Falling For You

Broken

Gone.  John Watson still couldn't believe that after two years, Sherlock was still dead.  Of course, dead people didn't come back.  John knew that.  But he just thought... well.  He thought that Sherlock was different.  He thought that somehow Sherlock would come back for him.  But he hadn't returned. It was the two-year anniversary of his best friend's death and John Watson was standing in front of the sleek grave feeling remorseful.  He hung his head low wishing that he could have been the one to jump off of that rooftop instead of Sherlock.  Why did he have to die?  Out of everyone in the world, why did Sherlock Holmes have to be the one to die that day?  

The fall had broken the poor army doctor.  He was in a million pieces that were scattered completely everywhere.  He didn't sleep and he hardly ate, and there was not a full minute that passed in which he did not think about Sherlock Holmes.

"Two years," John said at the grave to himself.  He wondered if Sherlock could hear him.  He wondered if Sherlock was listening to him at that very second.

He didn't notice the dark figure hiding behind the grand oak beside Sherlock's grave.  The blue scarf, or maybe even the upturned collar would have been a dead give away of who it was.  Sherlock Holmes had finally returned to London after being whipped and tortured while trying to dismantle Moriarty's network.  The only problem was John.  John came to the grave every day.  Mycroft had explained this to Sherlock in a very in-depth texting conversation.

He misses you.  -MH

But Sherlock wasn't ready to fall into John's arms quite then.  He needed to know something first.  He needed to know how John felt about him, if he felt any particular way at all.  The suspicion of John liking Sherlock more than a friend had been raised quite some time ago.  Also, of course, delicately by Mycroft.

He loves you.  -MH

"Dammit, Sherlock.  I miss you like hell.  It's so bloody lonely here without you. I just--" he took a deep breath.  Sherlock waited for the words that were to follow.  "I wish I could have told you.  I should have told you how I felt.  It wasn't fair to not tell you that I-"

But then Sherlock stepped on a twig as he was readjusting himself, about ready to jump out and surprise his old friend.  His old friend that wanted to be something more. Sherlock had been waiting for the moment of the confession, but he wouldn't get it because he had messed it up.  

"Sherlock?" John called, looking around.  He had heard something, but what?  Was it a sign?  Was Sherlock listening?  Convinced that it was just another episode, John ignored the feeling of being watched and decided to leave.

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispered to himself.  He closed his eyes and tried to have the memory of John Watson at his sleek black grave linger in his mind.  He tucked it into the John Room of his Mind Palace and waited until he could no longer hear John.  Then he poked his head out from around the trunk of the tree and watched John walk away from the grave.

John decided that it had been going on for far too long.  He couldn't keep visiting Sherlock every day because Sherlock was officially dead.  And it was mental for John to still be in love with a dead man. He couldn't  keep putting himself through hell because of sentiment.  He smiled and remembered Sherlock then.  Sherlock and his lack of sentiment.  Stupid sentiment.  

John also decided that it was time to give up on Sherlock, or at least pretend like he was giving up on him, because Sherlock wouldn't have loved him back.  Sherlock didn't love anyone, except for maybe the Woman.  But she was just mysterious more than anything.  And dead.  But John knew he couldn't compete with anyone.  He would lose.  Sherlock Holmes did not like John Watson.

Sherlock Holmes loved him.

And he figured that it was time to see if John was ready for more action at Baker Street.