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The leaves travelled with the wind as if they had somewhere to go. They danced, and it was in circles that they twirled and it was winding paths that they meandered, but no one could ever argue that dancing lacked direction.
Sherlock imagined that he was the littlest leaf, the one that was crusty brown on its curled edges fading inwards into a sublime yellow, with just a spot of green visible spreading out from the stem.
Was it vain, he wondered, to be so acutely aware of his own eye colour that he saw himself in that leaf?
He liked to think that this little leaf, despite all that it was, would find its place, that the wind would carry it to where it needed to be, that it would reach its destination.
And he watched the leaves starting to fall over the lake as the sighing wind ceased its caressing breath. That littlest of leaves swayed with its kin, nestled comfortably as the bundle made its chaotic descent onto the rippling surface of the lake. Its frayed edge grazed the surface, and almost apprehensively, it laid itself out over the water with the other leaves, stretching like a preening figure over exquisite silk.
Sherlock yearned for it - for that sensual comfort and warm intimacy of feeling completely at home, just like the little brown-green leaf that was now luxuriating on that hot bed of blue, that rippling and calming blue, with lavish lapis licking against its edges, basking in all that modest midnight and serene sapphire of the water with its glinting, shining, dark, and hidden qualities - and he wondered at the depth of the pool, that deep, deep blue...
Sherlock was staring into John's eyes again.
"Sherlock?" his blogger asked softly, always concerned, always understanding, and Sherlock in his moment of vulnerability could only stoop to pick up a small rock from the ground, aiming it at that insufferable leaf. He tossed the rock bitterly and it seemed to hit his mark, but that did nothing to lift Sherlock's spirits. He turned and walked away, leaving John standing by the lake alone, watching as the rock sank.
A small shape of brown broke through the water from below as the little leaf floated up to the top again. The rock had only clipped it slightly before falling to the depths of the lake, and the little leaf was free to continue delighting in whatever sun London had to offer for the day.
John smiled at the thought.
John Watson is getting married.
Sherlock sat by the fire massaging his forearm, thinking of nicotine patches and other dreadful supplements of comfort his arm so knew.
John Watson is getting married.
The detective sighed, and it was a drawn out and heartbroken sigh, because he was completely free to be open with his heartbreak now that he was utterly alone, now that John was not living here anymore.
Heartbreak. The thought almost tickled Sherlock, as if it was amusing that any part of him could break at all. But then again, maybe it was only amusing because he was already wholly broken - so what difference should a heart make?
And yet.
Sherlock recalled the proceedings of the evening - how he had graced London for the first time in two years and sat in his brother's office quivering with excitement, how he had walked into the restaurant to the announcing chorus of chattering diners, how he sad had seen - from afar, in the flesh for the first time in two years - John Watson.
Is he really going to keep that?
Sherlock realised how silly he had been then - how waltzing in and taking dinner for granted was the most foolish thing he had ever done.
In truth, he had been ashamed. There was the initial excitement, of course, when he had stalked up to John's table in a makeshift disguise, his toes tingling with the thought that he would once again hear that voice, be in that proximity, possibly feel that touch - it had been ages since he had last touched John, or rather, John touched him - when he had held onto Sherlock's wrist for dear life searching for a pulse two years ago at the pavement outside St. Barts. And then when Sherlock had returned with champagne there was trepidation as he purposefully ignored the blonde sitting opposite from John. And then there was instant regret so powerful it knocked the wind out of him, literally, as John then proceeded to touch Sherlock for the first time in so many years, but by holding onto his collar and wrestling him to the floor, and Sherlock's back had felt like it was splitting open again.
And then there was devastation. Devastation because John was hurt, John did not forgive him, and most of all, because John was getting married.
Sherlock had it figured out, almost, the first time he saw Mary at John's table. Everything had fallen into place by the time the couple left in their cab. And now here Sherlock was, musing by his fire as he let the full breadth of reality dawn on him.
John Watson is getting married.
***
"You were the best, and the wisest man I have ever known," John breathed.
Sherlock's weight was on his heels, and thank goodness it was.
"Of course I forgive you," his blogger continued, looking down, pained remorse contorting his face.
It was a good thing that John was looking away, because Sherlock could react genuinely - he could let the agonised yearning and crushing regret come forward in his expression and feel as if he was honest for a moment - if not with John, then at least with himself.
Was there ever any reality Sherlock could have imagined where John did not forgive him? What did that say about John? Or more pointedly, what did that say about Sherlock?
And then Sherlock laughed, because the anguish inside needed to be silenced.
***
Sherlock was almost swaggering by the time he reached 221B. A plastic bag was swinging jauntily by his side, the two cylinders inside clinking against one another like wedding bells.
