rough ashes ;; johnlock

Chapter twenty

if you loved me
why'd you leave me
take my body
take my body
-kodaline

----

It's not real.
I'll wake up and I'll see his beautiful face. His eyelash that flutter in the draft that leaks out through the bedroom door.
He'll smile at me, I'll smile back at him.
Because I love him.

John opened his eyes. He was on his bed. Not staring at Sherlock. Not looking into his eyes that were like green swirls of mist.
No.
He hadn't spoken for a week.
Greg had visited him on multiple occasions, checking on his state, reminding him that Serlock was going to have a funeral in a weeks time.
Today.
He got up, numb from the pain, he couldn't think how he could bare staring into his coffin, such a beautiful face wasted, such talent, such -

ahem.

He looked at the black suit that hung on his dresser. He thought this day would never come. He just though he could save him? Well didn't he? Obviously not.

Into battle.

***

It was full of people who didn't know him. There were the people who called him freaks, the people who broke him, crying over his loss, regret so deep. They were all so fake, there was no other way to put it. There needn't to be another way to say it.
Every tear these people shed, was a burning to John heart. There are people who tore him down, there are people who watched him burn, there are people who burnt with him. Yet those who were burnt do not cry, they do not mourn, for there is no reason to mourn. To grieve does not bring back the dead. To grieve does not heal the scars in the dead boys hearts. Those who did not love him will forget. Those few who did, shall never.

"I love you." said John, as the public filed out of the church, with wet, slick steps.

"Shit, Sherlock, I've never told you I love you. I've never actually held you and told you how much you actually mean to me. I feel like I lost you too soon, and I'm angry Sherlock. You just left me. Do you not understand? I have to pick up the pieces, not of just me, God no, no the piece that you made me into, yes I am scattered along you. And good God, I just wish Sherlock I could have had one more day where I loved you. I will always love you for an eternity, and Christ, now that I look at that, even that wouldn't be enough."

He was crying now, yes, almost tears of regret, regret, because he did not try hard enough. Because he wasn't enough.
"And I'm so fucking sorry."

And with that he put the middle finger up to the crucifix that hung on the face of the church and kissed the wooden box one last time.

***

Stop trying to bring him back.

Just stop.

It won't ever work.

Deal. With. It.

It's been two wholes years.

He's dead. What do you expect?