SCREAM Your Heart Out

By: Raven612

Chapter 2: The End of the Beginning

Summary: Sherlock joins John in their final journey together.

Warnings: There will be a suicide in this story so if you don't want to read it, go back now. I know how hard it can be. There will also be some hints of man on man action. You have been warned.

A/N: I'm feeling evil again and I'm craving tears, plus this has been pulling at me for a while now and I don't feel like SCREAM is complete without it. Also, I do not own the song Black Dresses by The Spill Canvas, but I suggest you listen to it while reading this because I've been listening to it while writing and the song it just simply amazing and so achingly gorgeous! Also no Beta or Brit-Pick sooo all mistakes are my own. I apologize for them.

Goodbyes are said and roses thrown
And the crowd starts to weep
But the irony of the story is when I fell to my knees
And began clawing at the dirt in front of the tombstone
Of my bashful childhood
With you by my side, you're screaming at the
Top of your lungs, "let it go"

Black Dresses by: The Spill Canvas

Sherlock stood next to Mycroft. He didn't hear anything but the constant buzz in his ears; it had been with him for the past three days and he couldn't get rid of it…didn't want to get rid of it. He shifted his feet very slightly. He didn't want to call attention to himself, though he already had all the attention of everyone gathered around him. He didn't want it and he didn't need it. He hadn't looked up once since he and Mycroft had arrived, didn't want to, and he knew he was being childish, but Mycroft wouldn't comment on it.

Mycroft; he'd been constantly at Sherlock's side for the past three days. He was doing personal guard duty because he knew what his brother was capable of; what his brother would do if he wasn't there to watch and wait and protect. Mycroft shifted too when Sherlock did and leaned a bit more against his umbrella. The sharp point of it dug a bit further into the soft earth around him. He held his head high; respect and admiration clearly written on his features as the preacher spoke about John Hamish Watson.

John. Hamish. Watson. An army veteran, war hero, and doctor. He was the heart that Sherlock didn't know he had needed; the one vital piece of his being that he'd ignored for so long. John had started as Sherlock's flatmate and evolved into the very heart of the seemingly heartless man. John was everything Sherlock wasn't. He was love embodied. He was the promise of home and happiness. He was the light at the end of the tunnel, and most of all he was just himself. He was the man Sherlock loved and would love from now until forever.

There was not a single moment Sherlock could pick out that he could say was the moment he had fallen in love with his flatmate, but one night, standing in the middle of an alley catching their breath, Sherlock glanced up and over at John who was bent over with hands resting on his knees. His face was flushed and red tinted his cheeks. There was a light bite to the air and it felt heavy. Sherlock knew it would rain any moment, but he didn't care. He was seeing John all over again. A man who killed a cabbie on their first night together to protect him, a man who didn't let bombs strapped to his person affect him, a man who was a constant in his life.

John felt eyes on him and looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. John blinked and looked down at himself, "What? Did I step in something?" he asked and lifted his shoes to see if he'd hit the excrement of some dog whilst jogging after jewel thieves.

Sherlock grinned and shook his head, "Ah, no…you alright?" he asked because he had to say something, he couldn't just carry on staring for no reason without John being suspicious.

John furrowed his brows and with a deep breath stood up straight. "Yes, fine, I'm fine. Just a bit out of shape, but I'll work on that," he assured with a slight smirk.

Sherlock nodded and was unconscious of his feet pulling him towards John.

John tipped his head and studied Sherlock as he slowly moved closer, "Uhm…Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

John nodded as well, "Uhm, okay then…well then we sh-" John found himself cut off as his flatmate's mouth pressed against his own. John was dumbstruck for a few seconds and could only stand there and let Sherlock kiss him, but then his brain booted up again and his hands went to Sherlock's chest. He had meant to push the man away, but Sherlock stepped back with a sudden intake of breath.

Sherlock stared down at John. John stared back up at him. Neither of them blinked, and for a second it was the most perfect moment, but then John's brow furrowed and he brought a curious hand to his lips.

"Uh…Sherlock…what was that?" he asked the detective, bewilderment still very clear on his features as well as curiosity.

