No one really knew what John heard. He heard almost everything. It was because, as a child, no one had really noticed him. No one had told him anything. Not where they were going, not when they should meet up. Never. They always thought that they had told him.

Though, now, he just shrugged and laughed it off. But back then, he learned to listen well. It began his difficult relationship with sound. For one thing, he picked up on conversations all the time.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock once asked. He had just finished a long deduction.

As always, John just shrugged and let Sherlock think what he liked. "I listen."

He did. In the case of this particular couple, he just listened to the argument in the other room. Sherlock deduced as much from the décor. John, on the other hand, just had to listen.

It allowed him to notice things. Like how the nurse that tended the patients was having a rough time with her teenage son. Or how, Sarah still wanted a meaningful relationship after him. Irene made sure he heard the subtext in every word she said, "The three of us would be amazing."Moriarty sounded like he still had a thing for Sherlock no matter what. And that time that Mycroft and Lestrade were having a kink fest.

The last one he brain bleached out.

No one ever thought he was listening.

Even Molly.

"You always look sad when you think no one is looking."

Sherlock seemed to notice it is a time for whispering and his voice, curious and interested, dropped low. "But you can see me."

Molly's voice was tinged with a sadness that John felt in himself at times. "But, I don't count."

John wished it ended there.

Later, after it, at a bar in the middle of the night, he listened. The emptiness accounted for most of the noise. There was a boy. A teenager from

the looks of it, but he must be over 21, John's brain said.

"I don't care. I want to come back."

He heard the muffled sounds of "No." and "idiot", something the man took to heart. Not necessarily well but to heart.

"I still love you, you know." John heard every tremor as the young man kept his cool.

John heard a tearful, "I love you too." He didn't listen to the rest.

He tossed back the rest of his drink and proceeded to pay his bill.

He went home and waited. Distantly, he heard a violin, a mournful sound.

It played him to sleep every night. Like the times before. Like the many times before. And he waited for the climax, the moment the notes hit the precipice where no sound could be left. Then, he was falling and falling and falling to where Sherlock is. He dreamt in noise.

He can hear the soft rustle of fabric, the sound of silk and cashmere. There is the sound of footsteps, one racing and the other trailing. He recognizes one as the sound of Sherlock's and the other is his own. Then there is the honking of a cab. He hears a gunshot loud and clear. The loud siren of an ambulance and a soft chuckle fade. He hears the sound of Mycroft's voice, soothing and kind as he tries to buy John's loyalty. Lestrade sounds loud and clear, "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

He hears the wild music of the circus. Asian sounds of tinkling bells and chimes combine with the sound of an erhu and guzheng. It sounds ethereal. A girl cries out and gunshots take over. Then he can only hear Sherlock's voice begging him to remember and Sarah's screams. All that's left is the sound of Mrs. Hudson tut- tutting at their mess.

He hears Moriarty, the nasal voice grating on his last nerves. What the man would do to Sherlock? He hears yells and screams. Men, women, children, he hears a crescendo that only ends when a ring tone plays. "Staying alive, staying alive." That is what John tries to do.
John hears the violent sounds of a whip and the laughter of a woman, The Woman. Sherlock's heart is racing. There is the sound of a violin, different, cheering, but still dead. He hears the chatter and realizes, "It's Christmas." He hears the sound of an air field. Wind and screeching fill the air. Then there is silence. Only the sound of a lighter and Mycroft's umbrella fills the air.

Next, he hears the hound. The baying is such a melancholy sound. All tears and anguish and all sorts of other things that make his stomach churn. He hears the clatter of Sherlock's glass against a table. He can hear the cries of Henry, terrified but awed. Lestrade is there commanding and fearful. But, the sound fades to the moment John discovered that Sherlock didn't have friends. He doesn't quite cat the part about what he does have.

And last, he hears the sound of cameras clicking. People are yelling his name. Sherlock comments on the now famous deerstalker. Mrs. Hudson hollers what must now be a catch phrase. Lestrade's voice is all apologies. Sally doesn't sound so kind. John hears the quiet thump of his own heart as they run through London, handcuffed. He hears Sherlock picking the reporter's door. He hears the rustle of fabric as he pockets the cuffs. Then he hears the buzz of his cell and his orders to a cabbie. John can hear Mrs. Hudson's bewildered sound. And, he is back at Bart's. He hears Sherlock's voice and his own disbelieving cry. The sound of funeral bells is cheerless, like the sound of his therapist.
He hears his own voice.

"One more thing, one more miracle."

"Sherlock, for me."

Inhale.

"Don't be dead."

"Just for me."

"Just stop it."

Inhale.

"Stop this."

Through his tears.

Through the shuddering breaths.

Through the uneven sound of his limp.

He hears a voice.

"John."

The above is a gift to John.

There are exactly 999 words in the above written text.

To make each word a rose, I would present it as Sherlock's promise of forever.