we set fire to our homes.

[ It's a repeat and yet not. The same headstone. The same name written on it. Different dates. John's face reflected in the polished surface of the granite looks older by a few years, somewhere between two and a decade, he'd say. Once he's alone, flanked by a few bouquets, but not enough to look conspicuous -- after all, Sherlock's been dead and gone for a few years now, according to the public, John reclaims the same position in front of his grave as last time, back straight, hands hanging by his sides, fingers curled into fists. There's no speech this time around, they had their hour, they managed to say what they needed to, didn't they? By and large. By and large.

John can still feel the weight of him against his side, halfway draped across his chest, how skinny he'd got -- and lacking more than just pounds, lacking liters of blood, lacking limbs. He was quite literally fading into nothing, the world's only consulting dickhead with his cheekbones (protruding) and his curls (shaved off) and his strong, deep voice (choked).

Swallowing thickly, John blinks and blinks again. Jesus, Sherlock -- he wants to say, you're not making me do this once more, no more. No more. No more waiting, it's been a week, it's been two. This is all that's left him and if nothing else, it's resolution, isn't it? It's shit, but it's something. Stepping forward and touching his palm flat to the top of the headstone slowly, gently, John backs away and turns around on his heel, marching off. ]