Sherlock's brain was blank. This was the first time it had ever happened to him. He knew he hadn't completely offended John because John had been with other men before, but not many and Sherlock had been with no one…ever. Sherlock's tongue peeked out and coated his lips. He nearly melted as the taste of John engulfed him again. He blinked slowly.

"Sherlock, I'm waiting for an answer," John tried again, this time impatience tinted his voice.

Sherlock's brain finally fired up again and his steely grey eyes met John's. Sherlock smirked, "I want you John…I want you to be with me and only with me," he said.

John blinked and his back straightened a bit before a wide grin broke across his face and then he doubled over with laughter. He'd never figured Sherlock Holmes to be the practical joking type, but this…this was just golden. Sherlock's own spine snapped to attention as he watched everything unfold with John. He was hurt; he had figured John would take him seriously. He frowned tightly and a cold drop of rain hit him square on the forehead.

"Oh…oh Sherlock…that's bloody rich!" John hiccupped and looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was not smiling nor did he look remotely happy.

"It wasn't a joke, John. I was completely serious," Sherlock snapped and turned on his heel.

John blinked and could only stare after the detective. The rain was starting to come faster now. John would never have guessed in a million years that his stoic flatmate had romantic notions towards him, and in that few seconds before his feet started moving, he felt a swelling of pride and was quite pleased with himself for becoming so important to Sherlock. He even grinned a bit. Of course John had been attracted to his gorgeous flatmate, but Sherlock had made it clear upon their first dinner together that he was married to his work and did not want anything anymore complicated than that. John could live with that then because he was into women then and wanted a family and a fairly normal life. He'd seen Sherlock as a useful stepping stool in that part of his life that would allow John to wake up and join the world again. What John had not counted on was that he was soon feeling differently towards his flatmate and had found himself fantasizing about what every pale inch of skin would taste like and how they would look entangled with one another in bed.

"Wait! Sherlock, stop," he called as soon as his voice returned to him. He started to jog after the lanky detective who had pulled his coat collar up to shield against the rain.

Sherlock didn't stop, nor did he turn around to face John.

"Sherlock, please, I'm sorry I just…I didn't think you'd ever feel that way," John said as he finally caught up to the man.

Sherlock gave him a scathing look from the corner of his eye, "When had I ever been known to joke about anything?" Sherlock snapped back as he stopped walking.

John chewed on his lower lip and looked away for a minute. God, he really had gone and fucked this up. He closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself. He heard Sherlock starting to shuffle away so he lifted his right arm and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's arm. Finally John opened his eyes. He had to blink against the rain. It was really coming down now and both men were soaked. He tipped his head as he studied Sherlock. Sherlock lazily blinked back with his brows furrowed. He hated when John was hard to read.

"You're right…you really don't joke about anything but…that…well it caught me off guard Sherlock," John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck while he tipped his head a bit to look up at the man.

Sherlock blinked down at him and rolled his eyes, "It was supposed to be spontaneous. All the websites say it's more romantic if you surprise your lover by kissing them at random."

John blanched at the explanation and nearly choked on his own tongue as he fought valiantly not to chuckle, "Yeah, if you're already romantically involved with someone, then it goes over better, not if you two aren't at that stage…which we aren't at that stage Sherlock," John sometimes doubted the intelligence of Sherlock in moments like this.

Sherlock frowned and turned back towards the street shrugging out of John's grasp, "Then I apologize for misreading you and the whole situation," he mumbled.

John sighed, he was angry now. He rubbed a hand over his face and looked to the heavens as if they could provide him any sort of help. He glanced towards Sherlock who stood just outside the entrance to the alley. In that split second John made another life changing decision.

He steeled his shoulders like the good soldier he was and marched towards Sherlock's back. He was determined now, and nothing was going to stop him, not even the fact that Sherlock was currently texting someone, most likely Lestrade. John needed to show Sherlock what he wanted to say. Rivulets of water cascaded down his face and his back. He shivered from the coolness. He was just inches away from Sherlock now. He reached out and grabbed both upper arms of the taller man. He spun Sherlock around and pushed himself up onto the balls of his feet and mashed his lips against Sherlock's.

