I Love You, a sherlock fanfic

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The Five Times They Didn't Have To Say I Love You, and The One Time They Did

It starts, predictably, after a case and a chase across London.

John is coming down off the high of a near miss; a bullet path only slightly altered could have meant his death. Sherlock is coming down off the high of another case solved; the woman of London can sleep safe tonight, because Jules Eggerman is behind bars.

It starts in Mrs. Hudson's foyer, with John's breathless giggles.

Propped against Mrs. Hudson's wall, John tilts his head up. Possibly to berate Sherlock for the risks of the night. Possibly to giggle some more and congratulate him on another case solved. Possibly, John just wanted to see Sherlock. Years later, he can never remember.

As John catches a glimpse of Sherlock face, high aristocratic cheekbones, pale verdigris eyes, dark tumultuous curls, his intent… vanishes.

They are locked in each other's gaze, when it happens.

John never regrets that he made the first move. How can he when the end result is his bed filled with a gorgeous consulting detective?

John steps closer, deep into Sherlock's personal space, until they are pressed together, chest to chest, legs to legs, lips to lips. Sherlock does not protest. If opening his heart to this man was no trouble, why would opening his arms pose a problem? It doesn't.

Enveloping the small, compact soldier in front of him, Sherlock presses down into the kiss. It has been years since he last kissed someone, yes, but they all fall away when it is John in his arms. John in his heart. Sherlock places his long, exaggerated fingers, attached to his larger-than-life hands, on John's shoulders. Partly to make sure he can't leave. Partly for leverage into the kiss, of course.

John's hands, which had been tightly clenched fist at his side, relax at the gesture, at the acceptance it implies. One presses against the curve of Sherlock's hip, a balance for the shorter man. The second one does what it has always wanted and curls into Sherlock's hair. As roughened fingertips brush curls for the first time, any tension left in John's body dissipates, and he melts into the kiss, into Sherlock.

It is an unhurried kiss, but no less earth-shattering.

Lips force lips open, and Sherlock's tongue maps the inside of John's mouth. It is a dance, a waltz for two. They hold onto each other, Sherlock and John, and they promise silently to never let go.

When air is an absolute necessity their lips break apart. Forehead rests against forehead and they pant into each other's mouth.

"Alright?" Sherlock whispers. His voice is soft, hesitant and yet his mouth betrays him with an infinitesimal smirk. John answers with his own grin and a bruising kiss.

"Yes. God, yes."

Refusing to let go of each other, to pause for even a moment, John and Sherlock stumble to the stairs. Kissing dissolves into breathless giggles as they stumble and tumble their way into 221B. It's much too early for the words of course, but neither feels them any less.

They broadcast them with every action, every minute muscle twitch. How Sherlock supports John when he stumbles on the stairs, and how John refuses to let go of Sherlock's hand. How neither notices when they linked fingers in the first place. It is in the smile they share before they kiss. It is in the focus, all of his attention, that Sherlock gives John. It is in the way that John holds and touches Sherlock so gently; as if afraid he will break. They don't really need to say the words. Anyone with two eyes can read them.

I love you.

It starts a long journey.

John wakes up with a mouthful of curls, and his arms very much full of consulting detective. Sherlock has curled up into John's chest, and is sleeping more peacefully than John has ever seen him. Everything is soft in the one ray of light escaping from behind the blinds, and quiet. All that is audible is the soft in and out of his lover-boyfriend-partner's breath. A sigh of bliss passes John's lips. If only he didn't have work at the surgery today…

Extracting himself from Sherlock's arms is a long and arduous process, one that takes considerable time and effort. When he finally pulls himself free, Sherlock lets out a soft whimper of discontent, curling into John's previously occupied space. John allows himself a soft smile, as he bends down to gently press a kiss to the head of curls.

Stumbling half-awake to the bathroom, John blindly turns on the shower and steps in. He emerges more alert. John still wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed with Sherlock.

Going through the familiar motions of making tea, John pulls open the cabinet that houses the mugs. If he's lucky there will be a clean one. Instead of the mugs he is looking for, John gets a faceful of dead raccoon carcass. He is not ashamed of the shriek he releases.

Look to Captain John Watson's men, and they will tell you that Doc was the bravest man they knew. Doc could stare a man half-burned to death in the eye as he died, and move onto his next patient with a calm stomach. If asked whether the John Watson they knew would be squeamish at dead raccoon carcass, the men of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers would laugh. And yet here John is, trying to hold in another girlish squeal.

