Chapter Text
It’s been exactly 54 days, when John stops ignoring his phone. He’s sitting in their flat, because it will never stop belonging to both of them. He hasn’t moved anything and aside from a thin layer of dust, nothing has changed. John managed to spend two weeks with his sister but it seemed wrong, felt wrong. He’s supposed to be here, in their flat, even if he’s not sure what he’s doing. Mrs Hudson doesn’t bother him anymore, he’s asked to be left alone, ‘to see to things’. He hadn’t ‘seen’ to anything, he just waits. John keeps expecting to hear footsteps on the stairs, keeps expecting to see him pacing the floor or lying on the couch; fingers steepled under his chin. But there is no one there, no beautiful, annoying, dark haired man to fascinate and frustrate John. It doesn't help that Sherlock keeps showing up in his dreams, leaving John aching when he wakes the next morning. But last night’s dream had been different.
“Stop wasting time, John!” Sherlock had shouted at him, pacing the floor of their flat. “You’re missing the most important thing!” Sherlock had stopped, dropping both hands to John’s shoulders. “Do something! It’s only over when you allow it to be.” Blue eyes filled his vision.
The sight had been burned into his mind, the pain in his chest enough to jolt him awake. He’d spent a good twenty minutes gasping into his hands as he’s eyes filled with tears. John wanted to scream and yell, to tell the Sherlock in his mind that it really was over because Sherlock wasn’t here. But the command had stuck with him, so when he’s phone rang the next morning, John answered.
“John Watson,” Even to John, the sadness in his voice was evident.
“John?” Lestrade’s voice rang through the phone, sounding concerned. “Where have you been? You weren’t answering your phone, I thought…” John doesn’t need to be told what he thought, it’s the same thought Harry had when she made him live with her for two weeks. It’s the same reason Lestrade took his gun away.
“I’m here,” The ‘now’ is left unsaid, but it’s there in John’s tone.
“Um… I got a call from Molly. They released… Sherlock’s personal items. I can bring them around if you like?” John’s already shaking his head, the flat is one thing, seeing the things Sherlock had on him when he… It’s too much. Lestrade seems to sense John’s distress.
“John,” His tone is firm yet gentle, it’s his Detective voice. “There was an envelope in his pocket. Your name was written on the front with strict instructions that all his possessions be handed to you.” Lestrade sighs; his voice becoming that of plain old Greg. “Please John, don’t make me ignore Sherlock’s last request.” John’s heart squeezes uncomfortably. They both know it wasn’t really a request, Sherlock doesn’t- didn’t make requests, he gave orders. But it’s his last; Sherlock will never ask or demand anything ever again. John chokes.
“Ok.”
***
Lestrade's visit is quick, over before John can even offer the grey haired Detective a cup of tea. This flat holds memories for more than just John. The box Lestrade leaves on the table is ordinary looking, it doesn’t seem right that the last things Sherlock touched are in such a boring, brown box. For a long time after Lestrade’s gone John just sits on the sofa and stares at it, hand clenched in front of his mouth and elbows on his knees. The folds of the lid are half open, the left side at a 45 degree angle, the right side at a 5 degree angle under the left. The box is new, generally free of scratches. The tape is fresh and clean except for one long blonde hair that sticks out of the end of the tape on the right. A women put this box together and put Sherlock’s things in it. It drives John crazy to think that some unknown woman has touched Sherlock’s things. That she’s taken a little piece of Sherlock off his things and replaced it with a piece of herself. It’s irrational, but John hates her.
‘Sherlock Holmes’ is written across the top in big black letters. The ends of the letters are lighter than the middle, someone wrote it quickly, with a flick of their hand. The end of the ‘S’ is cut off and the loop on the ‘E’s are almost non-existent. It all indicates that the person was in a hurry that Sherlock wasn’t worth their time. John hates them all, it doesn’t matter that he’s a doctor or that he knows what it’s like to go through a dead man’s personal items. This is all that’s left of Sherlock and John can’t stand the thought of someone hurriedly tossing Sherlock's belongs into this box. Sherlock was never a man to be disregarded.
Slowly John reaches forward, fingertips brushing the cardboard before he pulls it closer and opens the lid. On top is Sherlock’s coat, the swishy, expensive thing that Sherlock never left home without. It seems wrong, the coat is here and Sherlock… He’s been buried without it. Tears prick at John’s eyes and he has to hold his breath to stop the sobs from coming. John carefully lifts the coat out, lying it across his lap and feeling the texture of the fabric with his fingertips. It’s cold, not warm with Sherlock’s body heat and that more than anything convinces John that he’s gone. He can’t stand it, his breathing stutters and sobs rack his whole body as he pulls the coat to his face. It still smells like Sherlock, but there is also a faint smell of blood, it drags John back to that hideous day. It shouldn’t have happened, Sherlock was never a fake, he can’t have given up like that. But he had and as John curls himself up tightly on the sofa he can feel the big aching hole that Sherlock has left inside him. John tucks the coat beneath his head, breathing in his lost flatmates scent and letting it catch his tears. His fingers continue to strike fabric as he cries, it’s a while before he notices that there’s something in the pocket. John sits up slowly, fingers dipping into the pocket to remove a small black velvet box. John’s heart skips a beat because this can’t possibly be what he thinks it is. He grabs the cardboard box, shoving through the contents until he finds a letter, neatly tucked into the left side of the box. The front reads in Sherlock’s neat hand;
I entrust all my possessions and the contents of this letter to Dr John Hamish Watson.
Sherlock Holmes
It’s signed, beautiful and neat but John jumps up, grabbing the knife still stuck in the mantel of the fire place and slices the envelop open. He tosses the knife back onto the mantel and removes the letter, little black box still clasped in his hand.
John,
I’m sorry, of course you will be surprised by my apology but I can assure you that I am sincere. I had my reasons for not telling you about my up-coming demise. Foremost in my mind was the wish to keep you safe. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a proper good bye. I offer you this instead. Baring in mind the incompetency of most medical and law enforcement staff, my possessions would have been delivered to you along with this letter. In my coat you will find a black box. The contents are exactly as you could expect.
John stopped, hands shaking as his attention slips back to the velvet box. Could Sherlock really know what he expects? Slowly he opened the box, his heart skipping a beat. Why would Sherlock do this to him? Now of all times?
I thought about it many times, at first it was a means to keep you by my side. Later, 62 days before I decided to write this letter, I decided I wanted you simply because of your own merits.
John couldn’t breath anymore as he read the last few lines. The box and letter fell from his hands as he’s knees gave way.
John Watson, would you do me the honour of being my partner, in all things. Please.
Forever yours, Sherlock Holmes
John cries and wants to curse, call Sherlock a coward for leaving him with a note. He wants to strangle him but he can’t and with the detective’s last request in front of him what can he really do.
“Love you too, you idiot.” The two gold rings, seated in plush black velvet shine innocently up at John. One for him and one for Sherlock. Forever.
***
The Personal Blog of Dr John Hamish Holmes
A blog to honour the great
Sherlock Holmes
Forever loved
It’s sentimental and stupid but it makes John feel better, like he’s kept a piece of Sherlock close. He wears his ring on his left hand and of course it fits perfectly. He keeps Sherlock’s in the box, tucked at the back of the top draw of his bedside table. Occasionally at night he takes it out and looks at it, imagining Sherlock wearing it. Sometimes he tucks it under his pillow and falls asleep. The ring stays and waits, waits to be claimed, just like John. They wait for the man who offered forever, Sherlock doesn’t offer anything he doesn’t mean.