Sherlock was stunned when he felt the colliding weight of John pressing against him and the man's slick lips sliding against his own rain soaked ones. A small gasp left his cupid bow lips and John's eager tongue took full advantage. Sherlock snapped his eyes shut and dropped his precious cell phone into a puddle as his arms hurried to gather his blogger closer to him. A small moan emanated from one of them, but Sherlock refused to stop the assault on his and John's lips to find out who did it. Sherlock didn't even let the fact that they were snogging in public deter him from this. His fingers curled into the material of John's coat and pulled him desperately close to him. The rain fell heavy now and washed away any of the fears either man might have had in that very perfect moment.

Sherlock felt a slight pressure on his arm. He blinked very slowly before looking up just a tiny bit at Mycroft. Mycroft nodded. Sherlock shook his head and his fingers tightened around the brittle stem of a rose. Mycroft pushed then very gently on Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock shook his head again.

He didn't want to move unless it was to go back to Baker Street. He didn't want to acknowledge the reality of what this day was. He did not want to finally realize that his heart was gone for good. His fingers wanted to tighten around the rose stem, but Sherlock willed them not to. He didn't want to break the already brittle stem, but it was falling apart in his grasp, just like John had fallen apart too. Sherlock made a sound and tucked his chin back against his chest. Mycroft moved a step forward to shield his little brother from the eyes, the eyes that were full of pity and loss. He waved everyone past.

Sherlock could see the shoes of everyone that walked by. He named them all off in his head as they passed. He tried to seek comfort in the mundane action, but comfort was an illusion. He shifted his weight again and watched the same shoes pass by again. He heard the voices of their owners when they stopped to talk silently with Mycroft. He vaguely heard what they were saying.

"So sorry,"

"If there is anything we can do,"

"It's so heartbreaking,"

"He was a good man,"

"He shouldn't have gone the way he did,"

"Please give my sympathy to Sherlock,"

"My brother loved you very much and I'm sorry he's gone,"

Sherlock's head snapped up then and his eyes met Harry's. She didn't smile or frown. Tear tracks lined her cheeks. Her shoulders were set and her eyes were clear. She'd been sober for the past five months. Sherlock blinked slowly as he looked at her and then he stumbled. His heart seized and his eyes blinked rapidly. His hands began to shake and his breaths came out hitched.

"Sherlock, this is Harriet, Harriet this is Sherlock," John said as he and Sherlock entered the restaurant and a woman stood to greet them.

Sherlock eyed her from head to foot and frowned. She'd had three drinks already. He had hoped that she would have staved off until after for her brother. His frown grew as he raised his hand to shake hers. She was studying him too and Sherlock smirked wondering if she'd be able to see that he and John had just shagged an hour before coming.

"Nice to finally meet you Mr. Holmes," she greeted with a calculating smile.

Sherlock frowned, she couldn't know, "And you Miss Watson," he countered to her 'Mr. Holmes.'

She grinned then and shook her head, "If you're shagging my brother you can call me Harry," she said and nudged him with her shoulder.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and glanced down at John. John grinned and shrugged, "I never said she was stupid," John defended, "and I never told her that we uhm…that…ah, should we sit?"he suddenly asked and moved around Sherlock and Harry.

Harry watched him with a smug smirk, "Please," she said and let John lead the way behind the host.

Harry wasn't as short as John, but she wasn't as tall as Sherlock either. She was average height for her age and gender. Her hair was thick and hung loose to her shoulders. It had a slight curl to it and side swept bangs. Sherlock could tell her hair was the same color as John's, a soft wheat, but she dyed it darker. Her dress was business casual and actually very well put together. Sherlock, for a short moment, forgot that she was a complete drunk and that her relationship with John was a bit jagged. He also saw the stress on her face from her struggle with the bottle and trying to work things out with Clara.

"This work?" the host asked with a smile as he motioned to the table he stood next to.

John nodded and moved to take the chair on the inside of the table and Sherlock sat next to him. Harry sat across from Sherlock. She looked over at him with a grin. Sherlock narrowed his gaze. She was going to play judge, and Sherlock didn't think she should. He held himself rigid and tucked his napkin around his thighs. John looked between then nervously.

"So, a consulting detective hm?" Harry began as she picked up her water glass.

Sherlock nodded and looked bored immediately, "Yes, I don't think I need to explain it since I know John has told you everything about it," he sighed and then frowned at the slight kick John gave him under the table.