"Bloody hell! SHERLOCK!"

Said man appears in the doorway to the kitchen moments later. One half of his face carries the imprint of his pillow and half of his curls stick up in odd tufts while the rest are plastered to his head. Usually, John found this look adorable. Now, John wants to snap a picture and give it to Anderson and Donovan to do as they please with it.

"Tea, John!" Sherlock's face is scrunched up, and his eyes are slits. John can tell he is none too happy about being disturbed.

"Sherlock. There was a raccoon in our cabinet." John says lowly. His voice is perfectly calm and reasonable. If his lover-boyfriend-partner did not have an explanation… John will not be held responsible for the loss of life.

"Yes of course. Where else was I to put it?" The man rolls his eyes, before narrowing them. John is on the floor by the counter out of sight of the detective. Perhaps that's why it takes so long for him to catch on. "Wait, did you say was? You didn't touch it did you? That is a very important experiment!"

John feels his eyes cross in anger.

"Why was there a RACCOON in our CABINET in the FIRST PLACE!?" Voice rising to a shout, John levers himself to his feet. He takes two measured steps away from both Sherlock and the raccoon. Embodying an irritated mother, John crosses his arms and gives Sherlock an imperious look that orders: Explain.

"You didn't want it in the fridge contaminating the food! There was nowhere else to put it!" His voice is both petulant and self-righteous, as if asking if he is really the one in the wrong here. John tosses up his hands in exasperation.

"For Christ's sake! It's a bloody wonder that I put up with you! A kitchen is for food and meals Sherlock! It's not your lab! The raccoon shouldn't have been in here in the first place!"

Finishing his rant, John glares fiercely at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes are wide, and his posture is defensive. Guilt for his outburst gnaws at him, and John walks to their room to get dressed for work. When he emerges a few moments later, Sherlock is still standing in the same place, watching him with wary eyes.

"I'm off alright? I won't be back till five. If you could get rid of the raccoon…" Sherlock still stands watching him with cautious eyes, and John sighs. Raking a hand through his hair, John digs out a small smile. Stretching up to press a chaste kiss to Sherlock's lips, he simultaneously flattens a stray tuft of hair. It pops right back up, stubborn like the man beneath it. "Bye."

Sherlock watches him go.

Little Mary has the flu and Gertrude's knee is acting up again. The surgery lacks excitement; the one thing John needs the most in his life. Well, that and Sherlock. Wrapping up his shift, John prays to any and all deities that the man has listened for once and thrown out the raccoon. And that he has done more than just toss it out the window into Mrs. Hudson's bins. The poor woman is a saint, honestly.

Baker Street is a quick walk away, and it is with no little trepidation that John climbs the stairs and pushes his way inside. He is prepared for many things, Sherlock throwing a sulk of epic proportions, or him experimenting over the raccoon. John is prepared for his lover-boyfriend-partner to not even be in the flat. What he is not prepared for, however, is the sight of said man working over the oven on something that actually smells good. Not good, mouth-watering.

Sherlock's back is to John, and all John can see are the slim lines of him, framed by that too tight purple shirt. It's John favorite. The sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and Sherlock is intent on whatever it is he's bent over. It's then that John notices the rest of the kitchen.

Cleared of any and all science equipment, John can actually tell that their table is wood. Two place settings and a candle are its new adornment. John feels his heart stutter at the effort Sherlock has put forth. Any sign of the raccoon carcass is gone, and the floor is gleaming as if it was freshly mopped. He wasn't even aware Sherlock knew that they owned cleaning supplies, let alone that he knew how to use them. Dishes that John has been putting off for ages are mysteriously absent, and the whole room smells of citrus.

As John stands gaping in the doorway, Sherlock lifts the risotto he had been working over, and slides it into the oven. He turns to face John.

A few short steps bring John directly in front of Sherlock as he gapes. Sherlock squirms (actually squirms!)under the weight of John's gaze.

"I cleaned the kitchen." Sherlock says, a bit redundantly. And Sherlock is never, ever, redundant.

"Thank you." John manages, throat constricting around the words. He knows that he's not making this easy on Sherlock, but he can't help himself. This is… nice. Domestic. Something John had utterly failed to connect to Sherlock.

"You put up with me." And, though it shouldn't feel like an accusation, it still does. Instead of replying, or apologizing, John communicates another way. Sherlock and John have never needed words to understand each other. John drags Sherlock down into a bruising kiss, and a tight hug. They are in their own little world, but all around them the citrus scented kitchen is shouting the words neither one of them is brave enough to say yet. Sherlock communicates it with his actions and his insecurity. John communicates it with his lips and his arms. And the message is heard loud and clear.

