“You and me against the world!”

John’s smile broke whatever argument he was warming up to. It was the smile he kept in a box, buried somewhere outside of his mind palace. A hunting memory that kept his sane for the last year fade each day. A reminder that maybe, just maybe what he did wasn’t worth it.

It’s a year since he last saw it across the doctor’s face but he could still feel it mocking him. A year since John moved on. No more flowers, no more drunken visits, no more accusations.

No more of John’s things at Baker Street

A year since John decided he couldn’t bear his hope die everyday waiting for that miracle, wishing for that miracle… begging for that one more miracle.

A year since John whispered goodbye with that same broken smile playing across his lips when the only answer he got is Sherlock’s black marble of shame staring back at him. Sherlock was there, he always was.

He was there when John was fired, with a bottle of cheap beer in hand. He was there beside John when John’s eyes felt heavy from crying that he ended up sleeping besides the stone, cradling it limply like it’s something fragile. He was there when John felt creative with his curses. He was also there when John blamed him for everything.

He was there when John silently said his I love you.

Sherlock was there whispering his first to the dark

Three years ago, Sherlock Holmes faked his death but John Watson did not. The detective came to life but the army doctor didn’t. He was dead inside that even adrenaline can’t fix it.