AN: Hello there my darlings:) This will be my last update till wednesday... I'm off on holiday to the Lakes tommorow. A lovely place where we have no internet! YAY -_-
Anyway, this is a sad'un methinks. Some people feel sad and make sad edits of sad programmes that make them sad... Me- I just write (probably rubbish) fanfiction/oneshots.
So here it is, my sadness expressed as a reichenbach drabble thing...
Grab yourself a tissue, strap your seatbelts in and hold on. It's a tear jerker.
P.S. Merthurr/Jade I'm going to attempt to write drabbles for all of the prompt words you suggested. I'll try and get a few of them done over my holidays:)
Prompt by: Sepiasinopia
Oak Tree:
The rain tumbled from the dark, stormy sky that was full of clouds, stretching along the horizon, obscuring any blue sky that might be hiding. Doctor John Watson pulled his coat hood tighter around his chin as he trudged down the soaking London streets. He barely had to concentrate doing this journey, it was a well-worn route in his unhappy brain. His feet led him to the cemetery gates without him having to make any effort. Mrs Hudson had asked if he wanted a taxi but he knew that he had to make this trip on foot. It just felt right.
He slowly limped up the slight hill and rounded the side of the once attractive church. He continued on his journey, heading towards a plain black marble headstone with gold writing. John slowed down and stopped right in front of the headstone. He opened his mouth and words began to fall out.
"Hi again, Sherlock. It's me again. I'm here most days. Some days I can't get out of the surgery early enough to get down here before the gates close. I snuck in though, that one time. I was desperate. I needed to see you-talk to you. Well... Your gravestone. Is it sad that this is the only way I can contact you now, Sherlock? The great consulting detective, the one and only Sherlock Holmes is dead.
"My therapist keeps reminding me of this. He's dead John, he's not coming back, she says. I must believe her otherwise I'd be out looking for you. You are dead. You are. It's funny-well it's not really- but sometimes I see people who could be you. I see the scarf. The long coat that used to flap around your ankles when you paced angrily. Your curly, dark hair like raven wings. Your tall cheekbones. You. I see you in all the things I do. Is that weird Sherlock? Is it? I'm the doctor, I should know. But I don't deal with matters of the heart. That's what this is. A matter of the heart.
"I've said it before, but I'll say it again… I love you Sherlock. I bloody well love you. But I never told you because…. Jesus, I never told you because you're a machine. The first time we were 'out together' you told me you were married to your work. I said I wasn't bothered, I wasn't interested. I wasn't… then…
"But I am now, Sherlock. From the second I saw you on that roof, I realised how I felt. By then it was too late.. You jumped and you left me all alone in the dark. It's dark here Sherlock, It's dark without you. All the colours are muted, dulled without you by my side. I hate it, dammit, I hate this. All of it. The standing around and talking to a headstone instead of talking to you.
"Lestrade gets me cases every now and again. I may not be as good as you are-were but I'm better than some of his men. I've picked some things up from you. I ask for payment though. I never understood how you could afford to not ask for money. I sometimes felt like I was supporting a family.
"You were childlike sometimes Sherlock. Not eating for days, 'being bored' whenever there wasn't a case. You were really irritating on those days Sherlock but I wouldn't change any of it for the world. I would accept you to be bored everyday if you came back to me. I would prefer that over this loneliness. This nothingness that should be you.
"I feel the same as how I did when I got sent back from Afghanistan. Get up, work, blog, go to sleep. The same routine, day in, day out. There's no you to make it interesting. There's no getting up at 6.00am because you need me to go out and get something for your experiment. There's no violin at god knows what time of the night. No wacky experiments taking up our kitchen. No body parts clogging up our fridge.
"I miss it. I miss you.
"It's a special day today, Sherlock. I would've brought flowers but sentiment was never your thing… It's been three years. Three whole years, would you believe it? They've dragged on, I can assure you. Sometimes it felt like there was no point in carrying on. Like I should just give up and stay in bed. I made myself keep going. I forced myself to eat, to sleep, to work.
"I've got to go. Mrs Hudson is making Shepherds Pie for dinner. She's worried about me, her and Lestrade. It's been three years, they say, you should try and move on. But how can I? When all I have left is this hope. This hope that you could still be alive. Even my hope is dying. You are a bloody genius Sherlock, you're smart enough to have survived.
"I love you, Sherlock. I truly do."
With that, the broken ex-army doctor walked away, shielding his face from the worst of the rain, wiping the overflowing tears with his left hand. He didn't turn around but if he had he would've seen the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes standing in the shade of some towering trees, away from the rain.
Maybe he would have wondered why there was water dripping down the detective's face seen as though he was protected from the brewing storm.
When John said matters of the heart it should have been plural. Because Sherlock Holmes felt the same longing that John experienced. The consulting detective needed John too.
He had assured Moriarty that he didn't have a heart but he now knew, as the consulting criminal always had, that he had lied. How could he say he didn't have a heart when he felt it breaking every time he saw John like this?
Filled with grief, self-loathing and sadness Sherlock leant back against a sturdy old oak tree.