This Melody Was Meant For You

John steps on the bus feeling empty, more so past the point where he can still ignore the feeling. He's already forgotten what not-empty feels like. His soggy coat drips onto the floor of the bus; he'd forgotten his spare umbrella at the clinic and had to settle for his very absorbent coat and a small cap. The very cat that had him dubbed "Robin"  alongside "Hatman".

It's been three years since that day.

He looks around the bus and is greeted with the sight of young couples snogging each other senseless and old couples smiling indulgently. Three years ago, he would have scowled at them all and cursed the heavens for allowing time to go on.

Now, instead, he keeps his face blank and walks over to an empty row near the back.
As the bus engine slowly roars to life, John stares but doesn't really look at the surroundings. As the bus twists and turns around London, outside becomes one big blur of grey and pink. Despite the dreary weather, the city seems intent on sharing the love. Two years ago, he would have locked himself in Baker Street and refused to leave his bed- not even to go to the loo- until the dreaded day had passed.

Now, instead, he thinks about dropping by this new pub called Old Ghosts that's not too far from Baker Street, perhaps make friends with the bartender, and maybe even the still-clean bartop while he's at it. His cheek will be one of the first to make its mark on the wood. He won't stay there too long of course; he has another day of work tomorrow to add to his three plus years of perfect attendance.

There's really no reason anymore for him to miss work. Sure, he's more than welcome to join Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard, but he's never been the brains of the duo. Besides, the rent for Baker Street isn't getting any cheaper- okay, fine, it's had a big chunk subsidized by Mrs Hudson for god knows what reason despite his protests- and although his pay (numerous raises and bonuses included) now more than covers it, he doesn't want to take any risks. After all, it's not like he has another flatmate's share to fall back on now.

Propping his elbow up on the window ledge, and his chin on the forearm of said elbow, John hears the bus' radio crackle a bit before a cheery voice announces, "Happy Valentines' Day London! Our first dedication is to a certain John Watson."

John starts slightly, his eyes widening when he hears the noise translate into his name.  

It can't be. Most probably, it's just another mispronunciation of someone's name.

Still, he listens a bit more intently when the voice continues.

"And for our first dedication, we have allowed the sender a special message.

" 'Robin, Happy Valentines' Day. I'm sorry for not being with you these past few years, but I plan to rectify that starting today, if you'll have me. I'm not sure why you normal people have the notion that these boring  songs can somehow convey your emotions, but I'll just go with the flow this time.

" 'Forever yours, Hatman.  P.S.,  Instead of a drink at a pub, how about I buy the milk this time?'"

The voice chuckles, as do several passengers on the bus. John sits up a little straighter in his seat, staring at the one in front of him whilst his mind replays the message over and over again, though instead of a female's voice, he imagines a deep baritone. He knows exactly when that voice dips, soars and expresses its distaste.

A year ago, he wouldn't have allowed himself this reckless hope and instead forced himself to sleep.

Now, instead, John strains to listen to the radio, his hands clenching and unclenching themselves in his lap. God only knows why he's opening himself up to more heartache now, but he really can't seem to stop himself.

"And now, to this lucky John Watson, wherever you are, please enjoy this tune dedicated to you: Stereo Hearts by Gym Class Hereos."

Even before that incident, John would never have listened to such songs.  It was basically the same thing repeated over and over, just with different lyrics. Most of these love songs didn't have any genuine feeling behind them anyway. But John is determined to listen to every note, every word of this song.

As the singer belts out the very last note, John feels the bus slowly screech to a stop at the side of the road. Confused, he leans to the side in hopes of glimpsing whatever caused the delay, and almost misses the next thing that comes out on the radio.

"It seems we even have a personal message recorded by the sender as well!" The happy voice is back, and it laughs a bit. "Well, John Watson, you are one lucky man today."

John freezes and slowly turns his head up towards the speaker again when he hears that achingly beautiful baritone.

"John. My dear John, did you enjoy that song? I'm cannot express how sorry I am for missing out on three years, but you understand that I had to make sure all was well before we could truly rest, right? If you're looking up at the bus speaker now, look in front."

John's pulse roars in his ears, and he swallows to moisten his suddenly dry throat. Slowly, ever so slowly, he faces the front of the bus, and waits for whatever will happen to happen.

As the message continues, John glimpses a mop of dark curls bounce slowly up the steps, but isn't able to see anything else after that. His eyes have suddenly become blurry.

"I know I probably don't deserve your company after all this, but if you'll let me, then I promise to devote the rest of my life to you. Well, most of it anyway." The rich voice that has haunted him all these years laughs, and like that country singer had once sang, it was soft like summer rain. "After all, those cases can't be solved by the likes of imbeciles like Anderson."

John staggers out of his seat and hurriedly wipes his eyes to try and make his vision clear, but it blurs again right away. He feels some wetness on his cheeks and finds himself thinking that this bus needs to be repaired if the roof is leaking.

"Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this surprise. And John Watson…"

The all too familiar trench coat and blue scarf comes into view, on a dearly missed tall figure that stops in front of him. John turns his face up slightly and looks at the face that he's wanted to see again for so many years, teardrops cascading down his face.

Those blue eyes, that now hold so much love in their depths. Those high cheekbones, that frame a beautifully sculpted face.

Sherlock's mouth moves to form words, and John just stares, transfixed on the sorely missed sight, though the words are not lost on him.

"Happy Valentines' Day."

John's breath hitches when Sherlock pulls out a gigantic bouquet of every flower imaginable and hands it to him. It's ridiculously big, and it's ridiculously girly, and it's just ridiculous, but John doesn't want to trade it for anything else.

Sherlock murmurs, "These are for you," and John somehow manages a somewhat decent, although watery smile, even though he hasn't felt his muscles twitch into that position in three years.

"My God, Sherlock, where have you been?" John whispers, but just as Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, he leans up on his tiptoes and silences him with a kiss.