Harry grinned, "No, I suppose you're right, just trying to make small talk," she piped with a grin and then turned to her brother.

They continued with small talk and Sherlock only giving what information was asked of him, but then somewhere in the night, Sherlock started to like Harry. He could see that she did care very much for her brother; he was her only living family after all, and she was protective of him, something Sherlock admired above all. He knew that despite the alcohol, John cared very deeply for his sister and it hurt him how she was choosing to live her life. For the pain that Harry caused John made Sherlock not entirely accept her. Since that night Sherlock and Harry had only seen each other in random intervals and exchanged small talk until the night five months ago when she had decided to quit her drinking.

Sherlock was pulled from a deep slumber by something…something annoying. He groaned and turned his head to face his partner who just continued to slumber next to him. Sherlock frowned, it wasn't fair. John could sleep through anything. Sherlock groaned again and nudged the doctor's shoulder.

"John, wake up, your phone is ringing," Sherlock huffed and pushed him a bit harder.

John groaned and buried himself deeper in the mattress, "Not now Sherlock I'm sleeping," he muttered and burrowed in his pillow.

Sherlock frowned and reached across John's body to grab his cell phone. He frowned when he saw the number, he nudged John harder, "John, you might want to get this, it's the hospital," he said.

John's eyes snapped open and he sat up. He grabbed his phone before it could ring its last, "Hello?" he muttered in a worried tone.

Sherlock frowned. He didn't like John worried.

"Yes, I'm John Watson, what's wrong?"

Harry must have drunk herself dumb and ended up in the hospital again. Same old news.

"What!" John snapped and sat up in a hard and rigid stance.

Sherlock blinked, it wasn't the usual.

"I-is she okay?" John asked now as he slid his feet over the edge of the bed.

Sherlock followed.

"What happened?"

Sherlock undressed and pulled the clothes from the floor on.

"Are you sure she was driving?" John asked his voice hard now.

It really wasn't good and Sherlock jumped when John slammed his phone down on the dresser.

"God damnit!" John yelled and hit the dresser again.

Sherlock cringed and took a step towards his lover, "John?" he whispered reaching for the man who now stood motionless at the dresser.

John didn't move or make a sound for a few minutes. Finally he heaved a sigh and turned and flung himself into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock rocked back a bit before his arms wound tightly around John. Soon he felt the wet hotness soaking his sleeping shirt. He sighed and brought one of his hands up to card softly through John's hair.

"There was an accident Sherlock," John muttered wetly into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock had deduced as much, he tucked John into him, "They're going to be okay John," Sherlock whispered and smoothed his hand along John's back and between his shoulder blades.

John nodded against Sherlock and squeezed his eyes shut, "They could have died though," he said and held tighter.

Sherlock nodded, "But they didn't."

"Harry was drunk. She and Clara were having a good night, reconnecting and trying to get back on track, everything was going well. She had texted me earlier saying she was confident they were making headway in their relationship, but then…then this happened. I don't know what to do," John muttered again as he pulled himself together. He sniffled and leaned back to look up at Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned as he looked down at John. He reached up and used the pads of his thumbs to wipe the tears away. He smiled in a comforting manner and his hands drifted to gently hold John's neck. He leaned down and kissed each cheek. He tasted the saltiness. "We'll go see them," Sherlock offered and his hands slid along John's arms and gently gripped his hands.

John nodded, "Yeah," he said and he looked to be about a million miles away. He refocused and smiled up at Sherlock, "Thanks Sherlock, I love you," he breathed and pushed himself up so that he could kiss Sherlock's lips. He smiled slightly as he settled again.

"I love you too John," he whispered and bent to kiss him quickly again before the doctor turned away and got dressed.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said as he reached for his brother.

Sherlock saw it and cringed away. Tears, fresh and hot started to run down his cheeks. Very suddenly he realized where he was and why he was there. His hand tightened once more around the rose in his hand. He looked down. The flower was dead. His heart was dead. He wanted to be dead. He would be dead.

He looked back up at Mycroft, and for the first time in years, Mycroft looked broken. He was torn. He had no clue how to best support his little brother. They were no longer seven and fourteen. Mycroft couldn't ruffle those black curls and say it would all be fine again, because it wouldn't. He knew just as well as everyone in attendance that Sherlock Holmes, the man who had no heart, was watching it be taken away from him; forever.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," Harry said once more and walked back to take her place next to Clara.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said again and nodded to the rose that Sherlock held.

