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Salt air, and the rust on your door, I never needed anything more
John Watson had faced many horrors across his life. He had gone into a warzone and valiantly fought for his fellow soldiers to live under his medical care. To his credit, most did. Although not even the greatest doctor alive could save everyone. Casualties are a part of life, and most importantly a part of active warfare. He wished that he could save them all, all of his colleagues did but even he knew that was impossible.
Returning to London was a hard choice. He had been shaped by the war he had seen, and it would continue to shape him. His time in service never felt like he gave up his life as he found it a fulfilling life to live, but now he needed more… he needed him.
Whispers of "Are you sure?" "Never have I ever before"
He remembered his first time with Sherlock very well. It was well past midnight; he and Sherlock had just solved an incredibly puzzling case which had the genius stumped for weeks. The moments between the living room and the bed were still vague but he remembered leaving a trail of clothes behind them as they went. They were both nervous and yet neither of them had been more sure of anything before.
The morning after was much clearer than the night before, even though the lines been friend and lover were more blurred than ever before. Looking at the taller man sleep, however, did seem to put things John had never considered before into perspective. How could he spend his whole life seeking battle after battle, war after war when he could spend his days in the small piece of bliss he had been granted.
But I can see us lost in the memory, August slipped away into a moment in time… 'cause it was never mine.
But that was all that was John had left of Sherlock Holmes. Memories. And by God would he cling to those memories till kingdom come. The first few days after Sherlock jumped, john felt nothing but pain. He felt the pain of longing for someone to come home. It was like he was on a rollercoaster, waiting for the big drop which would never come. John almost felt selfish for his grief, Sherlock had given up his life to ensure that John’s and their friends’ would continue; how could John lose himself when Sherlock gave the ultimate sacrifice for him.
John just longed for August once more. He longed for when it was just the two of them in their flat, solving cases and indulging themselves in the serene company of each other. He long for the calm in the morning, and for the excitement of a criminal pursuit. He longed for a perfectly made cup of tea and slightly burnt toast. Most of all, he longed for his love, his Sherlock, to return home to him one last time.
And I can see us twisted in bedsheets, August sipped away like a bottle of wine 'cause you were never mine
Two years felt like a lifetime. He had once spent two years at the same army base, treating the wounded and comforting the soon-to-be dead. Two years then felt like a matter of weeks mashed together into one memory. The last two years felt like a never-ending lifetime. It felt like John lived when he fell asleep and died when he awoke as in the realm of his dreams was the only time where his memories of Sherlock became a form of reality. It was the only time where he could hold him once more before he slipped away once again.
John also hated his dreams as when he awoke, he was greeted by a sick reminder than he would never experience Sherlock again. No matter how sweet it was, John would have to face reality. He supposed if Sherlock could see him now, he would mock the shell of the man John had become. Maybe he would say that John should get over himself or tell him to move on.
And maybe he should. Because after all, was Sherlock ever truly his?