What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?
What if our love never went away?
What if it's lost behind words we could never find?
Baby, before it's too late,
What about now?

Chris Daughtry – What about now

~o~

Blood. Horror. Flashed of soot blackened skin, dotted with flakes of plaster. Guilt. Crushing pain ...

When Sherlock had finally laid eyes on John his heart had shattered. It hadn't been his John they'd dug from the rubble. The broken, limp, shattered body wasn't John. Even when he saw the sandy blonde hair and familiar curve of lips, those adorable ears and nose through the dirt, soot and blood, oh God, so much blood, Sherlock had refused to believe it was John. Couldn't believe it.

Amidst the complete blankness that had over taken him, Sherlock was aware of the paramedics talking to him, fussing and trying to usher him outside to the waiting ambulances. And even though he couldn't let it out, frozen as he was with crippling fear, he felt a volcanic flood of anger burn his veins, hot and violent, towards the paramedics, toward Moriarty, toward Lestrade and Mycroft and, the one that hurt most, he was furious at John. John who was being carefully bundled onto a stretcher, John who was covered in his own blood, John who was so pale and still, barely breathing. John who was breaking Sherlock's heart.

And in that moment Sherlock Holmes had done something he'd never before done. He prayed.

They couldn't take John from him. How could Sherlock live without John Watson? ... He couldn't. Sherlock Holmes had never needed anyone in his life, but God, God he needed John Watson. Damn him. That smile, that giggle, those jumpers and those hands, those perfect loving eyes and lips. Sherlock's chest tightened all the more at the thought that he might never again feel those lips and his breath caught in his throat, his vision clouded at the edges as he watched the team of medics pluck the stretcher from the rubble and move outside.

Only when he was about to lose sight of John did Sherlock move, bolting for the doors, not paying attention to the stabbing pain that shot up his leg and across his ribs. It may as well have been someone else's pain for all he registered it, he was so detached from anything, everything. Everything but John.

Bundled into the back of the ambulance, Sherlock had refused to ride in his own, why were these people so stupid? He needed to be with John! Sherlock reached out to take hold of John's hand in his own, that normally steady hand was pale, so much so that it made Sherlock's stomach lurch. Oh God, please. Blanking the paramedic fussing with the machine around the foot of John's stretcher Sherlock leaned in pressing his forehead to the side of John's bloody cheek, mindful of the way his curls brushed the oxygen mask strapped to his face. "This isn't over. We've come so far, just hold on John. Hold on, please. I'm right here." He whispered, clutching John's hand for the lifeline that it was. "Hold on."

~o~

"... As we commend our brother to the ground ..."

Numb. Sherlock was numb. Numb and alone. All these other people standing by the graveside didn't have a clue. Selfishly Sherlock believed that none of them had the right to be there, none of them loved John as much as he had. As he did. Not one of them felt so completely dead inside. The tears running down their cheeks were nothing to the pain weaved into Sherlock's very soul. Because as dramatic as that sounded, it was solid truth. That little nest John had made for himself inside Sherlock was empty now, hollow. Just like the rest of him. His chest ached in a way he never thought possible and his throat and his eyes stung with the tears he refused to let fall, not in front of all these strangers, he wouldn't share his pain with them because none of them truly understood. He was consumed by pain and he welcomed every bit of it. And why shouldn't he? His John, his brilliant, beautiful John was gone and this pain was all he had left of him, of the man he'd ... And he hated himself so much but he couldn't bring himself to say it, even now, not with all these strangers around him. John ...

Hours later Geoff stepped up behind him, a hand hesitantly dropped to rest on his shoulder followed by a voice, rough with grief. "Sherlock ..." Here Sherlock could hear a wisp of the pain festering inside his o0wn chest, Geoff had lost John too. He understood. He'd know John, the same John that Sherlock had, the same John that all those others stood around his grave hadn't, and he'd known the real John. He'd known Sherlock's John. He knew how much Sherlock was crumbling inside. And that one word had been enough to break him. All that grief he'd refused to let out before came flooding out. His chest heaved and his shoulders shook as the first hot tears drew painful, burning trails down his cheeks. And for the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes cried.

Half an hour later found Sherlock curled beside John's head stone, Geoff by his side. Both men were in much the same state, one that was only shared between the two of them, a private moment that no one else would ever be privy to. And despite his all consuming grief Sherlock's respect for the man grew. This man was the only other person on the Earth who shared his pain, even if it was only a fraction of what he was feeling. At this moment, and from then on, Geoffrey Lestrade would be comrade. When Sherlock managed to speak moments later, for the first time since he'd been told of John's death, his voice was barely above a whisper, cracked and broken with emotion and he spoke knowing Geoff would be the only one to ever understand, he'd be the only person who'd ever get to hear him say this; ever get to see him so human. "I never ... I didn't say it. I never told him ..."

~o~

It had been after a case. They were walking back to Baker Street far too high on adrenaline when John had spotted it, a tiny bundle of charcoal fur among the rubbish. He'd started at the softest, heart melting mew that had sounded from beneath a rain washed cardboard box. Pausing for only a moment he'd moved the soggy cardboard to find a fluffy, hungry kitten nosing at a lump of plastic bag hopefully.

Sherlock had twisted his lips in distaste as John had scooped it up, cradling the small body against his chest. And he'd seen it coming before John had opened his mouth. "No." John had frowned then, glancing at the kitten in his arms before turning the most adorable expression on Sherlock. "We can't just leave him." And really, how was anyone meant to be resolute with those tawny eyes looking at him like that combined with the way he'd laughed when the kitten had licked and nuzzled his cheek, Sherlock's heart had actually swelled and stumbled a few beats at the sound ...It took minutes before he caved, making his displeasure known with a heavy sigh. "Fine. Fine. But you can tell Mrs. Hudson." The smile that pulled at John's face as he closed the distance between them was worth it. The man had gone onto his toes then and brushed a kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I love you."

~o~

Ducking his head Sherlock pressed a kiss to the curve of John's head stone. "For all my life I am yours," he whispered. "I love you."