Leviticus 20:13

You Have My Condolences

John didn't know how to fill the hole that Rosie's absence brought to his life. He didn't know what to do with his time, he didn't know who to talk to, he didn't even know what his purpose was anymore. He was left with a box, a mere box filled with her pictures and stuffed animals and everything else he had left with her in the hospital over those months, memories and sentiment and tragedy all just shoved carelessly in a cardboard box and delivered with a mass produced condolence letter. He was left with an empty room in his house, filled to the brim with Rosie's toys and things, painted with pink walls and occupied by a very large bed that would never be used again. Sometimes John sat in there, he sat in the pink beanbag chair that he and Rosie used to curl up in before she went to bed, reading stories or drawing pictures or putting together a puzzle despite the uneven fibers of the carpet below. Now he sat alone, his weight sinking uncomfortably into the chair until all the beans had moved out from underneath him and he was sitting on only rough fabric, sipping from whatever bottle he could find and whirling Rosie's music box so that the little ballerina twirled and sang. To be honest there wasn't much of a difference from the last couple of years, since Rosie was admitted to the hospital he had grown used to having this room available, but then again he had always come in here with the hope that someday she would return. There had always been an impossible dream, a sort of impractical optimism that had lingered in the back of his mind, the what ifs of the whole situation. What if Rosie made a recovery, what if Rosie returned, or Mary returned, and suddenly his life was back together again? John had never imagined this. He had never even dreamed of such a tragedy such as this, alone in a room plagued with pink, with a meaningless wedding band and stuffed animals that would do nothing but collect dust until he finally had the heart to get rid of them. It seemed as though John's only loyal companion had been loneliness itself, it seemed to be the only presence in his life that lingered until the very end. Somehow his loneliness reminded him of what the cost of life was, and what the price of happiness, however short, might just be. In the moment companionship seems like the ideal situation, a wife, a child, two forever companions that will be with you until you die. And yet, it wasn't like that, was it? It was never like that, never picture perfect. You never know when that happiness might slip through your fingers, and it's impossible to tell when or how the ones you love most are going to leave you. But that's the risk; apparently, with opening up your heart to someone and not expecting anything but love in return. John didn't know just how badly he wanted companionship, just how much he was willing to sacrifice just to have a moment, just a conversation, just a revelation! He knew that love was always going to fail him, he knew that whatever relationships he tried to build were going to crumble at his feet, and yet this one seemed...different. Now call him crazy, but John had begun to suspect something, his brain had started to formulate a hypothesis as to why he had his own personal dark cloud of misery following him around as if on a leash. It was almost as if he was meant to be somewhere else, with someone else. As if Fate had looked down at the life John had made for himself and decided that he could do so much better. He had come to a cross roads many years back, and little did he know that the path he took had burned down, only to lead him straight to the road he had neglected to take in the first place. He was meant to be here right now, after his mistakes had been swept away, he was destined to sit here and think about one person, one man, and one risk. It was almost as if his old life had been erased to open up the new vacancy, the very vacancy that would be filled by Sherlock Holmes. It was crazy, wasn't it? Purely crazy...but maybe it was just rationalization, the tiniest gap of sunshine visible through the thick clouds of tragedy. Or maybe he was trying to make himself believe that this newfound lust had been destined from the beginning, maybe he was trying to convince himself that despite the immorality this was his destiny. His love for Sherlock was a curious thing indeed, one that he didn't quite believe himself until the funeral. He had always suspected that there was something more, and yet he could never figure out quite what it was until now. Friendship had been a stretch, he knew that from the beginning, they could never be friends, they could never settle for something as meaningless as friendship. There were too many glances, too many touches, too many words trailed off to nothingness from a simple gaze, no, friendship would never do. But what had he expected up until now, what had been his hopes, why did he keep coming back? Did he always know, secretly, that Sherlock was meant to be something more? Had there really been that voice in the back of his mind, coaxing him and reminding him that their hearts yearned for the same thing? And there was the other half of the mystery, the other half of the heart they had to share. Did Sherlock feel the same way? If John had only just deciphered these feelings he couldn't possibly imagine how confused Sherlock was, with his priesthood and his dedication to God and all of his little laws. But was there anything to even realize, was there even a possibility that maybe Sherlock felt similarly? Was he oblivious, confused, or just not interested? And why, why on earth would he bring up the topic of homosexuality if it hadn't already been on his mind? Why would Greg suspect that they were together if Sherlock hadn't mentioned something along the way, if he hadn't had a mere slip of the tongue? Oh it was all so confusing, and in the end only one thing mattered, there were only two options. It was love or loneliness, there simply was no in-between. Sherlock could never be anything less than a lover; he could never be just a friend. John couldn't bear to be with that man platonically, he couldn't pretend that there was nothing there when there so obviously was. And what to tell Sherlock, how to ask, how to even bring it up? There was no easy way to ask a priest if they loved you, especially if that love was homosexual, but it was just...well it was necessary! Questions had to be asked and suspicions had to be confirmed, there was just no in-between. John would like to think optimistically, he wanted to think that love would win in the end, however with his record, well; it was sort of a long shot. He had lost his faith in love a long time ago.  

Sherlock POV: Sherlock spent most of his days hidden in his room, since the funeral there was nothing he could do except pretend nothing had happened, brush off Greg's questions, and repeat to himself over and over that he had done nothing wrong. And yet it was becoming increasingly obvious that his questions had scared John away, the man's absence had proved Sherlock's fears to be true, that he had crossed the line. Sherlock didn't know why he had even bothered to bring up Greg's horrible comments, he had no idea why he had felt entitled to tell John that people thought they were homosexuals, that statement had no place in a conversation much less at a funeral! Who says something so stupid, so personal, in a time of mourning? Oh and John must have just hated it, it must have been so awkward to sit there with a man you barely knew while he was openly discussing his feelings on sexuality, sitting there all alone in the graveyard where no one would hear a word... It had been the whiskey talking of course, and yet it had spoken with Sherlock's voice, and now John knew, he knew everything. Not that there was anything to know, other than Greg's mumblings it wasn't like Sherlock was keeping any life changing secrets hidden away in the back of his mind. It wasn't like he had told John his social security number; he had just been talking about life, love, and Greg's ludicrous imagination. It wasn't like that conversation had meant anything; he was just worried that John might take it seriously. It was only a joke, Greg had been joking when he suggested it, of course he had...But then again what if John didn't know that? The entire idea of Sherlock being homosexual, well it was preposterous, it was require him to have a heart, to have feelings, and he had long ago decided that God was superior to any meager twitch of the heartstrings. He had pledged himself from women from a young age, never once suspecting that temptation might come in a more discrete form. Oh but that was nonsense, John wasn't a temptation, John was merely a man, he was a human looking for help and looking for companionship, and of course Sherlock had somehow managed to chase him away with his mere delusions of love... And that was the problem, John was gone, he hadn't attended mass, he hadn't come for a house call, he hadn't even popped in the church to say a quick prayer, not since Rosie's death. Now this might be owed to John's newfound distrust in religion, however you would think that just because he doesn't want to believe in God doesn't mean he would completely abandon his faith all together. Sherlock knew there was something more; he suspected that it might have been something he said that was keeping Mr. Watson at bay, despite their heartfelt conversations by the grave. If John truly had no one else then why was he keeping his distance except for a newfound fear? Sherlock had overstepped his boundaries, of course he had, and now he was paying the consequences.