The graveyard is dark. It’s dark enough so no one can see the grief etched in John’s features. The wind is whipping through his greying hair, encouraging him to make this quick. Get it over with. He’s always visited Sherlock on nights like these.
John kneels in front of the grave, the freshly cut grass prickling his knees. He closes his eyes briefly, and opens them again.
He notices something next to the grave. Bundled in plastic and tissue paper, is a bouquet of satin petaled roses. Not the ordinary kind of roses, either. These roses are vibrant and bright and...yellow. For God’s sake, it isn’t even spring. Why would someone bring such radiant flowers to a grave?
Sherlock would hate them. He didn’t even like the color yellow, so why the hell did someone put them there? John hates how happy they look, the way they contrast completely to the dull grey slab of the headstone.
He picks up the flowers and stands up. His limbs feel like they’re tied to bricks, but he forces himself to keep moving. He drags his feet passed the rows of stones and wrought iron fence. The flowers in his hands feel like stolen jewels, but he refuses to leave them at the graveyard.
By the time he gets to 221B it’s quieter than a ghost town, and every creak of the steps makes him wince. John glares at the bouquet of flowers in his grip. The only place they would look suitable would be in the rubbish bin. He holds them over the rubbish bin, tissue paper crinkling, before a scrap of paper flutters to the ground. John pauses to examine the piece of paper, squinting as he scans the meticulous square writing. It reads,
"To my truest friend, you'll always be my conductor of light. -Yours"
The card crinkles in his fist, and he clenches his jaw. Who considers Sherlock his truest friend besides himself? No one. Sherlock was his best friend, and as far as John knew, Sherlock didn't have anyone else. His stomach churned as he thought of the possibilities. Wouldn't Sherlock have mentioned him or her to him? Irene Adler was dead, and Molly Hooper had moved on. Nobody else would sign it, “Yours.”
John lets the flowers drop in the rubbish bin with a satisfying thunk. Sherlock had called him a conductor of light.
“You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!”
John had supposed it was his way of saying sorry at the time.
He scrubs a hand over his face, leaning against the counter. Damn yellow roses and Sherlock Holmes. For the sake of his sanity, he’ll go on believing he was Sherlock’s only best friend.
He’ll go on pretending he hadn’t made the most important man in his life jump to his death.
A!A: This turned out to be a bit more angsty than I intended. I promise more fluff and happiness in the future. This is just a short snippet for now, I'll be doing a few different rose colors. I hope you enjoy!
Re: Fill: 1/? Johnlock, The Language of Roses
John kneels in front of the grave, the freshly cut grass prickling his knees. He closes his eyes briefly, and opens them again.
He notices something next to the grave. Bundled in plastic and tissue paper, is a bouquet of satin petaled roses. Not the ordinary kind of roses, either. These roses are vibrant and bright and...yellow. For God’s sake, it isn’t even spring. Why would someone bring such radiant flowers to a grave?
Sherlock would hate them. He didn’t even like the color yellow, so why the hell did someone put them there? John hates how happy they look, the way they contrast completely to the dull grey slab of the headstone.
He picks up the flowers and stands up. His limbs feel like they’re tied to bricks, but he forces himself to keep moving. He drags his feet passed the rows of stones and wrought iron fence. The flowers in his hands feel like stolen jewels, but he refuses to leave them at the graveyard.
By the time he gets to 221B it’s quieter than a ghost town, and every creak of the steps makes him wince. John glares at the bouquet of flowers in his grip. The only place they would look suitable would be in the rubbish bin. He holds them over the rubbish bin, tissue paper crinkling, before a scrap of paper flutters to the ground. John pauses to examine the piece of paper, squinting as he scans the meticulous square writing.
It reads,
"To my truest friend, you'll always be my conductor of light. -Yours"
The card crinkles in his fist, and he clenches his jaw.
Who considers Sherlock his truest friend besides himself? No one. Sherlock was his best friend, and as far as John knew, Sherlock didn't have anyone else. His stomach churned as he thought of the possibilities. Wouldn't Sherlock have mentioned him or her to him? Irene Adler was dead, and Molly Hooper had moved on. Nobody else would sign it, “Yours.”
John lets the flowers drop in the rubbish bin with a satisfying thunk. Sherlock had called him a conductor of light.
“You'll never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable!”
John had supposed it was his way of saying sorry at the time.
He scrubs a hand over his face, leaning against the counter. Damn yellow roses and Sherlock Holmes. For the sake of his sanity, he’ll go on believing he was Sherlock’s only best friend.
He’ll go on pretending he hadn’t made the most important man in his life jump to his death.
A!A: This turned out to be a bit more angsty than I intended. I promise more fluff and happiness in the future. This is just a short snippet for now, I'll be doing a few different rose colors. I hope you enjoy!