"Sherlock!" Sometimes he still heard it in his sleep, the sound of John's voice, the panic seeping from it. The cruelest trick he ever played and Sherlock Holmes had always felt that he had hurt himself the worst with it. As he watched from a distance, he viewed John slowly moving on. He began to smile at Lestrade and Molly again, he laughed at Anderson's ridiculous theories (theTardis was John's favorite theory) and then John met Mary, began dating Mary, and bought the ring for Mary and then Sherlock knew. He knew without any doubt that John had moved on. Well, without much doubt. There were still those moments where John would suddenly, with absolutely no warning or thought, end up at the cemetery, staring down at the false headstone that Sherlock himself had paid for. The first year had been hard. John went to the tombstone frequently, nearly every day, and spoke to it and cried. Gods did he cry.
Sherlock even caught John writing his own notes a few times.
John didn't talk about that with anyone though. Not even Mary. He would delete the notes or save them to a hidden and encoded folder on his laptop. He thought he needed to save them as testament to himself that he never just forgot or abandoned Sherlock.
The second year was better. Sherlock watched John begin to laugh and smile. When he was confident that John would be alright, he left then. He left the country, but couldn't stay away for long of course, and then Mycroft. Bloody fucking Mycroft. Sherlock could hardly think about his brother without adding a startling list of swear words. Wanker was always at the top closely followed by Tit. Mycroft brought him back, easily Sherlock was embarrassed to admit. All he had to mention was that one name; that one name that haunted Sherlock's dreams. The name invaded his nightmares so it wasn't Moriarty that shot himself in the head, inches from Sherlock's face, but the owner of the name. Other nights, it was that name that Sherlock breathed heavily, his body sweating and hot and ridged with passion and pleasure. John Watson.
"He's asking her to marry him. She's a nice girl. I'm sure you've seen her, but still, I thought you should know. It's not that I care about him or you or any type of….relationship," Mycroft said the word with a sly smile, "but I'm tired of this level of denial from him. It's irritating. I want him to admit it."
Sherlock tightly gripped the edge of Mycroft's desk in his hidden away office, most likely underground given its lack of windows, "Admit what?"
Mycroft smirked at his younger brother, "Oh please. Sherlock, you and I have always been above other people. We know that and recognize it. That's why I've never found a goldfish as you so well put it once. You though….you've been in love with John Watson a long time. It's nothing to do with sexual orientation either. It's simply that he's the only human being to ever challenge you or keep up with you and make you feel happy. You love him as a person. It's admirable and I'm proud of you, but he associates it with being 'gay'. A term he seems to frown upon on some level or another. I want him to understand that it's little or nothing to do with gender and everything to do with the person. So please for the love of everything intelligent in this universe, please go find him and make him understand this because I'm tired of this plot line and it needs to wrap up." Mycroft had smiled then at his brother, happy that one of them understand what it felt like to love.
Sherlock donned his coat, loving every moment of it. The sleeves fit how they needed to, the elbows worn just enough that there was little friction as he moved freely. It was lovely. When he popped the collar up, he could hear John's chortle in his head and the whisper of "You and your coat with your cheekbones," and it was all said with so much love Sherlock smiled from the depths of his soul and knew he needed to find John.