soon John will pull himself out of the comforting feel of Sherlock's chair enveloping him and tend to this week's visit.
Since his best friend had watched him fall to his own untimely death, Sherlock had developed a few habits. He had gotten entirely too used to having John around to clean up after his messes and to tell him when things were getting a bit out of hand. He had become used to the general hominess that comes with living with another person and now that he's alone he misses it more than he should. He's been living in Molly's basement, odd and cliché as it is, because she offered to help and it's not like there was a line of people waiting to offer a dead laughingstock a place to stay. So he is living in Molly's basement. She had started bringing him enough food to sustain him when she realized he wasn't going to get it himself. Dear old Molly, still willing to do whatever she can to get Sherlock's attention.
He's not actually complaining. He really would be dead without her. And, seeing as she's the only semi-intelligent life form he's spoken to in three months, Sherlock feels obligated to be at least polite to her.
He only ever leaves Molly's basement for two reasons: cocaine and John. He needs the cocaine because, although he had sworn it off all those months ago, he can no longer go off solving cases and his brain is practically rotting without the stimulation. He had accepted the need for the drug almost immediately and had not hesitated in giving in to the craving. Molly doesn't seem to mind. Much.
Today, however, cocaine is not what draws Sherlock out of his sanctuary. Today is Sunday.
When John arrives at the graveyard, the sun seems intent on staying disgustingly bright. He squints his eyes at it and plunders forward to the gravestone marked in big ominous letters, SHERLOCK HOLMES. The sight has become almost a comfort to John. It's as if, standing at his grave, Sherlock is somehow there with him. John is not a superstitious man. He does not believe in ghosts. When he really thinks about it, he doesn't seriously believe that Sherlock is there, even in spirit.
Most of the time he chooses not to think about it.
When Sherlock arrives at the graveyard, the ridiculous patch of light in the sky is still managing to be more cheerful than should be possible for a ball of gas. Sherlock ignores it and trudges over beneath a tree some thirty metres away from his grave. John has already arrived. Is earlier than his usual today. Is wearing Sherlock's scarf around his neck. Hasn't shaved in four, no, five days. Places a hand atop Sherlock's headstone. Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines the touch. A gentle caress through his hair. Sherlock can hear John's voice; is too far away to understand what he's saying. Desperately wants to move closer but will never risk exposing himself.
"Hello again," John says, having long since gotten over the self-consciousness of talking to a piece of granite. "I've missed you this week. But you already know that." He smiles sadly, gently touches the top of the headstone, and continues. "You'll be glad to know Mrs. Hudson has seemed a bit more cheerful lately. Of course, she's not happy, but... She's got friends, you know? Other people she can talk to, things to keep her busy...
"Lestrade's been coming to me with cases. Seems to think I'll be of some use now the initial grieving is over. It's not the same without you. Somehow they expect me to walk in and know all the answers like you always did and although I suppose I have learned a few things from you I could never be that bloody brilliant." John takes a breath because he's talking a bit too fast and with too much emotion and the sun is a bit bright and if he's not careful he may wind up passed out next to his friend's grave and wouldn't that be a sight? "It's just... It's been a rough week, Sherlock. Not any worse than the ones before, but... More real somehow. Everyone keeps saying that it's going to get better, but nobody understands, Sherlock, you saved me! I know, I know it sounds terribly cliché, and you can go ahead and have a chuckle about that, but you know it's true. Before we met... I was just a walking shell of a person. I didn't have any real friends. I didn't have anything or anyone to live for. And then you came along and changed everything and jesus I miss you." John's beginning to lose it now. It's been a couple weeks since he's been this emotional. He doesn't really care. Graves are meant for mourning. For remembering.
Sherlock watches his friend take a deep, shuddering breath. He will never get tired of this. Watching John. He's not really sure how the tradition came about. It started the day of his funeral when he was so desperate to see John's face again, make sure he was alright. He, of course, wasn't alright (obviously; should have known), and after Sherlock got over the initial shock of seeing his friend grieving, he felt nothing but numbness. John was obviously in pain (hunched shoulders; dark circles under his eyes; limp worsening; unshaven face) because of Sherlock and there was absolutely nothing he could do to change that.