John was seated on his armchair, reading the paper, as he was wont to do.
The image shouldn't have startled Sherlock, let alone emotionally destroy him, but there he was - there was John Watson sitting in his armchair reading the paper as if nothing has changed, as if they were the same John and Sherlock they had always been.
And Sherlock captured the image in his mind and saved it in the deepest part of his consciousness, a dark place where he knew old things lay in secret places, places he didn't touch because he was afraid. But that was the funny thing about that which you fear - it always found a way of surfacing in your sleep, in your daydreams, in your solitude. And Sherlock was counting on this, because this is an image he must never forget.
"Ah, Sherlock," John piped up, lifting his head from the paper. "Where have you been?"
"Supplies," Sherlock said with a brief smile. "Are you ready?"
***
As far as stag nights went, Sherlock guessed this must have been a terrible one.
And it rightfully should be, because why should Sherlock send John off with a bang? Why should the event that marked John's last day as his blogger, his partner-in-crime, his - be celebrated with a joy that Sherlock could not possibly have mustered?
And so when they staggered early back home to 221B and crashed at the foot of the stairs, Sherlock was satisfied, because he should not have to make an event out of John leaving. And if it was petty of him, he didn't care, because this was the last time he could ever be selfish about John.
A few minutes later as they clambered up the stairs to their - no, Sherlock's flat, Sherlock couldn't help but giggle at their slowed movements and uncharacteristic clumsiness. He was giggly all night in fact, laughing at the absurd and finding hilarity in every mundane thing. He had to. He had to laugh a last time with John, because every other laugh they would share after this would be felt differently, at least for Sherlock. It wouldn't be laughter shared between two people against the world. Humour between them would no longer be extraordinary. If it was ridiculous for Sherlock to put such exclusive value on something as ubiquitous as laughter, then so be it. Sherlock was a ridiculous man.
As they sagged in their chairs together for the last time, Sherlock watched his friend through the haze of his drunken, clouded mind, and he was inexplicably sad. But it wasn't actually inexplicable, was it? Sherlock never did anything for no reason - he was just heartbroken.
And there it was again: the strangely amusing quality of his own heartbreak, which startled Sherlock into a whimsy.
"Let's play a game," he slurred.
And they did, and they laughed (properly), and Sherlock told John about beauty in the most disingenuous way he could possibly have - it was like telling God about atheism.
And then John touched him.
It was an accident, but John had touched him in a way that he hadn't ever since Sherlock returned. It was only a soft hand braced against a willing knee, but it felt like much more than they'd ever had. The last couple of times John's hands graced Sherlock's skin involved force, and the memory of it still made Sherlock want to retreat into that dark corner of his mind and seek out other supplements for comfort he so knew - those of the chemical and illegal persuasion.
John stumbled backward after steadying himself on Sherlock's knee.
"I don't mind," John mumbled, shrugging.
If only, Sherlock thought.
***
Sherlock wasn't sure if he was glad that dancing lessons with John had paid off.
He watched the Watsons glide around the dance floor in elegant circles, the very same pattern of circles that he had traced with John on the carpet of their flat, circles that he will always see as if they had been painted on the floor with vivid colours, circles that were permanent in his memory as a monument to John.
This was essentially, Sherlock and John's dance, reenacted by John and Mary.
He played John and Mary's song, but it felt as if his fingers were breaking with every note.
And when he was finally finished, he sealed the sheet music in an envelope. The names had been written with a pencil, because if John was going to remember Sherlock by this, Sherlock wanted him to remember everything he possibly could, and handwriting simply had this air of intimacy about it.
He was being ridiculous - he knew this. And worse still, he was being romantic. But the truth was if he could, he would kick himself for not being romantic all those years ago with all that time on his hands.
He descended the stage and went towards the couple, who beamed at him, John more prominently. John looked proud, as if Sherlock had accomplished something, as if Sherlock was the one getting married tonight.
The only thing Sherlock had accomplished was getting out of bed this morning and charging headfirst into battle as if he had a death wish.
John Watson is going to be a father.
Sherlock was strangely happy for him, possibly because he knew John would be a fantastic father. And Mary knew this too, and so did John. And that was enough to tell Sherlock that everything was over.
And so he left early that night, a deserter of battle, though people should really not hold it against him. Deserters are after all, only doing the practical thing in saving themselves from certain suffering.
***
The bullet tore through his torso with riveting pain. And how fitting too that it would be her to pull the trigger, especially because this wasn't the first time she had killed him. The first time she had killed him, Sherlock had deduced that John Watson was getting married.
