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Like any other day, John was looking at a stone cold gaze.
Like any other day, the weather came with a chill.
Like any other day, the unexpected had already, and probably would soon again happen.
It had to be like any other day. It had to, it just had to.
But John couldn't escape the fact that the stone cold gaze was simply stone.
John couldn't escape the chill running down his back as it all replayed in his brain.
John couldn't forget that the unexpected had happened.
Not too long ago, in fact it felt like mere minutes, his best mate, the one and only Sherlock Holmes, had jumped off a building right in front of him.
John had never felt more sad, petrified, in shock, yet numb all at the same time.
They had buried the body not long ago. John was standing alone in front of Sherlock's grave. The stone was bothering him. So proudly displaying the name of his dead best mate. So unresponsive. So uncaring. John would bet the stone didn't even know how he felt right now. Not even a fraction of the pain.
...Of course it didn't know. It was a stone. John was getting cross. With a stone. It reminded him of the time he had a row in the grocery store, with a machine.
And Sherlock had been there to help when he got home.
John realized he'd been zoning out when he suddenly realized the weird light from the sun had grown slightly dimmer, so he didn't have to squint anymore.
The sky was all gray. Some of the clouds further away were darker, dark and poofy, sort of like Sherlock's hair.
He'd never be able to see Sherlock's hair all messy again, John realized. He'd never be able to see Sherlock gently move it away from his face, or feel the subtle scent of it when one of them leaned over the others' shoulder.
John started replaying their friendship in his head. They'd been there for each other, despite Sherlock being an absolute menace, then everything with Moriarty started... John thought about Sherlock "undressing" him by the pool.
He started feeling as if a fire was building within him. His frustrations were replaying in his mind, every single thing Sherlock had ever done to annoy him was playing again as if it was happening live.
He was so angry with Sherlock. He was the most insensitive, childish and arrogant person John had ever met, and the anger was overwhelming.
How could Sherlock take John through all of that, how could Sherlock be so immature, and how could John have let him jump?!
It started raining, it was making John's suit all soggy.
But the rain did nothing to stop the fire building inside him.
John looked away from the grave. It was a miserable sight, and it kept reminding him of every miserable trait of the miserable, dead Sherlock Holmes.
But everywhere he looked he still saw Sherlock.
Sherlock would've pointed out the footsteps on that path. He would've killed those flowers if John brought them home. Sherlock would have wanted to stand under that roof. Sherlock would have dragged John with him.
John took a deep breath. Pull yourself together. He didn't want to think about Sherlock.
Instead he started thinking about how cold he was getting. His socks were wet. He should go home and make tea. He deserved tea.
...Who was he kidding. John didn't deserve tea. John didn't want tea. He wanted to think about Sherlock. He wanted to remember everything. Every painful detail.
He looked back at the grave. At the gravestone. And he felt anger burning in his body again.
Every thing Sherlock had done to him. How dare he drag John into all of this. How dare Sherlock be so disrespectful to him all the damn time.
How dare Sherlock die on him.
If John thought his emotions were intense before, he was in for a treat. Because emotions started flurrying in his body like a whole typhoon.
Anger, pure rage, numbness, sadness and by god he missed Sherlock. He missed Sherlock so much. Had this been like any other day he would be feeling overjoyed, remembering all the good memories with Sherlock.
But today wasn't like any other day, and it all felt bitter. John had a lump in his throat.
He would never see Sherlock again. He would never have Sherlock leaning over him carefully.
No more awkward and silly interactions. No more listening to his deductions.
He would never get to make another blog post about him.
No more running after someone in the streets of London.
He missed Sherlock.
He would never get to smell his scent again. He would never get to look him in the eyes again.
They would never be mistaken for a couple again.
John realized he was tearing up.
Why was that making him tear up?
He hated them getting mistaken for a couple. He didn't like Sherlock like that.
...
Memories were flowing through John's brain.
Sherlock rambling, the silly conversation's they'd have, that first night they met, god the night they met.
John started full on sobbing.
