Eyes are a window to the soul. So the saying dictates. No one could know it wasn't true, even upon meeting the person who proved it wrong. No one could know it wasn't true because John Watson had the perfect defence mechanism: his eyes were mirrors.

If whoever was in his presence showed happiness, his eyes reflected that happiness. If whoever was in his presence showed anger, his eyes reflected that anger. And so no one could ever know that behind the reflecting glass was an unfathomable amount of darkness. The kind of darkness that consumed one entirely and whose hunger for the soul was insatiable, leaving one's insides to be an abyss of emptiness.

Two years, seven months and eighteen days had passed since John Watson's windows became one-way glass. Two years, seven months and eighteen days had passed since the darkness's stomach rumbled for his soul. Two years, seven months and eighteen days had passed since Sherlock Holmes had bled and died on the pavement.

To everyone else, John was coping rather well. He had moved out of 221B, had quit going to crime scenes to relive old memories, he had even found himself a girlfriend. So they thought nothing of it when he stayed in late at the hospital that faithful night two years, seven months and eighteen days after the fall, a dusty cardboard box sitting on his desk.

Once all the lights of his wing of St. Bart's were out except his own, once he was completely and utterly alone, once all that could be heard was the ever steady ticking of the clock, John Watson slowly stood up. With infinite care and gentleness, he took the large box in his arms, making sure its contents were undisturbed. He then proceeded to grab his cane much more roughly and began his trek upwards.

Going up the stairs was incredibly slow, with his leg causing him so much pain and the cane not doing much to help, but he had gotten used to it after two years, seven months and eighteen days. Finally, after an eternity of putting one foot in front of the other, John Watson made it to his destination.

It was a beautiful night. Up on the roof of the hospital, there was a slight breeze that made shivers go down his spine. He remembered a time when a certain curly-haired detective was able to make that happen too. The stars were scarce, with the lights of the city shining so brightly, but the moon glowed in all its crescent-shaped glorious beauty. He remembered a time when he would laugh at a certain curly-haired detective's thoughts about the sun, the moon, and a teddy bear going around and around the garden. But now he only sighed wistfully. He wouldn't cry, he would have time for that later in the evening. For now, he just enjoyed the view before his thoughts and emotions would hold him hostage.

After a few minutes of gazing out toward the heavens, wondering how his angel (however much he claimed not to be one) was doing, he finally glanced down at the box. He couldn't keep putting this off. Two years, seven months and eighteen days had been long enough. It was time to stop running away to the comfort of steady, regular, boring life and face the pain that was always there, waiting for a reminder, any reminder, to flare up and stab his heart only to be locked away once more. With a great burst of courage superior to anything he had had to do while fighting in Afghanistan or being held at gunpoint by criminals, he knelt down and opened the box.

Immediately, he was overwhelmed. The familiar scent was clouding his senses, carrying him back to better times. That wonderful cologne. Caffeine. Cigarettes. A hint of chemicals that were from his various experiences. It was the beautiful scent of the world's only consulting detective.

He reopened his eyes, not even aware that he had closed them in the first place. The other objects in the box were there, untouched for two years, seven months and eighteen days, simply waiting to be rediscovered.

The first thing he pulled out was the skull. John smiled, actually smiled, for the first time in a very long time. He thought of how Sherlock hadn't needed the skull anymore because he had had John. John had been his, and he had been John's.

Next was the deerstalker. John chuckled, actually chuckled, for the first time in a very long time. He thought of how Sherlock had mused about the death frisbee, wondering about the purpose of the hat that he had made famous. However much Sherlock hated it, John had always liked the way it added to his mystery.

The next two items didn't make him actually smile or actually chuckle. They made him cry, and it was not for the first time in a very long time. The coat in one arm and the violin and bow in his other, he stood up from his kneeling position and walked over to the edge of the rooftop.

