John stared down at the patch of green grass. No matter how many times he saw that name on the headstone, it still hit him like a punch to the stomach.
"Lestrade called again today," he said quietly. "I think he's just trying to make me feel needed. Lord knows I'm not half the detective you were. Better than Lestrade, but then again so is Mycroft, so it isn't really saying much. I'm taking more hours at the clinic… keeping busy, you know. You'd probably hate it, I'm hardly around anymore." He paused, wondering if he should continue. It's not as if he was going to get much crazier, standing in a graveyard at night talking to someone who could not hear him.
"I thought I heard your music the other night, the quiet way you used to play when you thought I was sleeping. I never told you, but if you were playing, I wasn't sleeping. God, you were amazing. If you weren't such a bloody brilliant detective, you'd have been one hell of a musician…" he trailed into silence, staring at the tombstone for a long moment. With each passing second his got angrier and angrier, furious at himself for not being able to save Sherlock, and furious with Sherlock for never asking for help.
"I loved you, you bastard! And what have I got to show for it? An empty flat that is so full of the great Sherlock Holmes that every time I walk in it's like someone took all the air out of my lungs. I know you, Sherlock, and I don't care what you said, I believe in you. I. Believe. In. You," he shouted at the silent grave.
Damn Sherlock, damn him for dying before John could say something, damn him for leaving, and damn him for trying to pretend he was someone other than who he was. Still furious, he whirled to face the tree behind him and slammed a fist into the tree, shaking with anger. He pressed his forehead to the bark just above where he'd lodged his fist, finally allowing some tears to slip from his eyes and run swiftly down his cheeks. John stood there for a long time, crying silently. Thankfully, this portion of the graveyard was usually empty, so no one had to see the former soldier break down.
Sherlock's head was spinning. It was only by pure luck the detective had discovered John's nightly pilgrimages to his grave; during the first weeks after the fall he'd spent quite a bit of time in the graveyard. He'd listened as John had spoken to what the doctor thought was just a tombstone, sharing little snapshots of life without Sherlock Holmes. At first, the words were numb and flat, then so unbearably sad it took all of Sherlock's not inconsiderable self-control to keep from leaping from his perch in the trees and telling John everything.
The one thing he couldn't help was the music. Late at night, when he was certain John would be asleep, Sherlock would creep into the apartment and play, softly, so softly, just enough that he hoped –perhaps absurdly- that the music would creep into John's dreams and give him some modicum of comfort.
Now come to find out that not only had John heard him, but that he'd always heard him. Every time Sherlock had played out his sadness, his confusion, and his joy, John had been listening quietly. The image swelled up in his mind, of John lying sleepless on his sheets when the music started. A small smile playing around his lips as he heard the melody. Moving his head gently, making the burnished gold hair gleam in the lone strip of light that snuck in under the door. Eventually falling asleep as the melody slowed and finally fell silent.
It was so unexpectedly tender, that image, and something caught in Sherlock's throat. Part of him desperately wanted to drop out of the trees and to embrace the blond that still stood a tantalizing few feet below him. It was an urge Sherlock was familiar with, and one he'd always managed to quell before. Affection was weakness, nothing more. Look at what had nearly happened to John when the world assumed they were simply mates. How much worse it would be if they were to have a relationship. Not to mention that Sherlock hadn't the foggiest clue on how to be in a relationship with anybody, much less someone as… thoroughly good as John Watson.
But he couldn't let John carry on like this. It was too painful an option to bear consideration. Somehow he had to tell him, and soon.
John left the graveyard quickly, turning his collar up against the stiff, cold breeze that was blowing in. He hustled home, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for a bit. Not that sleep would be much of a relief; so many of his nights were plagued with nightmares that he was beginning to look a little like a zombie. When he strode up the stairs towards his flat, he heard something strange. Music, something new, something Sherlock had never played. It was violin music, and impossibly sad music at that. Hope swelled in his chest, unbidden and unlikely.
He threw open the door, and there, waiting in the living room bold as brass, was his detective, with the violin set aside. His breath caught for a moment and he simply stared at Sherlock for a moment. Hardly anything had changed in him, his face was perhaps a bit more wan, and his eyes seemed almost sad, which was an abrupt change from the usual cold aloofness, but still Sherlock. Still alive.
And as quickly as John's sense of relief had come, it fled. Without even thinking he stormed across the room to where Sherlock stood and punched him square in the jaw. "You. Absolute. Bastard," John grunted hitting him with each word. Sherlock tried to speak but John would hear none of it. He simply continued with his abuse, but his heart wasn't really in it. Soon his fists were just thumping uselessly against Sherlock's chest. He pressed his forehead over Sherlock's heart, still furious but taking comfort in the steady sound.
"Don't you ever do that to me again," John half-sobbed, hating how his voice cracked, hating that this stupid, stupid man could reduce him to such a mess without saying a word. He froze when he felt Sherlock's wrap arms around him. Sherlock never showed affection like this, never. He pulled back a bit to see Sherlock looking down at him with eyes that were filled with an emotion John couldn't quite name. He could still feel his anger pounding fast and hard in his veins, but he couldn't quite bring it up to the surface. "Why did you have to go and do that?" he demanded.
