It is... strange.

Lips pursed, I frown, gazing intently at the slab of black marble that lies in front of me. It has been meticulously polished, cut completely smooth, engraved with gold lettering - plain, giving nothing away. A single bunch of flowers is left below. A trio of white roses, laying on top of the freshly dug earth. They had been left there not twenty minutes beforehand; lain down softly by the calloused hand of an ex-soldier. He had stood there for precisely thirty-two minutes before leaving. For the vast majority of that time, he had been completely silent. Stoically, he stared ahead, daring the world to disturb him. For the other few minutes, he had spoken to the air. It had started out softly. He wiped his left eye with his sleeve hastily, before... shouting.

"This isn't funny any more! Six... months. Six! Just stop. Stop it, Sherlock!"

No longer caring for the sleeve, the last rays of sunlight caught a slight glimmer against the mans cheek. My stomach experiences a strange feeling upon remembering this, like it has knotted itself. Impossible, but that is the best way to describe it. John Watson gathered himself after this outburst, gave a final look up and down the marble that I now find myself in front of, and with that turned and began to walk away. His leg gives out with alternate steps. He is limping again.

I watch him leave from a distance. I want to follow him, reassure him, take what he is feeling away. But I can't. Not yet. He is still in danger: to risk his life now, after everything I have lain down thus far, would be illogical. After being completely certain that he has left, I step out from behind the tree, and begin to walk towards the spot where he had stood, mere moments ago. I find myself staring at the marble slab, trace the engraved name with my eyes.

The feeling doesn't go away, no matter how many times I visit: It is truly strange to stare at one's own gravestone.

Cautiously, I bend down to examine the flowers that John had left. Freshly cut, elegantly arranged with a small white ribbon holding them together. These were professionally done. He leaves the same arrangement behind every time he visits. If I am not there to watch, a small tip in the pocket of one of my homeless network is enough to convince them to keep an eye on him and report back to me. The petals are a stark contrast from the gravestone: purity in spite of the dark surrounding them. I look over them pensively. In all my meticulous planning, I had not foreseen how... affected John would be.

It has been six months exactly since the day the media has dubbed "The Reichenbach Fall". I suppose they think they are being witty and clever. How dull their brains must be.

My plan has, by and large, been completely successful. I am still here, and Moriarty is, it seems, not. Nobody suspects a thing - why would they? To their minds, people don't survive after jumping off three-storey Holmes is dead. The gravestone sits there, so it must be true. And now the only thing to do is bide my time until it is safe to reveal what really happened. I am not sure how long that will be. It depends on how quickly those around me can tie up the loose ends that still pose a threat to myself and my.. friends.

Friends.

Time appears to flow at a completely seperate pace here. I silently observe my surroundings to pass the time. The gravestone three to the left of the one I stand in front of belonged to a male - a man that had caught the eye of more than one woman. The piles of bouquets there are too small to have been left by a family member, yet too large to be left by friends alone. Possibly a young man. The notes scattered around the site suggest a sudden, traumatic departure. Car accident, maybe.

I half-heartedly interpret various other graves in this way. Deducing has, for the moment, lost its thrill. After all, I am nothing without my blogger.

I remember the exaggerated compliments he used to blurt out when we first met.

"That was amazing!" "Brilliant!"

Childs play, in reality. I will freely admit, however, that the memories bring a smile to the edge of my mouth. But look at me, I say to myself, reminiscing like it is him who has died, not me. The feeling of psuedo-mourning has not left me for six months. Completely unnecessary, of course. Yet, for some reason I cannot shake the feeling of loss that I had not expected to factor in.

I miss him.

Catching myself, I roll my eyes at the emotional drivel. Ridiculous. Replacing the trio of roses, I straighten myelf up and brush my coat down. He is late.

Or is he? I hear the slight cruch of grass being trampled underfoot behind me. There is a metallic clank with every alternate step. An umbrella, substituting for a cane whilst it is not in use. I do not turn around.

"Back amongst the living, are we?"

I exhale through my nose.

"Saying 'back' suggests I left, Mycroft."

I hear a sigh from over my right shoulder.

"Sherlock, for once in your life please try and cooperate. It has been six months and you have made contact with me twice. Twice. Two sixty second phone calls in half a year is not keeping up your side of the deal. I had begun to wonder if you had chosen to neglect it completely."

I turn to face him, sneering.

"Your distrust wounds me, dear brother." My voice drips with sarcasm, though my deadpan expression gives the impression of extreme boredom. "Besides, I would never neglect a deal I made with family." There is a pause as we stare eachother right in the grey-blue eyes we both inherited from our mother. I raise an eyebrow, daring him to object to the not-so-subtle second meaning to my words. "Not to mention that this particular deal is of vital importance to the safety of... Well, you would know."

"Mm, yes." Mycroft nods his head stiffly. "He has been mentioning you an awful lot. Seems to have gotten it into his head that Moriarty forced you to jump. He suspects something, you know. His mind just can't fully make the connections yet."

I digest this with a slight frown. I am impressed. Then again, John is not an idiot. He is intelligent in a different way to Mycroft and I.

"I need more time." I say simply after a pause, placing my hands behind my back.

"Time for what, Sherlock? Nothing is stopping you from returning. His behaviour... well, his therapist is concerned." He pulls a pad of paper out of his coat pocket and skims over it with his eyes. "It says here he isn't sleeping, isn't eating properly, he regularly turns up late for work, or else skips it completely. His psychosomatic limp has returned. He isn't moving on."

This gives me pause. I had noticed the limp, noticed the slight thinning around his cheeks. Hearing his symptoms listed out prompts a feeling that produces that strange stomach knotting effect again. I feel... guilty.

I recover quickly, remembering whose company I am in."It is not the right time yet. John is... still fragile. To reappear now risks damaging him further. And besides..." I look at him. "Moran is still at large. I will not risk it yet, not until I know that he is no longer a threat to us."

Mycroft shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, leaning slightly against his black umbrella. He appears casual, but I can see the tension in his jaw and in the way his shoulders are held.

"It may interest you to know that we have traced him to the French Alps. We are preparing a team."

"Finally, something useful. It's taken you a while."

"Sherlock, please." he sighs. "You would do well to remember that I am doing you a favour. All I asked for in return was that you keep in regular contact, and didn't do anything stupid. Meanwhile, I have lied to John's face repeatedly, organised the Moran mission, hushed up most details of your death and cleared your name of all posthumous charges regarding Moriarty and the children you supposedly kidnapped. I am giving you a clean slate, Sherlock. Some appreciation would be nice."

I fold my arms.

"Is Moran the last?"

"You're welcome." he says with a deadpan expression. "Yes, to our knowledge."

"Let me know when he is dead. Only then will returning be a viable option."

"It may take a while. Moran is one of the most dangerous men on the planet. I am sure attempts on his life have been made before, and he is still here. He will have learned from those attacks, he will know how to make it extremely difficult for us."

I nod, scanning around the area.

"Try and be quick. I am desperately bored."

"I can imagine." He picks his umbrella up and turns to begin walking away. "Oh, and Sherlock?" he looks over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised. "Regular contact was part of the deal. Remember that."

"Yes, yes. Find me when Moran is dead."

With that, he walks away, crunching more grass underfoot. I do not watch him go. Instead, I look around the graveyard, watching for any trace of our conversation not being private. The place is deserted. Satisfied, I look over the grave once more. Everything is falling into place. Soon, it will be safe for me to return.

Soon.