Work Text:
Now you say you're lonely
You cried the long night through
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried a river over you
The restaurant buzzed around them as they stood, simply staring at each other. For John, each breath was a struggle: a struggle to remember to breathe, a struggle to not let loose a scream, or worse yet, a sob.
There he was. Like nothing had happened. Like John hadn’t watched his horrific death. Like John hadn’t buried him, hadn’t mourned him. He was simply watching him.
Now you say you're sorry
For being so untrue
Well, you can cry me a river, cry me a river
I cried, cried, cried a river over you
John must have forgotten, in the years that Sherlock had been dead, just how infuriating he could be with the things he said.
As if his sudden arrival back into John’s life, interrupting his night with Mary, was a simple miscalculation in timing.
His timing was off by years.
You drove me, nearly drove me, out of my head
While you never shed a tear
Remember, I remember, all that you said
You told me love was too plebeian
Told me you were through with me
It wasn’t fair for Sherlock to come back now, not when John had been so close to moving on. He had found love in Mary; she had understood the pain he felt with Sherlock, she hadn’t tried to “fix” him. He had been so ready to be happy with her.
But now Sherlock was back, tearing opening the wound in John’s heart with no more than a simple “Not Dead.”
It wasn’t fair. Sherlock would never let him love anyone else, would he?
Now you say, you say you love me
Well, just to prove that you do
Come on and cry me a river, cry me a river
'Cause I cried a river over you
And now he’s talking about terrorists, and cases. As if nothing has happened.
Like John would simply drop everything and go running after Sherlock again.
And everything in John desperately wanted to. To have things go back to the way they were before.
But he knew they couldn’t. Things had changed, no matter how much John…or Sherlock might have wished.
If my pillow could talk, imagine what it would have said
Could it be a river of tears I cried in bed?
So you can cry me a river
Daddy, go ahead and cry that river
'Cause I cried, how I cried a river over you
How I cried a river over you
After that night, John began to have the dreams again. Not the nightmares of Afghanistan, of combat and of death.
No, he dreamed of the streets of London, of running in the dark of night with the thrill of the chase singing in his blood.
He dreamed of Sherlock by his side as they ran, coat collar turned up. In the dream, their eyes met.
“Take my hand.” Sherlock told him.
And John did.