Ever so gently, he set down the instrument so he could fill his arms with Sherlock's wonderful trademark piece of clothing. The smell had developed a slight musky tinge to it after so long, but the feel of it against John's skin was pure bliss. He could almost imagine that by reaching for the sleeve he would feel in his palm the glacial but magnificent hand of Sherlock Holmes.

His knees buckled underneath him. Remembering hurt so much. It hurt more than his old bullet wound, it hurt more than his damned leg, it hurt more than pretending to love a woman he couldn't possibly care less about. But remembering was something that he had pushed off for so long that it could no longer be repelled.

He felt the ghost of a hand brush against his own.

"John."

"Yes Sherlock, what is it?" He had been dozing off in his armchair when Sherlock's touch and his low, soft voice had roused him from his semi-slumber.

"Look at me."

John lifted his head from his hand, and rubbed his eyes. They rose up the length of Sherlock's svelte body, up his milky white neck and finally to his galaxy eyes. Eyes one could easily lose oneself in, drift through the entirety of the universe and never get bored of exploring the ever-changing bright explosions of stardust they contained.

"John, it is absolutely capital that you listen to everything I am going to say without interruption. Do you understand?" Sherlock asked, and there seemed to be a slight strain in his words, as if he was preparing himself for something terrible to happen.

"Alright, Sherlock. Go on."

He took a deep breath, seemingly steeling himself to do an act of great bravery. But then he turned around and walked to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. John, absolutely bewildered, stared straight ahead a few moments, shaking his head at his flatmate's unusual behaviour, even more unusual than Sherlock's regular level of unusualness. 

John felt the ghost of a pair of lips brush swiftly against his own.

After two minutes, John decided to go check on Sherlock. He worried about him more than he used to. He didn't like when Sherlock spent too much time alone. He was scared for his safety, for his health. It, of course, was not because he himself didn't like being without Sherlock. That would be absurd, a statement that would give truth to all the rumours circulating about the detective and his blogger. And they were not true.

Although, part of John, the part that occasionally blushed at his best friend or stared into his eyes for a second too long than in a strictly platonic and friendly relationship, wished that they were. But that part of John was constantly pushed down into the depths of his being, much like the painful memories would be tucked away in his brain one day, although he did not know it at the time.

Walking over to Sherlock's shut bedroom door, John gently rapped against it. "Sherlock? Are you alright? You seemed a bit shaken."

No response.

"Would you like me to make you a cuppa? I could always do that-"

What happened next played out so quickly that it left John unsure as to whether it had actually happened or not. The door to Sherlock's room swung open, revealing the man in his night clothes. The detective bent down toward John and gently pressed his lips against John's before removing them, quick as lightning. The door was closed once more, and all this had happened in less than five seconds.

John felt the ghost of the sensation of those glorious dark curls in between his fingers.

John stood frozen in front of the door, absolutely stunned. He could not quite believe what had just taken place. He could not quite believe that Sherlock had kissed him. He could not quite believe that he had enjoyed it.

Regaining control of his movements, he dared to grab the door. He wasn't sure what exactly he was doing, but he was tired of tiptoeing around, constantly nervous or unsure of how to act around Sherlock. He was letting his brave side rule over his actions, the rational and logical part of him having left his mind entirely.

He opened the door, and although Sherlock had certainly heard him, he did not acknowledge his entrance. He was curled up in his bed in a way much resembling a cat, turned away from John.

The doctor made his way around the bed and sat on it, facing Sherlock. Immediately, the detective turned to his other side, trying to hide his highly coloured cheeks and avoid John's intense gaze.

John knew that Sherlock wouldn't initiate anything else between them. It was obvious for him, even though he was no expert in deduction. So he took it upon himself to make the next move in this intrigue of long-hidden feelings.

Lying down on his back, not even touching Sherlock, John still knew his flatmate had stiffened at the proximity. He slowly reached for the detective's hand, and gently held it in his own. They stayed like that for an unknown amount of time, and at some point John placed his other hand in Sherlock's hair, enjoying the feeling of the ebony locks against his skin.