Sherlock looked at his brother. He was broken and a mess, he shook his head again, "No Mycroft, I can't," he muttered.

Mycroft frowned and leaned a bit more on his umbrella, "Sherlock, it's time to let go," and the instant he said it, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Rage boiled over in those stormy grey eyes and Sherlock's jaw tightened. He stood up straight now, "I will never let him go," Sherlock hissed painfully and set his shoulders in a determined manner.

Mycroft frowned and shook his head, "That's not what I meant Sherlock, I apologize, but it is time," he said and nodded to the rose Sherlock held.

Sherlock looked down again at the flower in his hand. Its once red petals were now a muted shade and flat. The stem was a mix of brown and green and dry. The flower itself wasn't all that special to an outside observer, but to Sherlock it was everything. It was the rose that John had left for him on the night he had proposed to the detective. The night that Sherlock's life really began and started to end. He stared at it. It was one of many things that linked Sherlock to his heart. It was a tie he never wanted to sever, and one that would never be severed. Finally, he took a step forward. It was a single step, but it held so much meaning. It was the beginning of Sherlock's own journey to his end.

"If you could pick a flower, any flower, which would be your favorite?"

Sherlock frowned and tired to ignore the mundane question. He leaned forward a bit more to examine his experiment. He poked at one of the pods growing in the Petri dish.

"Sherlock, it's a serious question," John retorted and snapped his paper over to glare at the detective's back.

Sherlock glared at his blob, "I don't like flowers of any kind John and I would never appreciate any from you."

John frowned, well that stung, he flipped his paper back up, "I'm curious and I haven't heard your voice in two days. I was starting to think you'd lost use of it or forgot how to talk," John snorted and glared at the words printed on the pages in front of his face.

Sherlock ignored the obvious carrot dangling before him and went back to his task at hand. Silence ticked on and seemed to stretch harrowingly before the detective. He could feel the disappointment coming off of John in waves. He frowned and set his tools down. He glared at the opposite wall. He crossed his arms like a petulant child.

"Roses," he said flatly.

John blinked behind his paper and furrowed his brows. He lowered the paper again and stared across as Sherlock. "What?" he couldn't believe his answer, it was much too pedestrian. He was expecting something much more complex.

Sherlock blinked, "Roses John, I said roses."

"Well yeah I heard that but…why?"

Sherlock frowned and turned to look at him, "I only recently started to appreciate them because in the language of flowers they represent love."

John blinked, "Language of flowers?"

Sherlock nodded and turned back to his cluttered table. He rummaged around in the mess for a moment before coming back up with a book. He threw it at John, "The language of flowers," he said and turned back to his experiment.

John looked down at the book that landed in his lap and grinned, "So I see," he muttered and picked it up.

For two weeks following that little chat, Sherlock and John used flowers to leave messages for one another. Sherlock usually said 'sorry' or 'I love you' while John's messages ranged from cheeky to all out sweet. Sherlock never admitted to John just how much he enjoyed coming home on the rare occasion without him only to find a flower arrangement waiting for him. It was always the small things that touched Sherlock the most, and until John, he'd never thought such trivialities mattered to him.

Sherlock was now facing the abyss. His toes were at the edge of a six foot hole. There was a glossy brown box in the bottom of it. A gentle breeze flitted through Sherlock's mess of dark curls. His fingers on his right hand flexed and relaxed as his jaw twitched. He was looking down at his heart. He was seeing the beginning and end to his world. A world he had originally constructed for himself and he alone. A world he barred everyone from for specific reasons. Emotions were a mess and they interfered in a person's life too much and caused stupid things to happen. Sherlock had strictly followed these rules, the rules he had set up for himself because he didn't want to face what he was facing now. He didn't want to feel the agonizing thump of each beat of the muscle in his chest. He didn't want to feel like he was now; he never wanted to feel like he did at this moment in time.

Sherlock ducked his chin into the blue scarf around his neck. Dark spots erupted like fireworks as his tears hit the material. He didn't care anymore about anything. Everything was meaningless. The lives he had once strove to protect, though he swore he only did it for the challenge, they didn't matter. Everyone and everything outside of that six by six hole was meaningless to Sherlock.

