#sad john

I’d never liked flowers. I didn’t understand the notion of delivering dead plants to a person you cared for. Mother had always argued that the “thought behind the action is what matters” but that thought had never been something I was privy to. That was until now. 

I knew that my “stunt” would affect John, I knew he would be hurt and angry but that didn’t matter. I had to make sure he was safe and to do that I needed to die. Naturally, I kept an eye on him, watched him visit my grave, leaving flowers by the headstone and staying to tell me about his week as if I hadn’t been watching his every move. Before leaving he would pat the stone to say his goodbye. 

This time, as he stepped towards the stone, his boot caught the wrapper on the fresh bouquet, “I know you don’t understand them… but it helps me, okay? I keep hoping that your distaste for ‘dead plants’ will be enough to drag your ass back here.” John took a shaky breath and let out a soft chuckle, “Just don’t stay dead, you hear me? I need my friend back, Sherlock.” With one last pat of the stone, he stood to attention, turned and left. 

I rooted myself to the spot, ensuring that he had left the vicinity before I allowed myself to move. I slowly approached my grave, eyes fixed on the bouquet. My mind spun with the possible meaning of the flowers as I knelt to retrieve them. White forget-me-nots and yellow roses. There had been a case, some time ago, that had led me to a book regarding the Victorian practice of floriography. Although it hadn’t taken me long to find what I was searching for, John had spent days studying the book’s content, commenting on the meaning of each flower and his amazement with such nonsense. 

Forget-me-nots… remembrance. Yellow roses… deep, unbreakable ties of a friendship. 

I saw now what John’s goodbye had truly meant. I had hurt my friend, deeply. John wasn’t often one for soft words and sentimental feelings, I had always liked that about him. But there was something about these flowers that struck me to my core. The skin of my cheek felt damp and I pulled my hand up to touch it. Looking down at my fingers I frowned, this had never happened before. 

It was a tear. I was… crying? 

My knees shook as I lowered myself to the ground, resting my back against the headstone as I stared at the bouquet still clutched in my hand. What had I done? John was hurting because of me and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I didn’t know how. My friend was hurt and no amount of deducing or research could change that. I was out of my depth and drowning in strange, new feelings. Huh… feelings? That was a first. 

I don’t know how long I sat there, wallowing in the suffocating silence as I touched each delicate flower petal. 

My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket, “Why does this idiot always insist on calling?” I grumbled, answering the call, “Mycroft. This better be important.” 

“Sherlock, are you…” Mycroft stopped himself, coughed and continued on a path that wouldn't end with me slipping laxatives into his next meal, “It’s time Sherlock. The car is waiting for you at the cemetery gate. I have people in place to watch John, he will be safe.” 

I cleared my throat and pulled myself up from the ground, “Very well.” The call cut off. I moved towards the entrance, flowers still clutched at my side. I turned, one last time, focusing on my headstone, “Soon, John. Soon… I promise.”

A/N: Thank you for reading, please like, reblog and leave a comment to let me know what you think.