At first, Sherlock wanted to die. It would be poetic, to die at the hands of your love's lover. And yes, poetry was insufferable, but truth was more so. Sherlock couldn't stand truth anymore, not when truth was waking up everyday to an empty flat and going on cases alone because John was too busy to join. Poetry was getting shot by the wife of your best friend so you could wrap up the final act of your play in a blaze of dramatic tragedy.
John Watson is in danger.
But poetry was also something else. It was the soothing blue of kind and familiar eyes looking up at you in wonderment, it was light glinting off the silvery, gold strands of a preciously soft head of hair, it was early morning smiles over the top of the newspaper, it was breathless laughter while running down an alley chasing murderers as if it was some kind of side hobby... it was killing someone to protect your idiotic flatmate who was just about to swallow a deadly pill.
John Watson was poetry. And the truth was that he was in danger.
Sherlock started from the beginning - each step was a memory he shared with John. He clutched at the railing and willed himself to lurch ahead, crossing the first memory: a man walking into the computer lab, sporting a bad limp and a jaded look. Each subsequent memory propelled him forward, willing him forward one step at a time.
At one point, he remembered stars.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
"I thought you didn't care about -"
"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."
He climbed still, reaching out desperately, gasping with the effort it took to pump his aching legs up the stairs.
"You machine!" He climbed.
"You were the best, and wisest man I have ever known." He climbed.
"Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead."
And Sherlock heard him.
***
Sherlock had never felt hatred like this in his life before.
The snake of a man Magnussen stood before him, and he was flicking John's face.
Bile was rising in Sherlock's throat, but so was rage.
In all his thirty-odd-years of claiming a stake on sociopathy, Sherlock had never once truly felt the urge to murder anyone.
But tonight, he wanted to strap Magnussen's corpse to a crucifix and hoist it up over the rooftops of Appledore as a spectacle for the world to see, because Magnussen was flicking John's face.
All those years ago, John had shot a man for Sherlock. And Sherlock had never felt like he ever repaid that debt - in fact, he has only added to it.
How much did he owe John for everything, he wondered - did he owe him his life?
And Sherlock knew there was nothing in the world he wouldn't give for John. His life had belonged to John for a very long time now.
"Sherlock, what do we do?" John cut in as Magnussen continued droning on.
Sherlock watched John, for the last time.
And then he pulled out his gun.
***
"John, there’s something… I should say."
Sherlock was empty, numb. He was going to need a lifetime of memories if he was going to survive, but he didn't have that. He only had a couple of years' worth. And honestly, that was nobody's fault but his own.
He would have to live off the memories that were already snugly kept in that dark place of his mind palace, like he did when he was away for those two years, like he did again when he was fighting for his life after he got shot.
Maybe he could make a final memory now, though he'll probably have to keep that one buried the deepest.
Convicts are allowed famous last words. Why not him?
"I - I’ve meant to say always and I never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now.”
And the same way Sherlock had spoken deceitfully about beauty on John's stag night when the very embodiment of it had been sitting in front of him, he spoke the same now of love, because no words could ever express what he truly felt.
And it was worth it, completely, only to see John laugh.
That would have been much better than whatever wordless declaration Sherlock might have otherwise gone with, followed by an equally inadequate reaction from John.
That laugh, at least, was something Sherlock could work with. He would keep it, and so whenever he felt the black hole of despair catching up, whenever the temptation comes to quit before he breaks, whenever the emptiness within would engulf him completely and the fear would try to overtake him, he could remember that once upon a time, he was the kind of man who could make John Watson laugh.
They had never bothered coming to the park much when they lived in 221B together, and yet now they seem to come here everyday.
Sherlock was having another one of his moody days, moping at the ground as he marched far ahead of John through the meandering paths.
John knew Sherlock was headed to the lake again. He seemed to always want to end the walks there, pausing for an unexplained amount of time before walking back to the flat in silence.
John had tried questioning him about this routine, but Sherlock merely mumbled something about how it was a ritual. John could only surmise that it was a practice Sherlock had developed when John was living away.
It had only been a few days since John had moved back in, and perhaps Sherlock has been so jittery because he too, was feeling rather tense over the fact that things weren't quite the same as they used to be.
Coming back, John had expected things to go smoothly, for he and Sherlock to settle in naturally and go about their lives as they always have. And yet apparently the traumatic events of recent times have had a larger impact on them both than John had thought it would.
Either that, or it was something else, and John was inclined to think that it was something else, because no amount of tragedy, not even what had happened with Mary and the baby, could ever drive them apart this way. There had to be something else.
They stopped in front of the lake, and for the first time, Sherlock did something else other than just stare into the water. He picked up a small stone and lobbed it with a huff at a mass of dead leaves floating in the water.
