32 Months.
He sat, head in his hands.
"Why are you even still here?"
"Because you want me to be." Replied the cool voice.
He said nothing. It was true. He'd had conversations like this every day for the past month and a half. He knew it wasn't healthy. He could only imagine what Ella would say about it. He knew he should make some effort to move on, to stop.
And he didn't care. He wanted to hear Sherlock. Sometimes he saw him, more and more often.
"This is seriously unhealthy…" he murmured.
"Yet here I am. Or would you like me to go?"
"No."
"Then I won't."
"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"You just… jump off a building, leave me here. What the Hell's that about?"
"I'm sorry…"
"Damn right you are…" he scoffed. "Leaving like that…"
"John?"
He jumped, startled to see Mary in the doorway.
"M-Mary." He got up.
"John… You were doing it again, weren't you?" she sighed, "Talking to him."
He nodded.
"John…"
"Look, I know. I know, I should stop. It's not good for me, it's not healthy, I'm not moving on. I know all that…"
"No, I just… I mean, it isn't… It's not what's best, but… When you talk to him… Do you say what you wish you had when he was alive?"
"What d'you mean?" he asked, not looking at her, knowing exactly what she meant, knowing exactly what she wanted him to say to the Sherlock that wasn't even there, that would never be there again.
"Do you ever tell him how you feel?"
He shook his head, pinking the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.
"No, Mary. I don't. Ever. I don't say it, I only ever said it to you. The one time, to you."
She tilted her head a little, "Why don't you say it?"
"Because… Because I'm honestly scared of what a man who isn't there will say in return. He's gone. He never felt the same way. I could have hated him, and it wouldn't have made any damned difference. It doesn't matter now!" he didn't raise his voice, he just kept his eyes screwed tightly shut.
"John, it's been… It's been over two years and you've only said it once."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to you." She said, simply.
He shook his head, "Look, Mary, I-"
"Just… one of these days, in these conversations with a dead man… Just mention it. At least once." She crossed to the kitchen. "I stopped by to bring you some groceries. Mrs. Hudson said you hadn't been out in a few days." She stood in front of him for a moment.
"Mary…"
"Take care of yourself, or I'll have Harry come over here." She bent over, kissing the top of his head. "Just… say it. At least once."
-
The next morning, John woke. He dressed. He left 221b and caught a cab. He limped across carefully kept grass, stopping in front of the familiar black stone.
"I…" he stopped, leaning on his cane. "Sherlock… I asked you for one last miracle, just for me. You've… You're not coming through on it. I get it. I know that. I still want you to come home. I miss you."
"And I you." John looked up, and his nonexistent Sherlock was there, standing across from him, behind the black stone.
He nodded, staring, then reminded himself 'He's not there, John.' And when he looked up again, the pale figure was gone. He nodded to himself. He was getting a little better.
"There was a lot I should have said, you know." He sighed. "I should have told you… you're not a machine. I've never thought of you as a machine. Never. I was angry, so… I called you a machine. But that's far from what I thought of you."
He trailed off. Cleared his throat. Sighed, blowing air out of his puffed cheeks.
"What did you think of me, John?" The low voice was bodiless this time. John shook his head, reminding himself that Sherlock was gone.
"I thought… you were wonderful. You were important to me, you know. I… I cared about you. I'd have jumped in front of a bullet for you. I'd have done anything you asked me to. I did, remember? I stayed on the ground. I kept my eyes on you." He let out a sad, sardonic bark of a laugh.
"I… I felt so guilty. Like I could have stopped you and didn't try hard enough. Like I missed something, some clue, some hint that you were going to do this. That you wanted to die. I felt like I let you down…"
Again, he stopped. He thought back, as he so often did.
"I miss you. Terribly. But… There's something else, too, Sherlock. Something I never said, something I should have said. Something that… That will never go away, that I don't want to go away. And that's… I love you."
Silence greeted him. Total silence. No voice in his head, no dead man appearing before him.
"I love you. More than… More than a mate, more than a brother. Sherlock, I loved –love- you… Like I'll probably never love another person. Like I never expected to love another person. In a… an unexpected, wonderful way, I love you… And… I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never told you, I'm sorry you died and you never knew."
He nodded once, then straightened. As he had the first time he visited this stone, he saluted. He turned.
He left, still feeling like there was a hole in his chest, a hole in his life, a hole in his heart.
But at least he'd finally told Sherlock the truth.