[Sherlock has done all he can to keep Mycroft at arm's length these past few days, trying to keep him out of audible range whenever John starts talking to Mary, as he knows that John wouldn't want anyone to hear these moments of intimacy. But if he had to choose someone hearing them, it wouldn't be Mycroft Holmes.
He's thankful that his brother is momentarily absent that morning.
He keeps his hands to himself whenever John is talking to Mary, and this morning is no exception, though he listens in avidly as if he can hear her voice too. He can't, but he can tell what she might be saying based on John's responses, can almost pretend that he's lucky enough to see her too. But this isn't an ordinary conversation, and John's grief is sharp enough to cut through the air. The tears are a private thing, but Sherlock doesn't even consider moving away. He's just lost Mary, such is evident, and John is afraid of being alone.]
As ever, John, you see but you don't observe.
[His voice is a little hitched as well, but it doesn't matter because he isn't embarrassing himself with anyone hearing. If Mycroft were here, or John could actually hear him, he'd never voice these things. But he might as well voice them here just as well as in his mind palace, it's just as private.]
You see the absence of physical people around you and you believe yourself to be alone, when I don't believe it's possible for you to be alone a moment in your life. Mary is still with you, she made sure to protect you from beyond the grave, and a woman like that doesn't simply vanish because you can't see or hear her any longer. Trust me, I've felt her influence long after she was actually gone.
[He hesitates over this, even with nobody else to hear, but he's started now so he might as well go on.]
And, naturally, I am here. Perhaps a poor substitute for a wife, John, but I give you my promise that you will never be alone while I live. Even if you continue to be obtuse about recognising the simplest of codes.
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He's thankful that his brother is momentarily absent that morning.
He keeps his hands to himself whenever John is talking to Mary, and this morning is no exception, though he listens in avidly as if he can hear her voice too. He can't, but he can tell what she might be saying based on John's responses, can almost pretend that he's lucky enough to see her too. But this isn't an ordinary conversation, and John's grief is sharp enough to cut through the air. The tears are a private thing, but Sherlock doesn't even consider moving away. He's just lost Mary, such is evident, and John is afraid of being alone.]
As ever, John, you see but you don't observe.
[His voice is a little hitched as well, but it doesn't matter because he isn't embarrassing himself with anyone hearing. If Mycroft were here, or John could actually hear him, he'd never voice these things. But he might as well voice them here just as well as in his mind palace, it's just as private.]
You see the absence of physical people around you and you believe yourself to be alone, when I don't believe it's possible for you to be alone a moment in your life. Mary is still with you, she made sure to protect you from beyond the grave, and a woman like that doesn't simply vanish because you can't see or hear her any longer. Trust me, I've felt her influence long after she was actually gone.
[He hesitates over this, even with nobody else to hear, but he's started now so he might as well go on.]
And, naturally, I am here. Perhaps a poor substitute for a wife, John, but I give you my promise that you will never be alone while I live. Even if you continue to be obtuse about recognising the simplest of codes.