Sherlock will not remember your anniversary. Never. He will not make reservations, will not bring you dessert at work or breakfast in bed, will not leave love notes in your bag. He will never buy you a gift and say he did it “just because” with a rakish smile.
He will not hold you in his arms through the night, whispering bold declarations, reciting love poetry. He will not gaze fondly into your eyes as the sun rises. He will not go teary on one knee, will not produce a ring (will not accept one), will not call himself “happiest” or “luckiest” because of you. He will not surprise you with a candlelit dinner to celebrate. (He will surprise you with a candlelit dinner. But it will because he experimented on the chicken you were thawing and shot out the kitchen light.)
He will not kiss you goodbye when he bolts from a scene or the flat or even the anniversary date you arranged, stricken with an epiphany about a case that cannot wait. He will not, in fact, even say goodbye most of the time. He will not apologize for it, either.
He will not stop leaving things where they trip you or scare you or poison your tea. He will not clean those things up when you ask, nor when you cajole, nor when you threaten, beg, yell, storm out, or do it yourself.
Here’s what he will do: He will forget you’re there, forget you’ve left, forget the cleaning and the shopping and the laundry and that you promised dinner with your sister and that your father gave you that.
He will insult your intelligence. He will use words you’ve nearly killed better men for. He will roll his eyes at you. He will roll up his sleeves for your inspection and fail.
He will ruin your things and your day and your heart for anyone else, sometimes even for yourself, and that’s not okay.
He will scowl at you and pull away from you in disgust when he is on a case. He will lie. He will disappear for hours. He will look puzzled when your voice breaks.
He will not fix his gaze on lovely bodies as they walk by. He will not come home late smelling like someone else then retreat to the shower to wash away another’s skin before you notice (not even if you say he should because you are).
He will not let you drown in self pity when the cold weather makes you ache or when you run into Farralley’s widow or when Harry slurs blame at you. He will not hide his annoyance with your lack of logic--your life wouldn’t have saved theirs, would it? You’re much more useful here than dead.
He will not function as well when you’re gone. He will not let you forget this.
He will not ever play “Death and the Maiden” ever, ever, ever again when he finds you leaned against the kitchen wall, hand over your mouth, choking sobs down. He will not ask you why. He will not stop playing “New World Symphony,” even though he hates it.
He will not be content with just your friend. He must be your *best* friend. Your partner in all that word's ambiguous overstatement and inadequacy. Your entire life.
He will remember everything you have ever tasted and enjoyed. He will remember what soap you use by scent, that you are allergic to cashmere, where your birthmarks are, exactly how many millimeters of grey your hair has from one day to the next, the exact sound your breathing makes the second you fall asleep.
He will smile at you. Real smiles, ones that contract the corners of his eyes and put his strange lips in parenthesis. He will laugh with genuine happiness around you, until he’s nearly helpless with it, gasping for air, voice going a bit high on the end of it, eyes streaming tears. He will lay his head against your chest some nights and ask you if he’s been good, if he is good. He will fold into you the day before he buries his brother and sob against your neck, like a person, like a child.
He will be escorted out of six hospitals, trying to blackmail someone into giving a liver to your sister. He will be arrested twice when he tries to steal one. He will not be able to meet your eyes when you joke through your tears that it’s lucky she passed when she did or he may have murdered someone for spare parts. He will mutter something about running out of time and tune his violin.
He will be quicker with his fists when you are in danger, slower with his sharp tongue when you are not, and close his eyes in bliss when you say you love him, like he can feel it, like a touch. He will do that every single solitary time until they day they don’t open again.
He will touch you more gently than anyone ever has and he will do it constantly, but in his own way. He will rest the curve of his shoulder against your thigh in the kitchen. He will push his toe against your heel while shaving. He leave, for a heartbeat, his fingertips between your shoulder blades at Scotland Yard.
He will act like he’s on a case for three days before he takes you to bed for the first time. He will spend hours researching online, in books, in your bed, new ways to make you gasp and he will treat each one with smug triumph. He will treat it like a bloody contest, one which you cannot conceivably lose.
You will forget your keys four times in the first two weeks. You will be late to work almost every day for a month. You will careen between elation and terror with no middle mark. You will suspect him of experimenting on you again. You will tell him this. You will not follow him when he storms out.
You will hold him as close as you can. You will listen to his heartbeat, his breathing. You will want to crawl into his belly and make love to his very veins. You will fill your eyes and ears and mouth with him.
You will wake up one morning having lost your identity, utterly, completely. You will be disgusted with yourself for it. You will arrange two weeks, go away, do things, drink, meet people, think about fucking them, decide not to, save a life, save six more. You will come home yourself again and this time, you will remember who you are.
You will bear his petulance with impatience. You will raise your voice. You will think of raising your fists. You will smash glass vials against the wall, so blind with rage and fear that if he touches you, you will hurt him because that’s what he goddamn wants, isn’t it? You will call his brother because tonight is a Danger Night, but the danger is from you. You will treat him with contempt when he promises to never do it again.
You will hate yourself for that.
You will forgive him. You will eventually forgive yourself, though it takes much, much longer. You will never forgive his father that you never met. You will be utterly okay with that.
You will not ever be afraid of him. Around him, yes. With him, certainly. For him, every day. Beside him, despite him, toward him, and a litany of other prepositions but never of.
You will not ask too much and you will not be disappointed. You will not want more than he can give. You will not take what he does give you for granted.
You will not long hear whispers of love poems or bold declarations. You will not be hungry for breakfast in bed, dessert at work, or notes in your lunch. You will not take his surface indifference for the gifts you buy him “just because” as fact, especially when wears the aubergine scarf every day until he loses it in the Thames.
You will not crave a ceremony or jewelry or fanfare or parties. You will not miss his nervousness or his fidgeting when he asks you to sign the paper that gives you power of attorney. You will not actually be asleep when he says into the empty dark of a hospital room, “I love you so very, very much.”
You will not be head of household. You will not have children. You will not pick out carpeting or have a mortgage or buy expensive perfume or get a break from the dishes or take cruises or have a cake baked for your birthday or be bored or be alone or feel unneeded.
And you will not ever regret it for a single moment of your long, long life.