This is a terribly late gift for my 30th follower on tumblr: averyinterestedparty.
She wanted to have anniversary gifts. I gave her drama and reichenbach-feels. I am sorry.
John both hates and admires graveyards. It is a place of silent and mostly painful worship. The army doctor isn't religious, but the concept of worship isn't as foreign to him as people seem to think. To him, a grave yard worships people's lives, their shortness, their greatness, their accomplishments or relationships. The loving mother, the great thinker, torn away too soon… John has read them all, more than once as he makes his usual walk through the rows of cold marble. Sherlock's grave doesn't have any of those declarations. Just his name. In bold letters upon black shining stone.
John doesn't care much either way. He knows who Sherlock had been, what he was capable of and which temptations he resisted on a daily basis. And as far as the doctor is concerned, anybody who doesn't, doesn't deserve to know about them either.
As he finally stands in front of the perfectly kept grave, John fells oddly nervous. It is a strange feeling, being nervous for a death man's reaction that will never come. But sod it, John would do as he promised himself to finally right what had gone wrong, now nearly two years ago. It is the 29th of January, two years since he had met Sherlock, one year since Sherlock had taken the fall.
"I meant to give this to you last year, you know?" he mutters instead of a greeting. No use in greeting the death, they don't care about time anymore.
"But then the woman showed up, and everything went pear shaped. I guess my gift was to pretend she didn't confuse me, that I didn't mind that thing between you and her…" the doctor trails off, straightening his shoulders, but his glance never leaving the shining black marble.
"Wanted to give you these…" Breath catches in his throat. He stubbornly starts again.
"…thought… thought there would be more things that combine us in the future, as we go on together." The sentence closes into a short, painful laugh. Future, what a fickle concept! But John went through the stages of grieve long ago. This is something else. This is much more important.
"I wanted to celebrate. You know… you know what you mean to me. Even though sentiment was never your area. And as for that… that emotion, I will give you these." The bullet shells make no sound as he puts them down between neatly cut grass. They stayed hidden in his room for far too long.
Finally, the army doctor stands up again, stubbornly fixing his glance on the painful array of letters again. There is just one last thing left to be said. One last declaration, because everything else was too late. Every other admission would kill him, because the dead have no way of reciprocating.
"Can't think of anything better. I killed to protect you, without even thinking about it. Still would." No prayers, no begging, nothing like that. In front of the cold marble grave, there stands a man who doesn't hope for a miracle anymore. He knows the miracle was knowing this brilliant man. Everything else was just wishful thinking, and stone cold letters on shining marble.