Sherlock shook his head sadly. "I had to, John. They- they would have killed you. I've put you in awful danger just by being here," he said, and backed away. John caught at his arm, holding him firmly in place. He'd found his anger again.
"You could have told me, Sherlock! Jesus, I thought we were friends," John exclaimed, noting that he was probably holding Sherlock's arm a little to tightly. He couldn't help it, he felt as if Sherlock was going to vanish.
Sherlock seemed almost hurt, as if he could even feel that way. "We are friends, John. That's why I couldn't tell you. You'd have tried to talk me out of it, and it had to be done," he insisted, laying his hand over John's. Once again, John was surprised by Sherlock's physical affection. He was actually displaying emotion.
"Yes, I would have talked you out of it because it was bloody mad! Do you have any idea, even the faintest clue, of what it's been like for me, thinking you were dead? I saw your body, Sherlock, crumpled on the ground. God, I still have nightmares about it, and it 'had to be done' without telling me?" John ranted, yanking his hand away from Sherlock's wrist.
"John. I know, I know exactly what you went through. I heard you, every time you came to speak with me. It nearly killed me, John, listening to you when you were like that, and knowing that I was the reason why," Sherlock said desperately, reaching for John.
The doctor pulled back, shying away from Sherlock. "You- you heard me? You were there, the entire ti-" John broke off, overcome by embarrassment and frustration. "Why, Sherlock. Just why now? I was doing fine, I was mourning, why did you come back?" he said curtly, clenching his eyes closed and pressing his hand to his forehead.
Sherlock shrank back, curling into himself, and then seemed to gain control, puffing back out and stepping boldly forward. He pulled John's hand away from his face and then gently took his chin in hand. "I came back for you," Sherlock said fiercely, tilting John's face up and bringing his mouth down swift and hard to the doctor's lips.
John groaned lightly, his arms reaching up until his fingers were buried in Sherlock's dark curls. God his lips were soft, like he'd always imagined they'd be, when he'd let himself think like that. The detective's lean arms were wrapped snugly around him, pulling them flush against each other and making John's breath catch in his throat. He pulled back just a bit, just enough that he could see the blue-grey eyes staring back at him.
"Sherlock-" John exhaled quietly. "What are we- what are we doing?" Sherlock smiled crookedly and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from closing the distance between them and kissing that smile until he couldn't breath.
"I have no idea," Sherlock answered seriously, leaning in to gently trail his lips down John's neck. John arched his back with a gasp as Sherlock nipped lightly at the sensitive skin beneath his jaw.
Sherlock could hardly breath and his heart was hammering so loud he was sure John could hear it. He'd never felt like this, so out of control, as if he were just a passenger in his body. It was absolutely intoxicating, being with John like this. He couldn't pinpoint when it had begun, but somewhere along the line he'd realized that he wanted John in both the best and worst ways possible.
He found he could not keep his hands to just one spot, instead they insisted on roving over John, memorizing him to ensure nothing had changed since he'd left. His lips found John's again and he murmured his apology. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry," he insisted. "Please, please forgive me." John pressed closer to him.
"It's alright, Sherlock," he promised, kissing him lightly, then more firmly when Sherlock sighed. Suddenly their tongues brushed and Sherlock could swear he turned to fire. He'd had no idea- had no clue it would be like this. He wanted John, not just anyone, but his John. Suddenly John's jumper and shirt were both on the floor, and Sherlock was working on removing his own shirt. John brushed away Sherlock's suddenly clumsy fingers and undid the buttons himself before pulling Sherlock to him.
Sherlock could not believe this was happening, but he didn't honestly care how he'd feel about it later. At that moment, it was perfectly right and logical. He pulled John closer, pressing into him, wanting to feel all of him. When he pulled John down to the couch and slid over him John moved back for a moment, leaning against the pillows.
"I know you're leaving before the morning. Promise me this isn't a dream," John asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock with eyes like glass. Sherlock couldn't help but lean down and kiss first his jaw, then his cheek, his temple, and finally his mouth, driving himself mad with restraint. He let them sit in silence for a moment.
"This is far from a dream, John," Sherlock finally answered, sliding his hands down John's side to his belt. Their eyes met quickly and John only nodded. They were both breathing quickly, chests heaving in tandem as Sherlock undid the buttons on John's pants. After that, everything was a heated blur, and Sherlock was positively dizzy with it. No, this was no dream. It was far too good to be a dream, far too beautiful to be pretend.
John woke up the next morning tangled in his own bed. He sat up with a feeling of panic, thinking perhaps it really had been a dream. He rolled over, blinking sleep away. If it had been a dream, it was one he wanted to hold on to as tightly as possible. It had been amazing, moving from the couch back into his room… It couldn't have been a dream. It just couldn't have been… could it?
He looked towards his dresser. Sitting there was a cup of tea and a small folded piece of paper.
Here's your proof.
With love,
SH
John smiled gently. Even though things were far from solved, and Sherlock was out there somewhere doing God knew what, that's how everything was going to end. With love.