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He ran his fingers over the granite of the thick stone, its surface only being polished by the constancy of his touch. "Hello, John." he whispered, as the sky blushed pink over the daisy field. "The bees are doing well." He glanced up at the evening clouds, swirling over the sun like drags of cigarette smoke. He took in a sharp breath and admired the elegant engraving on the gravestone. "John Hamish Watson, 1973-2045, Treasured Husband, Brother, and Friend." God, had it really been 2 years? Yes. 2 years to the day. 2 years since a whole became a half. "Molly-" he started, "Molly came 'round today and helped with the laundry and the garden. I showed her the bees, too, she said they're lovely, and-oh!" He suddenly remembered something very important she told him excitedly the week prior. "Molly and Greg are expecting their first grandchild." His eyes twinkled at the thought of a new little one, and had a brief flash of regret for never having any of his own. Considering the traumatic experience John had gone thru 30 years ago regarding A.G.R.A, however, he decided it was for the best. Now that he thought about it- maybe losing John when he did was for he best too. His memory was declining at the time, and he didn't know how he would be able to bare seeing the man he loved turn into a shell of his former self. His mind flashed back to himself standing on the tarmac, about to board a jet somewhere in Eastern Europe. So drugged up, he was certain he would meet his demise on the plane. So drugged up, so he might have been able to say those three words sooner, but he couldn't. Why couldn't he? John saved him. He killed a man in the first 48 hours they knew each other, and was willing to die with him without question. In his mind, the only reason he survived a shot to the heart by John's traitorous bride was knowing John was in danger and needed him. The only reason he survived a cocaine overdose on the plane was John saving him from his demons. It's you, it's always you. John Watson, you keep me right.
"I love you."
The words came quickly and stumbling, the way he should have said them then and the way he said them every day since. The words were spun out of thin air, made out of the light from the stars he never used to care about, the tea they made on lazy Sunday mornings, the honey they sold at the open market together, the silky sheets they made love beneath, the fresh pieces of paper at John's computer converting their blog post adventures into a memoir, the silver bullets they fought against for life.
Cold granite never felt so warm.
After he awakened from a darkness-driven sleep, Sherlock glanced at his watch and realized he'd been kneeling at John's graveside for over eight hours. Standing abruptly, he whispered a quiet goodbye. He twisted his wedding ring out of comfort, feeling the XXIX•I•XVII etched into the metal-29th January 2017-and felt a sudden heartache remembering they hadn't quite made it to their 30th wedding anniversary together. He turned away to head back to the cottage, his body aching. Damn, did he get old. Former nicotine and cocaine addicts weren't supposed to live until 70. He certainly didn't have the body of the man who leapt over the hoods of cars, climbed fire escapes, jumped off buildings, and survived kills shots. He sighed at the memories as he got to the door. God, they had gone thru everything together, hadn't they...
Sherlock reached the bedroom and sat down on the bed, exhausted from the long walk. As he curled up under the warm quilt, he stretched his arm to the cool left side of the bed, once the warmth of his soldier's chest. The sun rose slowly, its soft rays streaming thru the window, dappling the sheets with pure light. His breathing stilled and the tips of his fingers grew cold, as he was reunited with his conductor of light once again.