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There was a silence in the flat, not a bad one, but the kind of silence that makes you feel everything's all right.
John loved it. He could fully appreciate the moment, like the world had slowed down, just so he could do exactly that. Appreciate things were all right again. That Sherlock Holmes' name was cleared, and that the only one to have died on that fateful day, had been Moriarty. What a day that had been, confusing, horrifying, devastating, and life changing.
John shuddered slightly at the memory, pulling Sherlock closer to his chest, without really being aware that he did. It was just the two of them. On the sofa. Sherlock wrapped against John, who's chin was resting on Sherlock's head. This was nice. Everything was better.
"Don't," Sherlock said, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"Don't think about it," a hand reached up, seeking John's cheek, finding it, stroking it gently. "Just don't, John."
John closed his eyes, burying his nose into Sherlock's dark curls. He could smell shampoo and chemicals, an odd, but somehow fitting scent for Sherlock. The blue dressing gown that Sherlock wore constantly, added a scent of something that John couldn't quite pinpoint. Perhaps it was a mix of Sherlock's scent, and John's, from constantly holding onto it. Whatever it was, it was pleasant, nonetheless.
"I'm sorry," John's hands rested on Sherlock's chest. "I just can't believe it's over."
"But it is," there was amusement in Sherlock's voice. "So don't think about it. Move on."
"Easy for you to say," John sighed. "It's been hard on me."
"If I remember correctly, which I do, I was the one who died," Sherlock's hands entwined with John's.
"Don't remind me."
John wanted to pull Sherlock closer, close enough for them to melt together, become one. The heat from Sherlock just wasn't enough. The scent wasn't enough. He wanted to be one with Sherlock, so he would never be away from him again, never lose him. He wasn't ready to let go.
"Forget it," Sherlock said quietly. "Delete it, John."
"I'm not like you," John's voice was small. "I can't just delete things as I please."
"That sounds dull."
"Perhaps," John thought about it, then added. "But if I was able to delete every painful memory I had, then I wouldn't be me."
"...Go on."
"I wouldn't carry the things I've learned from those experiences with me, because I wouldn't remember why I had had to learn them in the first place. Does it make any sense?"
"No," Sherlock slowly sighed. "But I think I understand what you're trying to say. However, I still think you should try and forget it."
Forget it? John tasted the words. No, he wouldn't forget it. As long as he lived, he would never be able to forget seeing Sherlock jump from the hospital roof top. He would never forget seeing Sherlock's body on the pavement, white skin tainted with dark red blood. He would never forget standing over Sherlock's grave, begging for it all to be a bad dream. He wouldn't forget. He couldn't.
"Maybe one day," John squeezed Sherlock's hand, kissing the top of Sherlock's head.
"Let it go. Let me go."
"I'm never letting you go again," John muttered. "As long as you're mine."
"I was always yours, John," Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper.
"And you'll always be?"
"Obviously," his faint voice carried a chuckle.
John closed his eyes, letting the words sink in, storing them. John wanted to ask something, but he knew that he probably shouldn't. It wouldn't be good, wouldn't be right, and it would ruin everything if he said the words. But his heart was begging him to ask, imploring him to ask, because what if he got the answer? He loved Sherlock, surely Sherlock knew, and Sherlock loved John. Didn't he? They had never said the words out loud, always avoiding them, even when they shouldn't have. But this was perfect, John thought. What better time than now?
"Do you love me?"
Sherlock didn't answer. John cursed himself. He'd ruined it. He'd grabbed the moment like it was a crystal glass, and hurled it against concrete floors.
"Sherlock?"
John adjusted himself on the sofa, feeling Sherlock's weight against him disappear, as he sat up straight. It was like a wave hit him, reminding him how the conversation was supposed to go. What he could say, and what he couldn't. Don't take it too far, or you'll lose him, the voice in John's head reminded him. John took a shaky breath, placing his hands on his knees, as he looked up at the ceiling. He'd taken it too far again. From pleasant to the point where things just became too much for his brain to handle. The blue dressing gown was draped over a pillow, still warm from being held close to John's chest. How long would it take for it to no longer smell like Sherlock, and start to smell like John? He couldn't think about it, wouldn't think about. John buried his face in his hands, choking down sobs, as warm tears steadily flowed into the palm of his hands.
There was a silence in the flat, not a good one, but the kind of silence that makes you want to pretend everything's all right, because the reality the silence brings, is too painful to deal with.