I love you.

Neither one of them remembers the risotto until the fire alarm goes off.

Goddamn it, this is not how it's going to end.

Unfortunately, John has only a limited ability of controlling the future.

His back is to a grungy alley wall, and John is swimming in London's filth. Well that and his blood. But he's really trying not to think about that right now. He tries in vain to summon any emotion as he watches red slip through his fingers and stain his beige jumper. All he can feel is annoyance. He liked this jumper!

Their suspect flees, leaving his knife in John's side. Obviously the man was too lazy to bend down and remove the knife. How rude.

An odd tingling sensation begins in John's torso, emanating from the stab wound. With it comes a flare of pain. Perhaps flare is an inaccurate choice of words, bonfire is more valid. A keening sound escapes him, one that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. This… hurts.

Drifting slowly away on the crest of pain, John allows his eyes to slide shut. The darkness is soothing. But, something, something is nagging at him. He needs to do something…

Sherlock!

It takes all of John's energy to prop himself up on the wall and get his feet under him. A wave of nausea overcomes him. The dry-heaves irritate the knife deeply embedded in his side, and John's knees threaten to give out. But, he refuses to let them. He's a soldier goddamn it. A soldier takes care of his men before himself. John can manage to find Sherlock and ensure his safety before he collapses. It can't be that difficult.

Walking however, poses a problem.

One step and John's legs quake like jello and black spots blind him. He can't find Sherlock this way.

A text perhaps? John is reaching for his phone when he realizes its inconvenient location. It's in his jacket pocket, which is currently pinned to his body with a knife. Removal of the knife would solve this problem yes, but the knife is the only thing slowing the bleeding. Quite frankly John is stuck. He is immobile and cut off from normal communication. There is only one thing for him to do.

"Sherlock!" His first vocalization is a shout, and the one after that a scream. The knife wound pulses in fiery agony and the scream is quite frankly involuntary. It hurts even more. Gasping desperately for air that he can't seem to find, John does what a soldier is trained to do. Push through it.

"Sherlock!" This time his voice cracks, as his agony crescendos past its previous limit. It hurts almost as much as being shot. Perhaps more, John isn't quite sure. He's not sure of anything at the moment.

"Sherlock." It's a whisper this time. John can't find it in him to offer another shout. Two should be enough right? John's legs go out from underneath him. He is amazed he has managed to stay standing this long anyway. As he presses his forehead to his knees, John tries in vain to focus on anything other than the pain. God, does it hurt.

Footsteps. His brain says that should be important should mean something to him, but John is trying his damnedest not to pass out. Meaning is lost.

"John?" John hears it as if from a great distance. But, as always, he has never been able to resist that voice. Not when it needs him. He can't quite open his eyes though; it's as if something is holding them closed. A thousand pound weight maybe?

"Sherlock." His lips form the words, but John's not quite sure he actually makes any sound. He can't hear anything beyond the pounding of his heart.

"John!" The footsteps are closer now, and John knows this should mean something, but he just can't bring himself to care. It hurts, and now that he knows Sherlock is okay… Well there's no reason to keep holding on, is there?

He listens to Sherlock talking, but by now, he is only catching the occasional phrase and word.

"Ambulance… right away… stab wound… corner of…" John blanks out then. It doesn't matter, because Sherlock's safe. Everything else falls to the wayside.

Except of course, for the excruciating agony currently assaulting his side.

All of it slams back into clarity when hands start running up and down his side searching for his injury. John's not sure how to classify the sound he makes when Sherlock's hand brushes the knife. It's a mix between a scream and a whimper, perhaps. It hurts to make.

"John. I need you to open your eyes." Sherlock's voice is right by his ear, and John sighs. God, that voice. It drives him crazy. As usual, John wants nothing more than to obey Sherlock, but some things he can't do, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he talks to Sherlock. If he's going to die in this alleyway God knows there are things he wants to get off his chest. Things he needs to tell Sherlock.

"I'm glad no one saw that." It's hardly audible. But it's enough. John knows Sherlock will get the reference. From a time when they were in a situation like this one, but not quite.

"Saw what?" If John isn't mistaken, Sherlock's voice cracks on the last word. Is he hurt too?

"You, feeling me up in a darkened alleyway. People might talk." John waits for the rejoinder. It never comes.

