John sat stoking the embers and added a couple of small logs to the fire as soon as he walked through the door. Curling back into the nest he had created earlier, he grabbed his glass and finished the second half of the second bottle. Debating the third, he decided if there was ever a night to be completely pissed, it would be a night like this.
Opening the third bottle, he dispensed with the glass. Sod it all, if he was going to get fully snockered, to hell with the pleasantries such as a glass. Taking his shoes and argyles off, he also dispensed with his suit jacket and loosened his tie.
He didn't give a care if he had ruined it sitting on the ground at the cemetery either. It was highly unlikely this suit would ever be laundered our worn again. He had decided to pack it just as it was with the mourning gloves tonight when he finally thought he could sleep. The only thing he would keep out and not store would be the beautiful salmon colored tie that Sherlock had made for him for Easter service. That he would keep with him to wear on Sherlock's birthday, or maybe their anniversary of when they met.
These days still held meaning for John, most likely always would.
Checking his mobile for the first time that day, he half-figured that Sherlock had sent him one wondering where he was, and then remembered you can't text from heaven, so it wouldn't be possible. Looking over his messages, it was all well wishes and sympathy. Going to his laptop on the counter, he checked his email.
That was the second time in two weeks his heart stopped.
There as an email from Sherlock's email address. He knew it had to be one of those post-humus services that were out there, but it was still damn un-nerving. His hand trembling, he quickly clicked on it before changing his mind.
Dearest John,
If you are reading this, it means I did not survive Moriarty's plans. There is a parcel you should receive very shortly as well at my mother's cottage, which should be yours now. Please open it.
It is my final gift to you my friend.
I have so many words at my disposal, but none will ever be able to wrap our existence in any true semblance of how I feel for you. You were my guiding light during my darkest days, my guiding star on those danger nights. You became the air that filled my lungs and the breath and warmth I felt in our bed at night.
I had rather have lived to find out if you were as thoughtful of a lover as I thought you might be. I am so very sorry I was unable to articulate the depths of this all too much every expansive humbling joy that I feel around you.
Please just know you settled my soul, John Hamish. You had my heart; I would have given my body and name to you as well. Anything you wished. One day, if we had survived those days and nights another 20 years, we could have permanently retired to our little cottage. I could have studied my bees, you could have written that novel you are picking away at even now.
We would have been wondrous.
You would have been, until the day I died, my everything.
I guess in a way you still were.
I love you, Hamish. I'll see you, if there is another life after this…
S.H.
Shutting his laptop, he walked over toward the fire. Making sure he still had his bottle, he took a deep pull. Not a danger night. Not tonight. Tonight, he could survive this because he had too much to complete. Later, he would have cases. He would make Sherlock proud if he could. They would come, he had no doubt. On those nights he could have Lestrade come get him and they could get pissed together, or go over really old cases, maybe reminisce.
For tonight, he finished the bottle, dampened the fire to go to embers, stood wrapped in the thin quilt and made his way to the master suite. Dropping the quilt on the floor after closing and locking his room, he dropped his shirt, trousers and under things in a steady path toward his bath. Turning the water on he ran it hot. It would feel so good to lie in and bliss a bit before sleeping.
Once filled enough, he stepped in hissing at the heat. It really did feel delicious once he gave it a moment. Heat infused him and all he could think of was Sherlock. He was a minor nuclear reactor when he slept. It really used to be a thing to behold. Dunking under the water, he submerged for a few seconds with his eyes closed.
Pushing himself back up through the plane of water he breathed in deeply. Air, crisp with timber, slightly smoky filled his senses. He could not help to wish that Sherlock were spooning him this instant. Feeling a chilling draft, he shivered slightly dipping to warm himself, then started washing himself for bed. He was using the new soap that Sherlock had bought because he enjoyed the bergamot and cinnamon smell over John's base sent.
He had always said it calmed him, reinforced some sort of primitive feeling of safety and home. John never worried about it. Helped Sherlock relax and sleep he wasn't going to question it. He only used it at night. In the morning it was always the clean warm vanilla that he enjoyed. The happiness of a sugar cookie first thing in the morning. Always put things to right for him.
Rinsing, he finished the rest of his nightly routine, before heading to bed.
"Good night my love; sleep well."