So, this is part two of my go at how we might see John moving on to a relationship after Sherlocks death.
I have decided that it is indeed soul-mate Sherlock/John, but not romantically.
Hope you like it! There will also be a part three, which will be the last, because I have more Sherlock-ideas that I want to write! :D Enjoy!
I do not normally write fanfic's, but I just can't think of anything but Sherlock, so I might as well write it down, so I hope you will read and review (:
Going out with Mary was so easy, for both of them. No need to pretend the person on the other side of the table was the person was who was on your mind, who you wanted to be sitting there. It might seem cold, or sad, but in reality it allowed both of them to breathe, just a little bit. It was almost comfortable, to be able to just trail off midsentence, stare out into the distance for a while, and be able to go right back, without having to explain to the other person what happened. Because she understood. She was there, experiencing it all.
For the first time since it had happened, John was able to talk about Sherlock without breaking down. Normally he had to shut out the memory to the best of his ability to even stand upright during the day, but with Mary, he told the tales of his life, his life with Sherlock.
Mary too, told long stories of George, her late husband. She told of their meet-cute, where he had spilled his coffee on her on a Monday morning before her job interview, and felt so bad, he had promptly offered to buy her a new shirt from the store next door, and had been so mesmerized by her, that he didn't notice the price tag, and had to live off of oatmeal for the rest of the month, the poor student he was. How his clumsy, boyish charm and gentleman gestures had swept her off her feet, though she had been so focused on being an independent feminist, who didn't need some bloke opening the door for her. How he would always hug her with his arms inside her jacket to be closer to her, how they always cooked spaghetti with basil and tomatoes together when they spend a night in.
John told Mary of the first time he had met Sherlock, how he had been able to tell everything about him from one look. He told her how the tall, often cold, man had been flattered like a school boy by John's immediate admiration. How Sherlock had been able to take his limb away after knowing him for only a day. John remembered how he had learned more about the man for every day, an inexhaustible source of character, there was always more to discover about Sherlock. How extraordinary Sherlock, a man who prided himself on being alone, had suddenly been so attached to someone as ordinary as John.
For the past year, John couldn't remember anything people told him, because he didn't really hear it, and he hadn't told anyone anything, because he didn't want to speak, but now he found himself listening intently, wanting to hear more, and wanting to tell his own stories. Through hearing about Mary's life, back when she had still been alive, was like hearing his own thoughts, and when telling her of Sherlock, it was as if he still had a bit of him to hold onto.
One intimate night, after several nights of describing every little detail of their other half, they got to the inevitable: the end, their deaths.
Mary, with a shaking voice, told how they had been to their favourite restaurant for their 1st anniversary. Married for one year, and still madly in love, they had had lots of wine, and their feet had been touching under the table, before they giggling left the restaurant. "Oh no, I forgot my shawl!" Mary had said, embarrassed by her tipsy forgetfulness: She was an organized woman, who usually kept herself in check, but George went right to her head whenever she was allowed to swim deep in his eyes. "You wait here, my lady, I'll fetch it!" he said as he turned, though still keeping his eyes fixed on her as he crossed the street. And that was it. He was still smiling that lovely smile at her when he was hit.
Mary had managed to tell it all without her voice breaking, but John had been watching her, seeing the eyes water over, and thick streams of salty tears ran down he hot cheeks.
Johns story had a lot more gaps. So many questions were still surrounding the exact events of that say. But this was not the story of how Sherlock Holmes had died; this was how John had lost his Sherlock. How he had reached up, and irrational action which Sherlock had reciprocated, needing to be as close as possibly for their final moment together.
"I am only half of who I was" Mary said once, looking John directly in the eye, something that took effort for both of them. "and so are you. Halves can't live, John, they are incomplete. They need another half. And even if it isn't the right piece, even if the puzzle looks wrong, there has to be two pieces, for the puzzle to exist"
it was a strangely honest relationship: They knew they weren't right for each other, knew they would never have a chance of loving the way they had: Their hearts were to broken to allow that to happen. It was like if you were dying of thirst, and you were offered sea water: It's didn't quite satisfy your thirst, it wasn't what you needed, it could even hurt you further, but just a few sips could let you live another day: just a sip could soothe your aching thirst.
John came to think of, that as much as he and Mary had suffered the same kind of loss – their other half – there was still a difference: Mary had been married to George – their love had been romantic. Did she think it was the same for him and Sherlock? It had always baffled him – and others for that matter – that a platonic love could be so absolutely overshadowing, that it could be so much more, than any love he had ever felt before. It was difficult to phase, and he wondered if Mary understood: She did, he decided. She understood it all.
After having been together for almost a year, John started to see her as more as the widow. He wondered who she had been, when she had still had George, when she had still been Mary, when she had still existed. He reckoned she must have been a laugh. And strong, oh so strong. It was clear that only a fraction of her strength was left in her withering heart, and yet she kept going, kept on surviving. He would have liked her, he though.
He didn't spend too much time, thinking of what she had been – he needed Mary to be as miserably as he: that was how they could be together. When being around other people, people who were still alive, it reminded them of all they had lost: But looking at each other, John and Mary simply saw the mirror of their own shattered souls.
They got married. It was a small private wedding – They hadn't had a whole bunch of close friends before: Being with you soul mate really was all they had needed – but after they had been split in half, even the most supportive friends had faded out in the end.
Married life suited them both. No need to keep up presences for anyone. It was an accepted excuse to say you were going home to your spouse instead of going out for drinks. At their flat, it was like being left to yourself without being alone: If sorrow caught up with you, you could weep out loud, and not having to put the façade back up, yet there was someone who held you tight, who would weep with you – grief was contagious, you know.
Time passed, and nothing changed. Three years ago, John had started dying, but Mary and John still survived off of each other like vegetables through respirators.
Walking through the haze, he saw nothing of importance, working his way to their flat, where he could be allowed to break. But something caught his eye. A flicker of colour in his otherwise grey world. A black coat was turning around the corner at the next street. That black coat was the most colourful and lively thing he had seen for too many years. He started to run. Maybe he had gone crazy, but this was one hallucination he would gladly welcome. He ran, and quickly turned the destination corner, only to bump into his target: He didn't step back. He stood closely to the man he had run into. He could smell again. He could feel again. He could see, and hear again. All these newly re-acquired senses told him the same thing about the man in front of him, but they must have come to the wrong conclusion: It couldn't be true. "John" the man said, so tenderly in his deep voice, that had a bit of a rasp to it, and John thought he would pass out. It was him, there was no doubt: Sherlock was back.