"John." This time, Sherlock's voice definitely wavers. John feels arms wrap around him, and a nose press into his hair. It hurts (of course it does, everything hurts) but John doesn't care; he leans into the warmth. When Sherlock pulls back, John lets out a little whimper. It would have been good to drift off like that, in Sherlock's arms.

"Please. Can you open your eyes John?" And Sherlock never says please. John's eyes open of their own accord to stare incredulously at Sherlock.

"Please? Did you just say please?"

Some of the tension melts out of Sherlock's shoulders, and, if John isn't mistaken, he just sighed in relief.

Sherlock is, quite frankly, a mess. There's a smear of blood across one of his cheekbones and his eyes are glittering with panic. It's the first time John's seen Sherlock looking anything but rational. He never wants to see it again. His coat has mysteriously disappeared and his scarf is askew. His hands are coated with blood, and John feels no little alarm. It's really not good if he's bleeding that much. Not good at all.

John can hear the sirens in the distance, can see the sky above them threatening rain, can smell the rubbish around them, can feel his blood congealing on his fingers, and can taste the blood in his mouth. But Sherlock is still the center of his universe. While everything else panics and goes off on its own tangent, John will always be with Sherlock.

He drags Sherlock down to press his forehead to John's. They brush lips. Not a kiss, no, but an assurance that the other is there with them. That they're not going anywhere.

"I'll never leave you." John promises. He is losing blood, and his consciousness, and with that his life. But, John will never leave Sherlock. And with that promise John screams it, screams the words they still have not said.

I love you.

Too bad Sherlock will leave John within the year.

"Hello Freak. Lestrade call you again?" Sally Donovan leans against a police car, standing guard over the crime scene. Since she's too busy glaring at Sherlock, she doesn't seem to notice John, following loyally as always, gritting his teeth.

"No. I heard your voice and decided to stop by to chat, Sally. Trouble in paradise, is there? Anderson is trying to mend things with his wife yet again. You shouldn't worry, she's going away on Friday, I'm sure his bed will be open then." Donovan's face turns an interesting shade of purple.

"You… How can you stand him?" Sally has turned her attention to John for once. Her eyes are vindictive, and John knows that she wants him to hurt Sherlock, cut him open. Too bad he'll never play. "No one can stand being in his company for more than ten seconds at a time, and you live with him. How terrible is he to live with? I bet he never shuts up. I bet you're just looking for an excuse to leave him. You're a nice normal bloke; you can do so much better than Sherlock Holmes and-"

Sally hasn't noticed of course she hasn't. No one can read Sherlock like John can. John alone is privy to the way Sherlock pales at her speech. At the way his eyes briefly flash with hurt. John knows he promised to never leave Sherlock, while he was bleeding out in an alleyway. Sherlock knows it's the truth, but still the man doesn't seem to believe it. Well John has had enough.

"Enough. I suggest you shut up. Shut up right now." Sherlock would comment on how Johns posture, at the military position he takes up. His voice drops in pitch and rises in volume until it reaches his captain voice. The voice that made new recruits wet themselves and gave his subordinates nightmares. It commands attention, and John's got it. People have gathered around now, curious. John is going to give them what they came for.

"You don't have any clue what you're talking about Sergeant Donovan. Because, you're right, I do live with him. And God knows he can be a bloody pain. But, this man, Sherlock Holmes, saves lives. When the rest of you dimwits can't see the ground right in front of you, he holds out a flashlight. And all you lot do is insult him, like he's some bloody robot. Well I live with him, and he's anything but. Sherlock Holmes is a great man and a goddamn good one too and if I hear 'Freak' out of your mouth one more time I will break my rule about hitting woman. So why don't you tell the Detective Inspector that if he wants Sherlock's help, he'll have his people show him some respect. I'm done with this."

John never raises his voice, not once throughout his entire dressing down, and that makes it worse. He says his speech with quiet sincerity and honesty. But, it is no less furious. Sergeant Donovan pales as he scolds her, and the vindictive light leaves her eyes. She should have known he would defend Sherlock; he can never do anything less.

John executes a perfect about-face, and marches away from the crime scene tape. His step is steady but he is fuming. John Watson had had enough. Scotland Yard now knows. Mess with Sherlock Holmes and you get a very pissed off John Watson in return.

He's turning the first corner to take him out of sight of the crime scene when Sherlock catches up with him. They fall into step together. There is a brief moment of silence, while Sherlock recovers from his shock and John cools down. Then they both burst into laughter.

