Happy Anniversary

'Two years. Two years'

That was all that was running through my mind as I stared at the shiny slab of black marble standing before me, his name engraved in gold, staring at me, feeling like a slap in the face. I still hadn't really processed it, him being gone. He couldn't die, he just couldn't.

God, I missed him. His deductions, how he could see right through you in a matter of seconds, leave you baffled. His violin playing, even at three in the morning. The beautiful sounds and melodies he could produce from it, soft,gentle, quiet notes becoming harsh, rough, violent, all with just a flick of his wrist. I even missed the organs and limbs in the fridge, the god awful stench of decaying flesh, the blood dripping into the tupperware of actual edible food, making my blood boil.

But it was him, just another quirk of his I adored. I missed the foul odour of rotting skin, the broken violin melodies rousing me from sleep, the childlike sulking, the dragging me around from place to place to find a maniac in our midst.

I missed his voice, that deep, baritone purr that lured you in, and you felt as though you could listen to him lecture you all day, whether it be about bruises appearing on a corpse or two hundred and fourty three different kinds of tobacco ash.

He could just pull you in, like a Venus fly trap. You think you've found something good, sweet, amazing, until the trap closes around you, and you realise you've fallen for the worlds most intelligent sociopath who cares more about the coagulation of saliva after death than whether the Earth goes around the Sun, or if he could, one day, posess feelings for someone, or even something unlinked to serial killers and bombers. He never really noticed though, too focused on his work to realise.

I'm not gay, but I loved him, that I can't deny. I always wanted more, his long fingers interlocked with mine, his touch over my bare skin, a place in his heart. I'd never loved anyone the way I'd loved him, man or woman, not even Mary. Sometimes I missed her too, not nearly as much as him however. She just left, found someone less depressing apparently. Not that I cared, I'd sooner have one more day with him than a lifetime with her.

Raindrops brought me back to reality, sliding over my skin before falling to the ground. It wouldn't be long until I would be soaked through, but I just needed to be with him. This day of all days, our special day.

While he was alive, I used to buy us an anniversary cake, as a joke. He always scoffed, called me a sentimental idiot, but I knew from the twinkle in his eye and the quirk of a smile on his lips that he secretly loved it. To me, it was our anniversary, and in a way, it was. The anniversary of the day we first met.

I'd have thanked Mike, but I never got the chance. Maybe it had been my subconcious warning me of the pain to come, maybe I was just lazy. Either way, it didn't really matter anymore, Mike had unintentionally brought me to the man who would ruin my life, how could I thank him for that?

The flat was different without him. It was a home anymore, it was lifeless. Dust hung in the air, as if it had been abandoned for years, void of life.

I'd taken to sleeping in his bed, and when I closed my eyes, with his scent enveloped around me, it was like he was there. I usually bundled the sheets up against my back and wrapped an arm around my own waist, so it felt like he was there, holding me, loving me. With my eyes closed, it felt so real, and I could imagine his head buried in my neck, his ebony curls tickling my jaw, his lips pressed against my shoulder, his soft, quiet breaths caressing my skin. At those times, so embedded in my fantasy, I could smile genuinely, my lips tugging upward in joy at him being home again.

But then I'd open my eyes, and I'd be alone, him gone again, and I'd just be a depressed middle aged man in love with a dead man. A dead man I shouldn't have and constantly denied loving when he was alive. When I was alive.

I remembered when I found his stash, cocaine mostly, a few syringes of liquid nembrutal. After that, I'd stopped wearing t-shirts. they couldn't hide the track marks and scars littering my arms. I just wore jumpers, he'd once said he liked my jumpers. Underneath I usually wore one of his shirts, I needed the two layers to keep me from freezing. They hid my bony torso. In the two years, I'd never eaten properly, and I lost three stone in the first two months. It made me feel closer to him, since he hardly ate.

I hadn't looked at myself in a mirror eithe. But I could feel the dark circles around my eyes, the sagged skin and the deep frown set into my features. According to Mrs.Hudson, I'd lost the light behind my eyes, never had I agreed with her more, as it wasn't all that I had lost.

The day he fell, I died with him. My heart stopped beating, I stopped breathing, nothing seemed to matter. It wasn't a life, it wasn't living without him, merely surving, and barely at that. I hardly ate, my sleep riddled with nightmares of his face, so I barely got two hours of sleep, my days plauged with hallucinations, and running up to strangers that I mistaked for him.

The hallucinations were the worst though, hearing his voice, seeing his smile. It tore me apart, because I always knew it wasn't real. But I was prepared, because it always happened at his grave, on our anniversary.

The rain eased off, and there he was, standing behind his headstone, slick with rain. He smiled at me, but it looked sad, his usually twinkling eyes dull. It was my smile however, the one I was sure only I had seen. His ebony curls stuck to his forehead and framed the upper half of his face, like a halo.

He wore a black coat, similar to his but not exact. I figured it was because I was wearing his coat, even though it reached my ankles and the sleeves were too long for my hands to make an appearance. I had them stuffed in the large pockets anyway. He was wearing a different scart too, his looped around my neck, his scent wafting through my nose, a sense of comfort. He looked older, but still so handsome.

I walked closer, until all that seperated us was his headstone. He smiled at me, and it took all of my strength to remind myself that he wasn't real as his voice resonated from his lips.

"Hello, John".

I smiled, my genuine smile, "Hey".

I pulled the rose out of my pocket, petals bright red and full of life. I held it out to him before setting it carefully on the headstone. He just smiled, nodding approvingly at the gesture. I bit my lip, never looking away in fear that he'd disappear.

I swallowed, "I..I miss you. Mrs.Hudson doesn't even speak to me anymore, nobody does. Sorry I didn't get us a cake this year, I don't have much of an appetite....I..I'm sorry but I need that miracle, just one more miracle, please. Save me like you did before."

I sighed, "But for now, all I have to say is, happy anniversary, Sherlock".

Sherlock put his hand on top of the headstone, "Happy anniversary John".

I put my hand near his for a few seconds, before pulling it back and stuffing back into my pocket. I nodded goodbye, unable to let that word slip from my tongue, before I turned, and walked away from him.

If I had just turned my head, just for a second, I would've seen him pick up the rose, wipe his eyes and kiss the petals. before slinking away, disappearing all over again.