"Don't do it Sherlock, don't…just please don't."

The voice so familiar, so achingly recognizable; Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes, "John," the word moved out of his lips in a quiet whisper. It traveled along the light afternoon breeze until it was lifted somewhere Sherlock couldn't reach. He kept his eyes closed for a moment entertaining the idea that when he opened them he'd see John standing in front of him in some hideous jumper just to grate on his nerves. A small smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. He believed his mental image for a small second. In the tiny second Sherlock's whole body relaxed and his constant torment was gone.

"John, come home please, the flat is dirty," he whispered a bit more forcefully this time and then opened his eyes. He blinked, confused for a moment. John wasn't there. John would never be there again. He looked down again and experienced a moment of excruciating pain. His free hand clenched into a painfully tight fist. The sting of tears started anew. His scarf was slowly becoming soaked with the salty water that trailed down Sherlock's prominent cheek bones.

"You were never supposed to leave me, remember John, remember that promise you made?" Sherlock's choked sob rattled from his chest.

"John?" Sherlock was tracing lazy patterns along the sweat slicked chest of his lover as they lie in their afterglow of coital bliss.

John was absently running his fingers through Sherlock's damp curls. He looked down at the man lying on his chest; he smiled warmly and fought back a cough, "Hmm?"

"Can you promise me one thing above all else?"

John grinned, "I won't throw your body parts away when I find them," John sighed again, this time he couldn't hide a cough that leaked from his chest.

Sherlock furrowed his brows and shuffled his way up the bed. He shifted a little so that he was sitting slightly behind John. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and pulled him close, "John please, I'm trying to be serious," he pouted.

John chuckled lightly and tipped his head back. He brought his arms up to hold Sherlock's securely around him, "I'm sorry, what is it love?"

Sherlock blinked as he looked across the room. He counted to ten before he looked down at John in his arms. He managed a weak smile. He tipped his head a little and then pressed a kiss to John's sandy locks before speaking, "Promise me that you will never, no matter what; leave me."

John furrowed his brows and tipped his head against Sherlock's chest and looked up at him, "Sherlock…I…you kno-"

Sherlock glared, "No, not…not in that sense…" he said and trailed unable to find the right word to express what it was exactly he was asking John to promise him.

John nodded; he knew what Sherlock was asking. Sherlock usually seemed to be at a loss when it came to matters of the heart, an area John understood well, so he jumped in to translate what it was Sherlock was having trouble voicing. He smiled and pulled himself from Sherlock's grasp. He settled himself in a kneeling position directly in front of Sherlock. He looked into those grey eyes he loved to very much. He reached out with his right hand and settled it gently over the spot on Sherlock's chest where his heart beat below his finger tips. Sherlock lowered his head to look at the hand John had on him.

"I know what you're asking Sherlock and of course I promise it. I am never going to leave you. I never want to. You are everything that I have ever needed. You are my life. You are the reason I am alive today. You are the man I love…as annoying as you can sometimes be," he grinned cheekily before continuing, "but no matter what has happened or what is to come I, John Hamish Watson promise to never, ever leave you Sherlock. Not as long as you carry me in your heart."

Sherlock saw a wet spot appear on John's hand. He blinked and then looked up at the man kneeling before him. Sherlock managed a shaky smile, how was it that John always, without fail, understood and translated his heart for him. Sherlock reached up with his left hand and covered John's that lie against his chest. He curled his fingers around John's hand, another feeling of never letting him go washed over him. He lifted his right arm then and cupped John's cheek with his hand and brushed his thumb gently across his skin.

"John…I can't…I just can't," he choked and leaned forward and pressed his lips bruising to John's as an overpowering want to possess the doctor washed over him.

Sherlock shivered at the memory. It was true though, John hadn't left him, not really. Sherlock forever carried him in his mind. Sherlock lifted a hand then and rubbed it along his cheek and imagined that it was John doing so. He leaned into his own touch, "John…please," he begged again. He felt his knees beginning to wobble. He chastised himself before snapping them back to attention. He would not fall, not here, not at the foot of the grave where his heart was laid before him.