The detective watched the rippling surface and finally turned away without a word, already beginning his march back to the flat.
John couldn't help but smile.
"Sherlock," he called, standing his ground.
The detective turned around.
"Yes, John?"
"C'mere," John said softly.
The breeze began to pick up again, blowing soft chills over their bodies.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked as he halted right next to John.
"Why did you do that?" John asked.
"Do what?"
"Throw a rock in."
Sherlock was silent for a moment before he blustered,
"I don't know. I can do what I want, can't I?"
"'Course you can," John said with a small smile, looking up at Sherlock. John didn't realise how long he was staring at the other man, or maybe he did but didn't care.
Because moving back in was the best decision John had ever made in his life. If only he could tell Sherlock.
"Sherlock, there's something I should say," he began.
"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock retorted, somehow thinking that was the punchline John might have been going for, just like Sherlock himself had done before his exile.
John raised a quizzical brow at Sherlock, who swallowed nervously.
"I - what?" John asked, confused.
Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, looking out at the lake.
"If you're looking for baby names," he said in a huff.
There was a short pause before both men burst into laughter. John wasn't sure what Sherlock had meant with all that, but there was a hilarity in Sherlock's repetition of John's own words spoken so long ago, in a much different scenario.
Perhaps nothing has changed at all.
"Why would I be looking for baby names?" John asked, eyes crinkling at the sides as he continued smiling.
Sherlock shrugged, suddenly aware of the sensitive nature of the subject - it was a testament to how much Sherlock had improved recently, in terms of sentiment.
John decided not to push it and instead returned to what he had initially planned to say.
"I meant to say, Sherlock, that I - I -" John broke off with an exasperated laugh directed at himself, shaking his head in frustration as he stared at his feet. "Thank you for everything," he barely managed.
Sherlock was stony-faced and blinking in a way that was almost frightening, but at least he was listening politely.
"You know I'm not good with stuff like this," John continued. "But I felt like I needed to tell you... to tell you thank you, because you're the only reason that I - that I'm here, and even though the last couple of years have not been easy at all, I - I feel incredibly privileged to have been able to spend them with you."
John exhaled, still looking down as he waited for the other man to respond.
"John," the low voice rumbled, and John was compelled to meet the intense gaze of the taller man. Sherlock's face was the picture of unspoken desperation as he appeared to be searching for words he never thought he'd have to use.
"Sherlock, you're my best friend," John went on. "You're my best friend and you saved my life and you're an impossible man and everything we have been through is bloody impossible and this is all just absolutely ridiculous and you mean the world to me," John finished with a huff, straining against the building emotions in his chest, looking deeply into Sherlock's eyes in an effort to gauge just how far he could go.
Sherlock only gulped and continued staring, breathless and wordless.
John smiled mirthlessly, realising the futility of his attempt. He looked back out on the lake and said his piece, just for the principle of it, because John was tired of hiding.
"I just wanted to say that - to let you know that I owe you everything. I have been crying out for help all my life and it seems like you were the only one who ever answered and who ever worked, and I just - I just want you to know that nothing has changed between us. Nothing could ever change anything between us. That's the point. We're beyond all that now. I'll always be on your team, and we'll always just be us, just John and just Sherlock, and it's all fine." John pressed his lips together and watched the quiet waters, its steadiness giving him even more certainty regarding his words. "It'll always be the two of us against the rest of the world."
And in a move that John would have never predicted, Sherlock reached out and held one of John's hands in his own, still quiet but looking at John with an earnest expression that made it seem like he had a million things to say.
And that was what's special about John and Sherlock: that Sherlock would never need to say those things - John could guess them all.
John reached out with his free hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek, gazing up at him in wonderment and reverence.
"John, I never knew -" Sherlock began to say, but John shushed him. He smiled softly up at his detective.
"That's because you're a bloody idiot." John's smile had grown into a grin, and Sherlock grinned back, his eyes lighting up.
John's heart swelled at the sight, and Sherlock released his hand to reach up and cradle John's face.
"I'm glad you're home," he whispered.
And John said for the both of them what had needed to be said from the very beginning:
"You're my home."
And that dark place in Sherlock's mind that he had always kept obscured in shadows and secrecy finally lit up, as well as the little precious things he had kept inside over the years. Every memory of John Watson shone - it was as if he was Sherlock's own personal sun, and Sherlock now knew what it really meant to feel like one was glowing.
He felt his chest expand with a joy so full that it was almost hard to breathe, and with a small smile and his hands still caressing the lines on John's face, Sherlock thought: So that's what a conductor of light is for.