The Hill under the Willow

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or anything you may recognise from the BBC series or the works of Sir A.C.D.

Rating: M. It contains feelings that might be triggering for some readers and suicide is slightly hinted at.

A/N: First Sherlolly fic published on this site, also not beta read so all mistakes are mine.

Wandering a lonely road, that had become of his life. Pulling through life as if nothing was wrong when every single breath ripped through his chest like a knife. Life no longer had meaning. He could try and get high, but the sole thought of her disappointed eyes held him back. He was a failure of human being, a shell after all, that to the outside world, was incapable of loving. How wrong they were, and yet, how he wished they were right. Going back to being a sociopath sounds so alluring. His feet refused to move any more, having taken him to the place he hated most on this earth.

A place I know all too well.

John, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, even his parents had encouraged him to accept the pain in the hopes that it would subdue eventually, that someday it wouldn't hurt too much.

Futile hopes of people that had a reason to keep breathing. He didn't have one. Not anymore.

John had lost Mary, but he still had Rosie, little, beautiful Rosie. His goddaughter, his... and Molly's.

Moving forward, he kneeled near the tombstone, not paying attention to the tears that rolled down his face. He touched his fingers to the letters engraved in marble, following the soft curves and sharp corners.

Fancy how life throws your words at you, when the poetic truth no longer makes sense. Sentiment. Running away from it, afraid of the lose it would mean in the end, because there always was an end. It was the only irrefutable law of life: every life comes to an end.

Although the socially accepted truth is that only the elderly see death as the next and unavoidable step of their existence, it can affect every living and breathing person. No matter age, gender... nor romantic attachment.

The marble was cold to the touch, as clean as the day it was placed in the soft hill under the willow. White stone, engraved in gold, and covered in flowers. Sherlock hadn't bring any flowers. But his Molly wouldn't mind. He could already picture her in his mind palace, looking at him with an arched eyebrow, and that beautiful, amused smile that spelled "My forgetful wonderful man".

Her gorgeous features fixed in a smile, as the last time he had seen her, open, welcoming and the most special human being he'd had the joy of sharing his life with.

Life is really unfair. It gives you a taste of what real, genuine happiness looks like, allows your heart to swell with every 'good morning', every glance and parting kiss. The thrill of life when every moment is unpredictable, and yet the most amazing surprise.

And then it rips you apart. It takes the one thing that matters to you the most, the reason you wake up in the morning, the person you love with all your heart, away from you. The moment his sister's words made sense to him, was the moment his world turned on its axis. So many days not lived, so many words unsaid. I love you, three little words, so underrated, so meaningful. What he wouldn't give to be able to whisper those words to her, prove to her that there was nothing on Earth capable of diluting the depth of his feelings for her.

                                                                            Molly Holmes

                                                                           17 August 2017