Sherlock blinked back the damned tears in his eyes. He heard a faint cough behind him. He knew he was not being rushed. Everyone that stood behind him understood just how much this moment in time was affecting him. What they could not imagine, ever, was just how ardently Sherlock loved…loves John. How much that his love is appreciation for the man who came into his life and had left such an impact on him. After today everyone behind him would go back to their mundane lives. They'd continue on in their useless existence. They would get over this little upset in their lives and they would live.

Sherlock wouldn't. He had no life to get back to. He didn't even care that he would leave Mycroft behind to look after mummy on his own. He didn't care that he'd leave Lestrade desperate for help on new and interesting cases. Didn't care he'd let a psychopath continue on to play games with the lives that resided around him. Sherlock just did not bloody care about anything right at this moment, the moment where he stood on the precipice of life.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock raised the arm that held the pressed rose. He leaned forward a little so that his hand was over the gaping hole. Sherlock's eyes moved down slowly to look at the box. A heap of flowers already littered the lid. He grinned slightly to himself as he recalled the language of flowers and deciphered what all the flowers lying there on John's coffin meant. It was a bit absurd, but it was a memory he and John shared and he could almost…almost hear John giggling along with him.

"I love you John," Sherlock whispered as his fingers uncurled from around the delicate stem of the dried flower. The flower floated gently along the air current. It took its time in reaching John, almost like it knew what would be meant the minute it touched the glossed wood. It stared up at Sherlock, a whispered apology on its petals before it finally snuggled in amongst daisies and carnations.

"See you again, Sherlock, my love," the breeze whispered through the trees and wrapped around Sherlock. Sherlock shivered and backed away from the hole. Mycroft met him halfway and led him carefully back to where they were standing. The rest of the service passed in murmurs and tears. Sherlock stood rooted and watched as workers began to pour the dirt back into the hole covering up his heart for good. Sherlock shivered and turned on his heel with his hands shoved into his pockets. He stalked towards the black car waiting for him.

Mycroft turned slowly allowing Sherlock room. He watched sadly as Sherlock stalked off. He sighed, he wondered if either of them was strong enough to overcome this and Mycroft wondered if he'd be strong enough to face what was coming. He knew what Sherlock planned to do and he was smart enough to know that no matter what he did, Sherlock would get his way.

Sherlock shook Mycroft. He knew he didn't have much time, he didn't want much time. He needed to get done with the next stage soon. This pain that was engulfing him was becoming unbearable. He had always thought himself a strong man, indifferent to the world and its going-ons. He was an observer. He didn't let the outside in, but now that one vital part had gotten in and then vanished, Sherlock couldn't face the outside anymore. He slumped against the door to his flat. He pulled in a deep breath and reached up and tore his scarf off. He threw it off to the side and strode over to the mantel. He ignored the skull.

"Remember I didn't promise you I wouldn't do this John," Sherlock said and turned in a circle looking over the flat before picking up the box.

He flipped the lid off and stared down at the needle there. It was a lethal injection, what they use in the states to kill murderers. Of course he'd made his own, never knew when it would come in handy, like today. Sherlock placed the needle on the table next to his chair. He then went into his and John's bedroom. He needed to be close to John while he did this. He needed to feel him.

Sherlock removed the grey shirt he had been wearing and tossed it aside. He then rummaged through the dirty laundry until he found John's favorite jumper. Sherlock bunched it up and lifted it to his face. He buried his nose in it. His shoulders hunched up as if he could fold himself up neatly and cuddle inside of John's jumper and never come out. Slowly he pulled the fabric from his face and stared at it. He was surprised to find it void of any tears. He smirked a bit at the small triumph. In a flash of movement he pulled the small jumper over his head and shoved his hands through the arms. The jumper was a little snug on him and didn't completely cover his torso, but he didn't care. He went back out into the living room. He went to his chair and sat down.

Sherlock looked out across the expanse of space to the empty chair in front of him. Sherlock reminded himself that the chair would be forever empty. No John to ever grace its presence again. Sherlock sucked in a deep shuddering breath. He didn't break his gaze from the chair. He couldn't. Sherlock reached over and grabbed the small box. He set it on his thigh and pulled the needle out. He didn't think twice before plunging it through his skin and into his vein. He pressed the syringe and felt the liquid enter his blood. After all the liquid was in him he pulled the needle out and set it back in the box and set the box on the table next to his chair.