He loved Sherlock.
John was in love with Sherlock this entire time and he had been clueless.
What if Sherlock had liked him back? And John would never ever get to know it?
It was eating him from the inside out. He only realized when it was too late.
His brain felt like it fogged over. John wasn't processing anything of what was happening until he had thrown of his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt.
He cried harder as he practically ripped his shirt off, throwing it at the ground as hard as he could. He felt silly as it sort of flopped down in the now muddy grass.
John fell to his knees. His pants were getting absolutely destroyed by the dirt and mud.
He loved Sherlock.
He loved Sherlock, and he didn't find out until it was too late.
He loved Sherlock, but Sherlock was dead.
He wanted Sherlock so bad. He could have had something with Sherlock.
John unzipped his pants.
He loved Sherlock.
Sherlock could have loved him back.
He would never know.
John wanted to undress and hug the precious dirt keeping Sherlock away form him and pray for the elements to get to him.
He wanted to dig up the still soft dirt with his bare hands, pry open his coffin and lie next to his cold corpse until they met again in the afterlife.
John wanted to turn back time to when Sherlock jumped and hug him tight and not let go until the end of time.
John choked and sobbed as he pulled down his pants.
He wanted to become one with the dirt that kept his best mate trapped beneath the ground forever.
John sobbed so hard he was barely breathing, keeping his balance, even on his knees, was getting hard.
He was about to faceplant in the dirt, but he caught himself.
He scrunched up his fingers, letting them dig into the dirt. It was so soft. He was getting so much dirt under his nails.
He. Loved. Sherlock.
But Sherlock is dead.
He put his weight on his left arm as he brought his right arm to his waist.
John pulled down his underwear.
He choked and groaned.
John grabbed hold of his penis, which was rock hard.
He started stroking it.
His hand being soaked from the rain helped provide some glide to his strokes.
With everything going on, John's impromptu masturbation session didn't make him feel better. Just another sensation he wasn't processing.
Despite that, he started stroking faster. He loved Sherlock. He needed Sherlock. He would never have Sherlock.
It wasn't enough. None of it was enough. He would never have Sherlock.
John shuffled himself lower to the ground.
He had to let go of his dick temporarily, but he grabbed it again once he was propped up enough to keep his balance.
He rubbed his tip against the dirt. It was cold, gritty and wet.
John gently inserted his dick into the dirt.
Despite it being soft, it took him wiggling his fingers to make a little passage for his penis to slide in properly.
John pauses for a moment.
He. Loved. Sherlock. But Sherlock. Is. Dead.
John started thrusting the dirt.
It hadn't been raining for that long, but the dirt was still so wet. John had never felt anything like it.
He grunted and hulked as he kept thrusting deeper into the gritty, wet dirt.
He loved Sherlock.
John started thrusting faster. It felt like he was getting dirt under his foreskin.
Snot was running down onto his lip.
He loved Sherlock.
The dirt felt horrible, but he couldn't stop thrusting faster, harder, deeper.
John Watson had never been in more pain.
He grabbed his balls and started fondling them as he kept thrusting the dirt.
Sherlock's hair. Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's hands. Sherlock would've deduced when John felt horny. Sherlock would've deduced what John's kinks were. What if Sherlock deduced that John loved him before John realized it for himself?
Everything was building up within him. Everything. All at once. His chest was aching. He had a lump in his throat. His cheeks were flushing, his eyes were sore. He could feel his pulse in his throat, he could feel his heart beating in his chest, it felt like someone had stabbed him, and anything that had ever been good was pooling in his crotch.
John sobbed more, right on the brink of an orgasm.
"Sherlock-" he half moaned, half sobbed.
John's head spun as he imagined Sherlock wanking off, giving John a blowjob, letting John pound him in his ass.
"AAAAAAAAH"
And everything came out all at once.
John was on his hands and knees, sweating, crying, penis dripping and coated in a nice layer of dirt.
Today wasn't like any other day, because John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
And John Watson just came in the dirt that covered his grave.