Sherlock turned back, facing John once more. John saw that his pupils were dilated, as he knew his own were, just as Sherlock's heart was probably beating frantically in his chest similarly to John's. And suddenly, something seemed to finally click into place between the two of them, and they were kissing, arms around the other, as close as two bodies could be. No words were needed that night because they both knew. They had always known. And finally giving in to that truth, to that knowledge, was bliss.

The memories of the night they had spent together two years, seven months and twenty days before were too much. John broke down into his sobs. In anguish and rage, he threw the coat, trigger of such suffering, away from himself. It plummeted to the ground, blending into the darkness.

"WHY?" The scream, echoing through the night like a soaring bird of pure pain, would have broken the hearts of any pedestrian passing by the hospital at that moment. "Why..." The whimper that followed would have elicited the empathy of even the most stone-faced cold-hearted person, had it not been as quiet as a shadow.

"I bloody loved you, Sherlock Holmes. I still do," the weeping doctor spoke, as he once had to a headstone two years, seven months, and eleven days before. The only difference was that he still held hope back then.

Reaching for the violin, he held it in his hands, gazing intensely at it. Various notes started to echo through his head, forming melodies that had once played at Baker Street in the late hours of the night. How John had loved being lulled to sleep by the beautiful music.

Grabbing the bow, John slowly dragged it across the strings of the instrument, creating a terrible screeching sound. He hadn't expected anything else, as he had never learned to play the instrument. However, he now knew why he was playing it. The awful noise produced was the most accurate description of how his soul ached, how it agonized, every single second of every single day. So John Watson played on into the night, creating a symphony of suffering.

It was many hours before John stopped, a ringing in his head and a numbness in his arm. He delicately placed the instrument down and stood up on wobbling legs. He felt goosebumps on his skin from a sudden cold gust of wind and remembered the coat he had thrown down.

Stepping onto the ledge, he looked down, trying to distinguish its form on the ground below. The slight glow at the horizon indicating the approaching dawn provided just enough light for him to see it.

There it was, spread out on the pavement, sleeves stretched out at its sides. John's mind thought that it almost looked as though the arms were open, welcoming.

And suddenly, John's thoughts turned dark, darker than they'd ever been before. He was in exactly the same spot as his Sherlock was when he decided to end his life. And the coat was practically a sign, begging him to throw himself into its warm embrace, so he could join his love. He'd never thought he'd end like this, that he would ever consider this option. But now it was here, he couldn't comprehend how he had not seen it before.

John didn't think, he only felt. He felt the wind blowing in his face, he felt the iciness of the air as he fell, he felt the tug of gravity dragging him down, he felt liberation. He felt pain, and then he felt no more.

His last concise thought before he ended was one word, one single, beautiful word.

Sherlock.

*****

They found him not that much later, as the nurses and doctors started coming in to work. They gasped, they cried, they shook their heads. All of them wondered why good Dr. Watson would do such a thing.

Mary cried. The poor woman didn't understand at all. He had always looked at her with happiness and love in his eyes. She had no idea what pushed him to try to join his old friend in death, as he had gotten used to regular life, had found a certain level of steadiness.

Lestrade shed a few tears. Molly wept. Mrs. Hudson sobbed. Even Mycroft put down the paper and let his head hang. But all of them had known him during his time with Sherlock. They, unlike the others, knew why he had done it. And when Molly finally shut his eyes in the morgue, she saw them for what they really were: shattered mirrors. Only it was too late now.

And somewhere in Germany, a man received a phone call. And as he received the news, he felt his pale hands start to shake terribly as he let the phone drop to the ground. He put his hands to his head, ripping out strands of ebony curls. As he fell to his knees, eyes brimming with tears, he screamed in unquantifiable pain.

Everything he had done in the last two years, seven months and nineteen days no longer mattered.

His John was dead.

And it was all his fault.