Sherlock’s lips. He thinks about them a lot. Their pinkness, their softness. Or what he imagines their softness would have been. He imagines a lot, actually. He dreams of kisses in the rain and snogs in bars and gentle pecks in 221B. He fantasizes about running his hands through those curls and ripping off that infamous coat. He lets himself imagine whispered ‘I love you’s and shouted ones, ones murmured against hot lips, ones screamed in desperate moments. He’d take them all; he’d take any of them.

And then he remembers and the fantasy breaks and the world shatters around him and the words tumble out, slicing into the still silence like daggers. How could you not have known how much I loved you, Sherlock? How could you not have seen that I am — was — in love with you, that I would have given up the world for you?

But it’s too late. Sherlock is gone, and John is alone and afraid and a damn coward, a damn coward for not letting himself fall when the jump would have been so, so easy.

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