Chapter twenty one

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Even if an eternity has passed,
I will never,
forget you.
a.n

an: thank you, all of you c:

-

There is no end to when he will stay up.
He endlessly retreated outside, even though the snow and darkness of the night.
He'd stare at the stars, and it would spark memories of him.

But most of the time now, it would be him, gasping awake, strangled underneath the the sheet, that wrapped around him like spindly, white creatures.
He is not the one for sentiment, but Sherlock's room radiates of it.
He doesn't dare follow his legs into his room.
He doesn't dare touch the chair he used to sit in. John Watson does not do anything.
Expect teach him self the piano on the rickety thing they found in the flat.
But it is similar to once you break something, it is hard to replace. He sits down and begins to play. The notes and voices and melodies sound so irenic yet so senile, as if the notes themselves are at a state of deterioration.
When he begins to play, he will play for hours on end, his fingers skating across the instrument. There is no point for music, besides the accordant fracas sounding noises that seep through the air.

People still ask if he remembers him, if he has moved on. And the answer is yes to both questions. But has he really moved on? Not even John could answer that. But he still feels like he is waiting. He is waiting for his arms to carry him, his feather light kisses, just Sherlock. He sighs, then blinks and unravels his arms. He can still function without Sherlock. If one can properly function with a knife in their stomach.
And it still hurts.
After two years.
And he still doesn't understand why. So he drowns it. His emotions, John drowns himself whenever he can.
He evaluates he the situation, then drowns it.
For two years.

***

Sherlock Holmes was rarely a man of many words. John Watson was rarely a man of sentimental attachment. Sherlock Holmes did not leave many words into this planet. And for John, that note was not enough. And it's been hard. Of course it has. To lose someone so close it you, it is hard. But John Watson has moved on. Because he has realised that grieving will not ever bring him back. Moving on does not mean forgetting. John Watson will not ever forget his Sherlock Holmes.

-

John decides to clear out his flat, move, somewhere nicer. As he clears out the place, he finds books, and photos, and little moments wrapped in little words. But he finds a tape, messily labelled "John's Birthday tape" in cursive writing. The way it was hidden made John think it was purposely meant to be found when it was needed to be found. He carefully put the tape into the television, curling up into the chair watching it. It opened with Sherlock pacing around the room, muttering to himself. John smiled.
Sherlock stopped pacing and faced the camera. He began talking, and it was the first time in two years John Watson had heard his voice.

"Hello John, before I begin, I need to say -"

***

"Hello John, before I begin, I need to say, that this is something I wouldn't have ever said in person. I am the one to write things down, express them in written sentences, but here is one thing I need to say to you in person." He hesitated as he chuckled , "well, not really. But here it goes.
John you mean the world to me. And as that doesn't go for many people, you if all people mean the most in my life." He scoffs, "John, I've always contemplated why I am in love with you. You of all people are stubborn, forceful, marvellous and spectacular. If you ever end up finding this, I know, I won't grow old with you John. I know, I will not physically be there for eternity. But I will love you for that period of time. You John Watson have tried so hard. I know you have. And you deserve someone better than me. But whether I am here or not, I love you. Present tense." Video Sherlock was crying now, tears streaming down his face, and John was crying too.

As he place the tape back into its case, a sequence of words was scrawled on the back.
The most simplest set of words.

It was more than what John could as for.

rough ashes ;; johnlock Where stories live. Discover now