Sherlock Fic: Closure
Title: Closure
Author: avalon_joan
Rating: Teen
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's fall from St. Bart's, John finds some closure at his grave.
John felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn to see who it was-he knew that hand well. Lestrade had been coming with him to Sherlock’s grave every month, and he knew that there was no chance that the DI would miss today.
“Three years, Greg,” John murmured, shaking his head. “Feels like yesterday.”
“I know,” Lestrade replied, standing next to the doctor, keeping his arm on John’s opposite shoulder. “It’ll get better.”
“No, it won’t--I’ve had people close to me die, had people kill themselves. But there’s always been a reason, some explanation.”
“We have some explanation, John.”
“Not enough.” John leaned against Lestrade ever so slightly, letting out a sigh. “He was always one step ahead. There’s something we’re missing-Moriarty wasn’t that good.”
Lestrade nodded silently, squeezing John’s shoulder.
“If we knew why he did it, anything at all, then maybe something would make sense in all of this and we could start to consider moving on with our lives. But every day, every minute-all I want to know is why he did it.”
“I did it for you,” a low voice behind him said.
John had barely managed to turn around when his knees gave out, Lestrade catching him with one arm and lowering him to the ground. Sherlock, with his coat collar and his hair and his cheekbones, very much alive, eyes ringed with pink, knelt before him. He reached out and cupped John’s cheek in his hand. “I did it for you.”
His hand shaking more than it had in years, John covered Sherlock’s with his own, tracing his fingertips along the other man’s soft, slender fingers. The first words he attempted to speak came out too quietly to be heard, and Sherlock offered him a small smile of encouragement, maybe relief. John reached his other hand up and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s hair-it was him. Definitely him.
His jaw shaking, mouth slightly agape, he met Sherlock’s gaze, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision. He leaned forward, and Sherlock’s lips met his, hesitant at first, but with more intention as he sank against the other’s mouth. Pulling away, he leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s, one hand still combed through his curls, the other pressed to his chest, feeling the heartbeat of the man he’d long believed dead. Sherlock brushed tears off of John’s cheek.
“I’m so sorry, John-there was no other way.” Sherlock’s trembling voice betrayed more emotion than John thought possible. “Let me take you home. Let me explain.”
“No.” Taking a deep, shuddering breath, John continued, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go to the nearest pub and have a pint, maybe four or five. I’m going to go home, go to bed, and tomorrow morning-maybe then we talk about this.”
Sherlock looked, for once, shy. “Can I-can I come with you? I understand, if after all this time-after all this-“
On unsteady legs, John stood, lifting Sherlock up with him. He smiled. “Well, I’m not going to be having a welcome-back shag with Greg, am I?” Beside them, Lestrade snorted and looked away, chuckling.
Everything had felt wrong with Sherlock gone-nothing had fit together, nothing had made sense. There at his grave, everything settled back into place. John took Sherlock’s hand and held it firmly in his own, their fingers interlaced.
Author: avalon_joan
Rating: Teen
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's fall from St. Bart's, John finds some closure at his grave.
John felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn to see who it was-he knew that hand well. Lestrade had been coming with him to Sherlock’s grave every month, and he knew that there was no chance that the DI would miss today.
“Three years, Greg,” John murmured, shaking his head. “Feels like yesterday.”
“I know,” Lestrade replied, standing next to the doctor, keeping his arm on John’s opposite shoulder. “It’ll get better.”
“No, it won’t--I’ve had people close to me die, had people kill themselves. But there’s always been a reason, some explanation.”
“We have some explanation, John.”
“Not enough.” John leaned against Lestrade ever so slightly, letting out a sigh. “He was always one step ahead. There’s something we’re missing-Moriarty wasn’t that good.”
Lestrade nodded silently, squeezing John’s shoulder.
“If we knew why he did it, anything at all, then maybe something would make sense in all of this and we could start to consider moving on with our lives. But every day, every minute-all I want to know is why he did it.”
“I did it for you,” a low voice behind him said.
John had barely managed to turn around when his knees gave out, Lestrade catching him with one arm and lowering him to the ground. Sherlock, with his coat collar and his hair and his cheekbones, very much alive, eyes ringed with pink, knelt before him. He reached out and cupped John’s cheek in his hand. “I did it for you.”
His hand shaking more than it had in years, John covered Sherlock’s with his own, tracing his fingertips along the other man’s soft, slender fingers. The first words he attempted to speak came out too quietly to be heard, and Sherlock offered him a small smile of encouragement, maybe relief. John reached his other hand up and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s hair-it was him. Definitely him.
His jaw shaking, mouth slightly agape, he met Sherlock’s gaze, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision. He leaned forward, and Sherlock’s lips met his, hesitant at first, but with more intention as he sank against the other’s mouth. Pulling away, he leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s, one hand still combed through his curls, the other pressed to his chest, feeling the heartbeat of the man he’d long believed dead. Sherlock brushed tears off of John’s cheek.
“I’m so sorry, John-there was no other way.” Sherlock’s trembling voice betrayed more emotion than John thought possible. “Let me take you home. Let me explain.”
“No.” Taking a deep, shuddering breath, John continued, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go to the nearest pub and have a pint, maybe four or five. I’m going to go home, go to bed, and tomorrow morning-maybe then we talk about this.”
Sherlock looked, for once, shy. “Can I-can I come with you? I understand, if after all this time-after all this-“
On unsteady legs, John stood, lifting Sherlock up with him. He smiled. “Well, I’m not going to be having a welcome-back shag with Greg, am I?” Beside them, Lestrade snorted and looked away, chuckling.
Everything had felt wrong with Sherlock gone-nothing had fit together, nothing had made sense. There at his grave, everything settled back into place. John took Sherlock’s hand and held it firmly in his own, their fingers interlaced.