Jacksepticeye Imagines

Two Years

Word count: 700

(Based on BBC Sherlock)

You glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time. You made sure there was not lint on your black dress. Your hair was styled neatly. Your makeup made it seem like you had gotten more than four hours of sleep every day for the past month. 

You'd lost weight. People were bound to notice. People were bound to ask about it.

There wasn't time to eat when you were so busy investigating. But there wasn't time to think about this right now. You had a funeral to get to. 

You didn't shed any tears. You were empty. You sat quietly and listened to some of Jack's friends speak about him. Most of them gave you a sympathetic look before or after their speech. You analyzed every word. You thanked every condolence. It wasn't until you returned back home that you broke down into tears. You grabbed a blanket, tears steadily streaming down your face, and curled up on your couch. You had been alone with your thoughts for quite some time. You had two things permanently etched into your brain.

Jack was dead. He jumped off of a roof. You watched him fall; choked out his name as people held you back.

Jack wasn't dead. He would never commit suicide. He would never leave you alone. 

So you waited. Every week for full year after his death, you'd visit his grave. You'd talk to his tombstone and lay a flower in front of it, disposing of last week's wilted flower. You reasoned out in your head. Jack would never leave you. But he was gone, so he'd never leave you for more than a year, if that long. Exactly a year after his death, you sat beside his tombstone for a long time, waiting for anything. But nothing came.

So the next anniversary of his death was even harder for you. You tried to move on, even went on a date or two. But no one was as special to you as Jack was. You stood alone in the house you used to share with Jack, making dinner. When you finished, you realized you made two servings. You slapped yourself on the forehead. Even after two years, you were still making dinner for two as if someone else was there to eat it with you. 

"Expecting someone?" called a voice behind you. You sighed. "No, I just accidentally ma-" you whipped your head around to see your Irish bastard, his hair in needing of a trim and bags under his eyes. You momentarily wondered why he looked so bad until you realized you probably looked worse. You quickly walked up to him and slapped him in the face. As his hand covered his reddening cheek, you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and kissed him. He died two years ago, yet here he was, standing in the kitchen. You pushed away from him, but still held onto his sleeves as if he'd slip away if you let go. Tears flooded your vision.

"Why?" you whimpered, looking up at him. You saw he heart break by the expression on his face as he wrapped his arms around you. "I didn't want to leave you," he promised. "But I didn't want you to die." 

"What do you mean?" 

"You and the rest of my family would've been killed." His voice was shaky. You rubbed his back to comfort him. "It was me, or everyone I love."

You looked up at him to see he wore the same pained expression. "It's been two years, Jack. One word, that's all. That's all I would have needed. Just one word to know that you were okay!" You were now shouting at him and halfheartedly hitting his chest. He cupped your face in his hands. "I know you're mad, and I know I'm wrong, but please forgive me. I love you," he cooed, his finger rubbing the side of your cheek. 

"Okay," you mumbled, snuggling into his chest again. He pet your hair and kissed your forehead. His eyes darted back to the food. "After all this time?" he asked. You looked back up at him, trying to laugh at his cheesy reference. "Always," you whispered.

(A/N) WELL THEN hello how's it going

this was all over the place because Jack and Sherlock are two very different people  o h  w e l l