Don't Need To Be Saved

It was silent.

The violin in the corner was tuned, but not touched.

It was clean.

The kitchen table had bills and food, not beakers and microscopes.

It was empty.

His heart hurt more than he ever thought his shoulder would, more than his leg and more than anything that has ever plagued him ever could and ever will.

John sat in his chair, staring at the tree that was sitting behind the chair across from him. The lights twinkled and made shadows on the wood floor, trying to tell him a happy story of love and family. They swayed at the light breeze that was coming through the window, putting on more of their play, but John sat and stared, not caring if the tree itself were to topple over and destroy the table and his laptop sitting next to it. He didn't care, as long as it didn't touch the chair.

That chair had never had a soul in it since the fall, John never allowed a person to sit there. The thing might as well have had yellow tape wrapped around it.  

His coat found its way to John's hands and he wrapped it around him as he walked down the steps and left Baker Street.

One of the things that John could never quite understand happened next; his feet moved him towards the cemetery. This happened a lot since the incident, more than John would like to admit to anyone.  Soon, he found himself standing in front of a far too familiar gravestone, a gravestone that haunted his dreams and followed him around in the back of his mind while he was awake.

John sat down next to the cold granite, and rested his head against it. He slowly made circles on the ground in front of it, humming to himself as he did so. Though he would never admit to it, John liked to think to himself that he was tracing these circles on Sherlock's chest and he would like to think that his humming would lull the man to sleep, although Sherlock was already in a deep sleep.

Hums began to slowly transform themselves into words, and John found himself babbling into the wind.

"I miss you, you know that? Did you ever think that I might just miss you for the rest of my life before you jumped off that bloody building? No…don't answer that, you obviously didn't." John paused for a moment, noticing what he just said, noticing how insane he must sound right now, but he continued. "You're the only thing that I seem to care about anymore Sherlock, and you're dead. I start to finally think about other things but then somehow, my mind goes right back to you. Your face is everywhere I turn and when I tried to watch crap telly, I can hear your voice saying how the other man can't be the father." Tears began to find their way down John's face in large groups, making stains on his jacket. "I...I don't know how I how to say this, and I don't even know if I should because you're gone and you're just a frail body covered in dirt, but; I love you, Sherlock Holmes, I love you more than anyone could ever imagine and you're dead."

With that, John slid down and lay next to the gravestone, his hands shaking at his sides.  The leaves rustled a little louder than usual for a small winter breeze, but he ignored it and closed his eyes, trying to stop the tears. Seconds slowly turned into minutes, those minutes twisted into hours, and John realized that it was now midnight, that he had spent several hours lying next to the grave. Sighing, he picked himself up and ambled home.

Baker Street was still quiet when he returned, and he intended to keep it that way as he walked up the stairs, trying not to wake Ms. Hudson.  As he opened the door, a sharp gasp escaped him. John blinked a couple of times, hoping that if he did so, the image would disappear, but it didn't.

"Bloody hallucinations…" he mumbled as he shut the door.

"Oh…you've had hallucinations…?" The dark voice said.

John stopped walking.

"You're not a…" He began.

"No."

"Oh...so…you're..." John couldn't find the right words.

"Yes, John, I'm here, I'm alive and I'm pacing, waiting for you to come home."  Sherlock looked at John fiercely, never letting him leave his sight.

That was all it took though, John fell to his knees and cried. Sherlock didn't know what to do, he thought that this would go differently, he thought that John would just smile and that their lives would fall right back into place and he'd be at home, with his blogger, on Christmas Eve.

"I just…" John chocked on his words, "I just laid next to your bloody grave for four hours!" He looked up from the floor through his tears.

Sherlock nodded his head, "I know…" was all he said.

The two stared for a while, they were frozen, glued to where they were standing, not able to move or even speak. Sherlock tried to study John, tried to take in the emotions on his face but he couldn't, John was a mess, a tattered piece of man that Sherlock had created, that he had left on this planet to walk alone.

"I love you too." Sherlock finally let out.

John blinked, and held his breath.

At that moment, Sherlock bent down to level his eyes with John, and John let his breath out quietly. Sherlock's hand snaked around John's neck and he pulled him into a kiss.

Their lips were rough against one another, and their breathing was stocky. However, neither man had ever felt so complete.  John smiled; his lips, still pressed to Sherlock's, curled up and his eyes brightened behind their lids.  Their hearts began to beat together and they slowly moved away from one another.

The pair got up and sat by the fire, and for this first time in years, someone was finally allowed to sit in the chair across from John.