"You should have seen their faces after you turned around!" Sherlock gasps, trembling with the force of his chuckles.

"I haven't dragged out the Captain's voice in ages. God that was fun."

Sherlock's hand reaches for John's. Their fingers don't link, it is too dangerous to be out in the open, but it is a near thing. They brush though, and the small intimate action speaks louder than any linking of fingers.

"Thank you. That was… good." It is a mumble, yes, but Sherlock means it. That is more than enough for John.

"Sorry I got you kicked off the crime scene." John's smile belies his words. His grin can light the world.

"It was a boring murder anyway." And this is lie. Sherlock hasn't been this excited for a case in ages. But, it is worth it, missing out on this case. Seeing John tear into Donovan, and Scotland Yard in general? Priceless. The grin John shoots Sherlock says it all.

I love you.

Too bad it's all about to come crashing down.

John's climbing out of the cab when his phone rings. Mrs. Hudson is okay, she isn't really dying, and for the moment he's feeling relieved. And concerned. Sherlock. Sherlock must have known right? So when John answers the phone it's reflexive, not really a conscious act.

"Hello?" There's a brief pause, and then Sherlock's voice is coming out of the speakers.

"John." All John can feel is relief. He'd been afraid that Moriarty would go after Sherlock in his absence. That John would be too late to protect him.

"Hey, Sherlock, are you okay?" Walking towards St. Barts, John feels the tension seep out of his shoulders. Sherlock's okay if he's talking, thank God. And then Sherlock is talking again.

"Turn around and walk back the way you came." John's heart stops. This particular tone of voice, urgency, mixed with desperation, he has only heard twice before. Once, when Sherlock was ripping a Semtex vest off of him, and the second when he was bleeding out in an alley. Oh God.

"I'm coming in." It comes out in a rush, and John can't help that he walks quicker. But then, Sherlock's talking again, and he's desperate, almost begging. John's helpless, he can't disobey.

"Just do as I ask. Please." Sherlock said please. John's stomach drops, and his heart is beating too fast. Oh God. Oh God. Please. His reply is immediate. Sherlock says jump and John says how high. That's how it has always been. Will always be.

"Where?" John has walked nearly back to where he climbed out of the cab before he gets his answer.

"Stop there." And John's about had enough. Sherlock is going to give him his answers and that is that. Moriarty can just wait a second.

"Sherlock-" But the annoying git, like usual, interrupts him before he can even begin.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop." John freezes. It feels as if a block of ice has wormed its way into his heart. He is numb.

"Oh God." It escapes before he can stop it, but it about sums it up. Oh God. Please no.

"I-I-I can't come down so we'll-we'll just have to do it like this." And now he's stuttering. This isn't going to end well. John thinks back two days. To the sight of Sherlock curled in sleep. To the sound of his breathing as his fingers tightened on John's jumper. Oh God. Please let him be able to see that again. Hear that again. Feel that again. Please.

"What's going on?" He already knows. As soon as he saw Sherlock up on the roof, heard his voice he knew. But he wants Sherlock to deny it, call him an idiot like usual.

"An apology. It's all true." That throws John for a curveball.

"What?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." And if that isn't the biggest lie John has ever heard. He can distinctly remember what it felt like to be kidnapped, and strapped to a bomb. Moriarty was never faking as he watched John and spent hours talking to him. Sherlock's horror when he saw John was not faked.

"Why are you saying this?" Because that's the question isn't it? A million different possibilities run through John's mind. Moriarty has to be coercing him into this. But how?

"I'm a fake." It explodes out of him, less a declaration than a sob. John can all too clearly picture how Sherlock must look right now. This is the biggest lie he has ever heard.

"Sherlock-" John will never believe it.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes." This has gone on long enough. John can feel the ice in his heart, growing, expanding. Sherlock is crying and John can't help. He might be sick.

"Shut up Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met- the first time we met, you knew all about my sister right?" Perhaps if he provides some evidence Sherlock will stop this ridiculousness. How can he believe that he can trick John? After all they've done and seen together?

"Nobody could be that clever." It's a dismissal of his reasoning and John hates those. His answer is immediate. And true.

"You could." That drags a chuckle out Sherlock, but, God, it's so bitter. So unhappy.

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick, just a magic trick." And if that isn't the weakest argument that John's ever heard then what is? Apparently Sherlock forgot that Stamford had left his phone in his coat. John had been by his side the entire time. There's no way Sherlock could have known he was coming. It's not a trick. It's deduction.

