A/N: I'd like to give a big thank you to lovebites123, mikochan, rora, and BlindViolinist for your amazing feedback. It's such an inspiration to keep writing. And yes, the story title is from Drops of Jupiter by Train :)
Since Sherlock had been gone, John had learned to love the sky. He loved the beautiful blue sky, with bright, clean clouds that floated by on billowed sails. He loved the pale, overcast sky with stormy grey clouds and little drops of water. He loved the brilliant orange and scarlet sunset, hazy and purple and beautiful. But what he loved most was the night sky. The infinite night, dark and deep.
And he loved the stars. The little specks of light against a shadow-painted sky. They had always been beautiful to him, lovely in their cold, wavering light, but shining, always shining. Now they gave
him hope. Hope that someday, if he kept on shining, things would get better. That was what he loved about the stars. That even on days where the clouds his them from his sight, they were there, with him, until the end of time.
Many times, John would find himself looking up, face lifted to the heavens, just watching. Some days, he would watch for hours as the clouds danced in the sky, as the sun rose to a zenith and began its downward trip. As the sky shifted into warmer hues of red and gold, and the clouds hung low, soft and gentle. And then, the sky became a thick blue, something so boundless and mysterious that he could not take his eyes away. It was a color that could be felt, almost physically and certainly in his heart. And when all light faded, when the moon rose and the night had fully descended, John would smile. It was then that he saw the stars, his stars, and was reminded that even when the darkness is absolute, light will always shine, and carry you on until tomorrow.
Tomorrow. That's what John longed for. For tomorrow was different, new. Yesterday was a painful sting, and today a dull ache, but tomorrow... No one ever knows what tomorrow is. And it was a small comfort.
But today, as John watched the sky, his thoughts, as they so often did, turned once more to Sherlock. The man who observed, but never saw.
Now, the sky was not beautiful. It was not blue or red or black. It was grey. To John, it was sadness. Sadness, for Sherlock could not see the same sky. Even if he had still been living, he would look at it, and think nothing. But John was not like Sherlock. He was cursed to never stop thinking.
And John thought it was so funny, for Sherlock had said the same about him many times, but it had not been the same. Sherlock thought about facts, always analyzing and calculating. John thought about so much more. He worried, he stressed, he laughed and smiled, he forgot things he needed to remember and remembered things he needed to forget. He felt things. Sherlock saw into a people's minds; John saw into their hearts.
John often wondered, and it pained him, if Sherlock would miss him this much, had things been the other way around. If John had jumped off the roof as Sherlock watched. If John's last words had been ones that Sherlock knew were lies. Would the other man cry, like John did, when he thought of all the memories shared between the two of them, of the first time they met, and the last, of the times they had each other's backs when no one else would, and the times when it was just them, two men, who only had each other? Would Sherlock ask John to bring him a cup of tea, only to remember that the other man was buried in the ground? Would he smile bitterly at the little things, like John's nagging or would he wake up in the dead of night feeling alone, so alone. and afraid? Or would it be too sentimental? John did not know.
John only hoped that it hadn't hurt too much when Sherlock hit the ground.
As the clouds churned, dark and ominous, like a harbinger of something awful, John thought, again, about why Sherlock had done what he did.
Maybe Sherlock had really suffered up until that moment, and John had just been too blind to see it. Maybe he had been wrestling with his own demons, maybe he really thought that no one saw him as good enough. Maybe he thought the world would really be better off without him. If he had, he was wrong, so very wrong. Maybe he couldn't see an end to his struggles, like a drowning man, too far out to see the shore. Maybe, in his mind, there was no other solution. Maybe, for him, the only way really was goodbye.
As John thought about Sherlock, as he watched the darkness of the day hug the earth, he couldn't help but think that Sherlock deserved more than shadows and grey clouds. He deserved the sun.
Sherlock thought about John. John, who could be looking up at the same dark grey sky. It was a bitter thought, that John could be so far away physically and yet so near to his heart.
For in the time Sherlock had spent away and isolated, he had realized some things. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, all of them, they were his family. And he loved them, in a way that he could not explain, but he supposed he had no need. And he missed them, he missed them all so much. He even missed Mycroft, although he would never admit it. He longed to see their faces again, just once. He knew he could not, but he thought about them almost constantly, and they gave him both comfort and heartache, loneliness and hope. He had realized that sentiment was not a weakness. He was stronger now, more willing to fight, because he had something else to live for. Had it just been himself, he would have given up long ago. But now, he had purpose, and he would not, could not give up.
So as he watched the sky, he determined to be strong for the sake of others, and to fight until the strength left his body, until he either succeeded or his body lied in the streets, forgotten. But he would never, never quit.