/for you. Since you requested it./
It was that day again.
Same day, same place, same time, same emotions.
It was a wintry evening, a bitter winter sunset. Bitter not from the howling, stinging wind. Not from the freezing cold. The loss.
It has already been 2 years and John misses him so much. He appears in John's dreams, those familiar hand-on-shoulder gestures, and his often mischievous grins. He would be conversing with him as usual, chatting like the old times. And just as it seemed so real that John reached his fingers out to give him a light-hearted pat, that silhouette of Sherlock seemed to fade away into the darkness of the shadows at the supposed "backdrop", and he would find himself staring into the dark depths of his own illusions, squinting to find the man he longed to summon back.
John liked to reminisce the old times where the other's wit and humour brightened his life. He missed the times where they both risked their lives for one another. He had sworn that he would sacrifice for Sherlock, but it turned out otherwise.
His busy self-set schedule was made even busier after Sherlock's passing. Not quite to cover up what the other would have done but rather to block him out of his mind. But Sherlock wasn't a person you could forget easily, especially if you were always by his side.
So maybe he was right, self-delusion was the best cure to heart-aches. It was long-term relief and it always numbed out the pain. Well-woven lies were all the better and John was an expert in this field. It wasn't long before he had made himself believe that Sherlock was somewhere out there living happily, peacefully; a life he had always seek for. He'd tell himself that every time he thought of Sherlock, drilling the thought into his head like a mantra. He wanted to believe in that, to ease his pain, especially on special-memories days. He would force it into his head, feeding himself all these fables and forcefully hollered at himself to believe in it, to take it all in. It wasn't easy and finding him curled up in a fetal position, sobbing in the corner of his messy workspace, deranged looking, the words still on the tip of his tongue…
And this year, he re-entered the cemetery once again. He watched the snow fall listlessly on the ground, heaping up. He used to find winter the most splendid season, the delicate snowflakes gently sinking down in its elegant splendor. Well, that was 2 years ago. Before he lost Sherlock.
Today, he felt distinctively different though. Over the past 2 years, he had never felt so light, so happy, so problem-free. For once he felt that the gloomy skies had parted a way for light to seep in slowly, to pass through to shine upon him. This would be his final calling and he was unafraid. He was prepared, and he knew he would not regret.
He knelt in front of the familiar grave, and unlike the previous year's white roses, he laid a red one. Red like fresh blood. He traced the words on the tombstone slowly, letting his finger linger on the last alphabet of every word.
He took a deep breath, then gingerly took out an explanatory note He laid it by the grave, before fishing out the thin, sharp piece of metal. He exhaled, while sliding the smooth blade sharply on his wrists in quick movements. He sank to the ground in tears, smiling.
Just then, it was as though a filmstrip of all their previous deeds suddenly flashed at a rapid speed in his head, his emotions tossed in the whirlwind of past memories deluding him of his resent state. It seemed to last forever, but he didn't mind. He enjoyed this.
And as he thought he was going to lose consciousness, he felt a familiar warm grasp on his shoulder, and he thought he saw a mischievous grin. He imagined a heard that low voice call to him while lifting him up slowly,
"Come home John, come home…"
As he slipped into eternal darkness, a weak smile broke on his face and with his last breath, he uttered,
"Yes, I've finally came home…"