"No. Stop it now." And John's really had enough now. He begins to walk toward the hospital, regardless of what Sherlock has told him. The one time John refuses to listen to Sherlock is when it involves the consulting detective's safety.

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move." But then, his voice sounds again and it's desperate. He imagines that Sherlock is raising a hand to ward him off, though he can't see from this distance. Though Sherlock can't see him either, he raises his own hand and steps back to his original spot.

"Alright." He'll do whatever it takes for Sherlock.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, could you do this for me?" John is numb all the way now. He knows what's going to happen. How can he not? But he'll stay and watch for Sherlock. Even if it kills him.

"Do what?" He can't help but ask. This is Sherlock's last chance to prove him wrong. To make it all better. God, John would give anything to hold Sherlock one last time, protect him.

"This phone call is um, it's my note. It's what people do don't they? Leave a note." It's over. Oh God. This going to happen. Please no. Not Sherlock. This isn't his note. He will never have a note. Sherlock is his everything. He can't do this. Please.

"Leave a note when?" It's not even worth asking. Not when he already knows the answer. But, if he drags this call out, maybe Sherlock will change his mind. He can't do this to him. Please.

"Goodbye John." And there is so much finality in those words. Goodbye. Sherlock's leaving and John can't stop him. Can't go with him. John promised to never leave. Sherlock is supposed to return the favor. Oh God. Pleasepleasepleaseplease…

"Nope-Don't-SHERLOCK!"

I love you.

They don't need to say it this time because one of them is dead and the other is broken.

John isn't quite sure what day it is. He hasn't been quite sure of anything since Sherlock jumped. It could be fall, going by the browning leaves under him, but John really can't bring himself to care. It's dark out, dark enough that John can only make out the letters of Sherlock's name. The only thing that makes the darkness worth mentioning. The only thing that made John's life worth mentioning.

He's shivering, he notices, and this really should alarm him. As a doctor, he should care when his fingers turn blue. But as a John without Sherlock, he doesn't care for anything.

John's not quite sure how he made it to the graveyard. When he woke up screaming Sherlock's name again, he couldn't stand the flat anymore. Couldn't stand its ghosts. So he just walked out. And he doesn't remember much after that. It looks like he follows Sherlock just as surely in death as in life.

It hurts sitting here in front of Sherlock's grave. What's left of his heart feels as if it's shredding and burning. But it's like that everywhere now. Everything hurts without Sherlock.

In his head, John can hear Sherlock berating him for such sentiment. How useless it is.

"I know. Sorry." His voice is a mumble, an apology to the gravestone. He knows he sounds crazy, talking to a gravestone in the dark, but John doesn't care anymore. He doesn't have it left in him.

It comes to him then, why it is that his subconscious took him here. What he realized he never said. There are so many things he never said.

"I realized something tonight, Sherlock. How many nights did we spend in bed curled up around each other? Lost in each other? I did everything with you and for you. And do you know I never told you I loved you? God, it seemed so obvious. Everything I did and decided was because I loved you. But I never said it did I? And you died without knowing that. I can never forgive myself Sherlock. I love you. I love you. God, I love you so much." For some reason, John's finding it difficult to breathe. But, he can't stop saying it over and over and over again. Dimly, he realizes that his arms are wrapped tightly around Sherlock's gravestone, and that his shivering has progressed into full blown trembling.

He can't see past his veil of tears, and can't hear past Sherlock's voice in his head. Endlessly looping 'Goodbye John' until John can't take it anymore. He can't feel anything anymore, nothing past the shards of his broken heart. And God, it's so cliché and his inner Sherlock won't stop berating him for it, but that's what happened when Sherlock jumped. He broke John's heart and smashed it into little pieces.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Somewhere in France, Belgium perhaps, a man sits in a seedy little hotel room. His hair is freshly cut and gelled, so it is slicked back on the man's head. It's a garish shade of blond, and through the terrible dye job you can see brunette roots. There are dark circles under the man's eyes, and he is thin enough to worry anyone who can see. The sweatshirt he is wearing is too big and the sweatpants too small, to the point that he does not look fit to appear in public. His eyes are pressed closed, and his long, spindly hands are cupped around an Mp3 player. The recording that he is listening to finishes and the man opens his eyes. They are pale eyes, a wish-wash of blues and greens and greys. Sadness lives in them. So heart-breaking and open. Something this man has never felt before. It is with a bowed head and a finger stroking the recording that the man says,

"I love you too."

The first time they say I love you, neither is there to hear it.