But... John was alive. And Sherlock was alive. And the only thing separating them (other than three incredibly skilled assassins, of course) was thirty-two and a half metres of grass, graves, and air. So Sherlock had begun coming back. He knew that John would. John is a man of habits, a man of ritual. Sherlock knows John will be here every Sunday unless he is near to death himself. And so they began meeting here. Once a week. Every week. Both with the sole intent of seeing the other. Only, John was looking at a piece of granite.
But Sherlock will never get tired of watching John. Even if John looks terrible (because of Sherlock) and has obviously not been eating (because of Sherlock) and is frequently disgustingly emotional (because of Sherlock), Sherlock enjoys seeing his face. He enjoys the realisation that John is, in fact, wonderfully alive (because of Sherlock) and is breathing (because of Sherlock) and has bright hot blood methodically coursing through his veins (because of Sherlock).
John spends the next few minutes staring intensely at Sherlock's name on the headstone, breathing deeply, and trying to hold off inevitable tears that are unwillingly rising behind his eyes. He soon gives in and one rolls despondently down his cheek. He isn't sure what is different about today; isn't sure why everything hurts so much more today than it has in weeks. Perhaps the numbness is wearing off, he hypothesises, and now his emotions are coming sharply and clearly through the haze of depression.
He feels as though he could stand for hours in front of Sherlock's grave, telling him about all the little things that shouldn't make a difference but somehow mean everything. How he, without thinking, made Sherlock a cup of tea yesterday. How he still half expects to see the man lying peacefully on the sofa when he comes home. How he collapses with grief when he remembers that Sherlock is lying peacefully under the earth and most definitely not on the sofa. How he, every few nights, sleeps in Sherlock's bed, breathes in Sherlock's stale and slowly fading scent, stares at the ceiling that Sherlock had stared at every night, imagines that Sherlock were there staring at that ceiling with him.
Sherlock doesn't need to know these things. He's probably deduced them already.
"I'm still waiting for that miracle," John mutters, stroking the headstone almost lovingly.
He looks up. Stares ahead of him in confusion. He's noticed an unnervingly familiar face floating the shadows. Sherlock. He is standing there, half hidden behind a nearby tree, and he is alive and breathing and so wonderfully majestic in the specked light the leafy shadows cast on him that it is all John can do not to run desperately toward the man.
He berates himself gently. It's all in his head. He knows it is. His grieving has turned into hallucinations now. How lovely. He blinks a few times, willing the image to disappear because John is not crazy dammit. When it doesn't, he sighs disconsolately, turns away in defeat, and begins trudging back to the road. As he does so, he swears he hears his name called out across the cemetery.
He knows he's imagined that too.
Nevertheless, he can't help but look over his shoulder and stare longingly at the now empty space beneath that tree.
Sherlock is just close enough to John to see his tears. He stares plaintively, desperately wanted to run to his friend and wrap him in his billowing coat. He knows that can't happen. He's accepted that already. When John looks up at him, their eyes make contact for a few precious seconds and his heart sputters abnormally. Funny things, emotions. Visual stimulus resulting in a physiological effect. He wonders when this aspect of science began applying to him. He's always managed to avoid it before. He realises that this is utterly John's fault, but, somehow, he doesn't entirely mind.
Funny things, emotions.
John's face passes through states of shock, confusion, desperation, and pain before finally resting on a look of pure, terrible sadness.
Sherlock really must learn to control these ridiculous emotions because when John turns and begins trudging away, unknowingly increasing the distance between the two of them, Sherlock thoughtlessly calls out to him. He thinks John has not heard. Is glad John has not heard, because if he has, then Sherlock may have just killed him. He memorises the back of John's head, the hunch of his shoulders, the way he has begun ever so slightly limping again. He memorises John and darts quickly away before John looks back at him (he knows John will look back. Classic move, the look-back. Doesn't just happen in the terrible romantic movies John has made him watch). Soon he is far away from the cemetery, a very large part of his brain already contemplating next week's visit.
As John stands by the side of the road waiting for a cab, he has already begun closing off the corners of his mind that he lets free during his talks with Sherlock. The pain, the fear, the regret of things left unsaid. All of this must be shoved into the depths of his imagination until next Sunday. He cannot wait for next Sunday.
It's the one day a week when John feels truly alive.