For the first time in three days, Sherlock was content. He leaned back in his chair and let his head loll back. His eyes fluttered shut and his arms sagged at his sides. A small smile curved across his face. A soft caress moved along his neck and over his cheek.

"So bloody gorgeous," a familiar voice sighed. Sherlock could hear the smile.

"Never as gorgeous as you," the detective muttered quietly. His feet were numb.

"You never listen to me. You couldn't just bear your way through it could you? Couldn't let me have my own adventure," Sherlock heard the shake of a head and a slight chuckle.

Sherlock grinned, "John," he breathed and his head tipped a bit further back, "I need you," he whispered. A tear made its way out of his eyes and along his head to his temple where it dripped off.

"You never needed me Sherlock, I needed you. Thank you for everything you've done for me. For loving me and for pushing me; you could be a downright prat a lot of the time but…nothing could ever make me stop loving you," there was sadness in the voice now and Sherlock shook his head.

"Don't John; don't be sad, this is my choice. I want to do this…I need this," he mumbled. His hands fell off of his thighs and onto the chair he sat in. A soft breeze moved across his forehead. Sherlock groaned and tried to pick up his neck to press into the touch, but his body was beyond responding to him. A faint pounding sounded in his ears. He wasn't sure if it was his pulse or if it was his front door. He didn't care; he could feel the end so very close now. He could feel John now; he was so close to being with John again.

"John," Sherlock gurgled before his body ceased any and all movement.

Sherlock woke and then cringed when he did. He groaned and lifted his arm and slung it over his eyes. "John, turn of the bloody light," he growled and attempted to turn over.

A light chuckle sounded.

Sherlock gasped and sat up. He blinked against the blinding light before he was used to it. The chuckle sounded to real, so very real and so very John. Sherlock lifted a hand and held it against his forehead. Slowly the light started to fade and his flat came into view. Sherlock groaned, it hadn't worked, he hadn't died.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up."

Sherlock froze from trying to get off the couch. He fell back and blinked. He looked around. His breath caught in his throat. Sitting there in John's chair was John himself. A sad smile on his lips.

"John?" Sherlock breathed. He dared not to breathe. He didn't want to break this dream he was having, not when it felt so perfect.

"I asked you not to do it Sherlock," John sighed and turned to look down in his lap at his fingers there.

Sherlock swallowed and blinked back tears. He got to his feet and stumbled over to John. He fell to his knees before the man who had become his heart. His hands gripped John's thighs tightly as he looked up into the blue eyes he loved so much. Blue eyes he missed so damn much, "John…it's…you're here," he whispered and lifted a hand to gently cup John's cheek.

John smirked and shut his eyes as he leaned into the familiar touch, "No Sherlock, you're here," he sighed and blinked his eyes open.

Sherlock was dumbfounded. He didn't know where he was and how he had gotten to where he was, all he cared about was that his blogger was sitting before him and he could touch him and feel him and most of all, he wasn't sick. Sherlock's smile nearly shattered his face and he shot up and wrapped his arms around John. He buried his head in the crook of John's neck and inhaled deeply of his scent.

John smiled and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, "I should be sodding pissed that you're here but…now that you are and now that I'm holding you well…I don't really care," John whispered and turned his head and pressed a kiss to the detective's ear.

Sherlock shivered and pulled back a little to look up at the man, "God John…it was so hard…so hard back there without you," he whispered in a shaking voice.

John smiled sadly and gently ran his finger along the lines of Sherlock's forehead, "I know love, I saw…it hurt me to see you like that," he lifted Sherlock's face and tilted it some. He leaned forward then and fit their lips together.

Sherlock moaned and pulled John roughly against himself. He attacked his lover's lips with reckless abandon. He needed to taste everything all over again. He needed to see if there were any changes to his John. His fingers bunched and tangled in the jumper that John was wearing and Sherlock clung to him as if he was trying to splice them together into one single person.

John was the first to pull back. He had a drunken grin on his face and his fingers were relearning Sherlock's face. "Welcome home love."

A/N: So there we are guys. I feel complete now. Please tell me how you liked this! Sorry for the tears, but not really because I want them!