One More Miracle

7 • Here

I can't do this.

No.

Not yet. I have to say it. I have to tell Sherlock, out loud, that I love him. Obviously, that's impossible so I think of the next best thing. His tombstone, all those times I had felt his presence there, being there, so close to the body it would make me feel a little more comfortable in doing this, if I admit everything.

That's it then, I have to go. However pathetic, stupid and deluded it sounds I have to go. I have to talk to 'him'- or rather the closest thing I have to him. The desolate headstone, the lifeless, rotting body six feet under the ground.

I put the gun down, back on the bed so it will be easier to get when I come back.

I take the cane, put on my coat, my gloves- a very thoughtful and unexpected gift from Sherlock 'Here, John you can hardly examine the bodies on sight if your hands are red raw from the cold'- and haul myself downstairs. In my desperation and wanting to get this over with I hail a cab.

"Hey, yeah, St Mary's church." I tell the driver and he sets off.

Due to the short distance, we get there in minutes so I pay him the money get out as quickly as possible- which, with my leg, is painfully slow.

The gate to the graveyard is open, the heavy iron against a long wall. I walk up, straight to the gravestone. Then my composure drops.

The sobs take over, I haven't cried in weeks. I can't keep this in- though I try not to cry here- ever. My whole body is shaking then somehow I end up kneeled in front of the grave, my whole body heaving as I cry.Sherlock. My Sherlock. He's really gone, and now, now I'll finally be able to see him again.

If even there isn't all that schmaltzy heaven stuff, at least I'll be free of all this pain. I let the sobs take over, thinking of everything, letting it all out this one last time. Then, when I can breathe again, I say it

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

I hear footsteps, and for a second the hope fills me again, and I begin to turn my head, closing my eyes, then before looking fully around I shake it, then look back to the headstone, thinking that it was probably running through.

Then, from where I still sit on the floor, I feel arms wrapping around me from the back, strong arms. My eyes shoot open. And I smell the aloe vera, the coconut, the smoke then the things that's so incrediblyhim. I turn my head.

Fuck.

No, no. This isn't real. The hold you feel around you now isn't anyone at all, John. You're going crazy. These aren't rational thoughts, everything you feel and smell right now is an illusion created by your desperate mind, attempting to give a comfort in the last hours. This is nice, but not right. I need to stop it. I take a deep breath. Just look around and you'll see that no one is there, that your only imagining this whole thing.

It's him. It's really him. Those cheekbones, the coat, even the scarf. Dear god it's him.

Sherlock isn't dead, he's here. He's with me, his arms are around me. I can't breathe- I can't cope with this. Oh my god.

I lean back into him, turning and running my hands up and down his chest. He's real. This isn't a delusion. He's really here.

He's alive.

Fucking prick. Complete, utter, bastard. He left me, he hurt me so much. He let me believe that he was dead for all this time. He lied to me about everything.

How could he have done this? Dick. The anger becomes more and more intense, and I pull away from him, stand up- which he follows. Then I pull my arm back swiftly and