To: Sherlock Holmes
Subject: Grave
- Your tombstone is nice. But boring. Why is it so boring, Sherlock?
John stares at Sherlock's tombstone, the rock cold beneath his fingers. It shouldn't be so cold, so close to July. John is beginning to think that the cold is just a by product of his own mind, though. No one else ever claims to be cold. Maybe it was just the cemetery.
Sherlock Holmes.
That's all the tombstone says. It's so boring. So dull. Mycroft, being the family, had picked it out. John didn't know why Mycroft had picked out such a stupid tombstone. Sherlock had always hated the boring stuff.
John sighs. The motion draws no cloud of condensation in the air, but he's still cold. So, then, it's all a product of his mind. Great.
He runs his fingers over Sherlock's stone again. It is the closest thing he can get to Sherlock now. He hates it. He hates Sherlock. He hates Sherlock for this, for putting him through his pain. He also loves Sherlock, and he doesn't know how he can love someone through all of this selfishness, but he had loved Sherlock like he was his own Brother, and some little part of John had died when Sherlock jumped.
God, he misses Sherlock so much. Standing next to a tombstone just doesn't cut it.
To: John Watson
Subject: (No subject)
- Failure to deliver message.
