Ripple
John Watson visited the grave, alone, early that morning. It was the same grave, but a lot had changed. John could, just barely, make out his own reflection in the tombstone.
The old doctor leaned heavily on his cane. "Sherlock," he spoke, deliberately. "This is not the first time we have had a conversation like this." John sighed, shuddering. He closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself. "The first time… the first time I asked you to not be… dead. However, I will not ask that of you again." John smiled. "The first time, I was in despair. I was lost."
He remembered it vividly. The death of his savior, best friend, and partner. That was a younger John, however. That was not the same man who stood in the same place today.
"I have seen a lot of death, since that time. And I have seen miracles, Sherlock, and you were one of them." John nodded slowly, a lump in his throat. "I have lived through depression. And I have seen it banished overnight." Again, the man paused. "You, Sherlock, were the greatest friend a man could hope for. And I am so glad that I had the chance to be your best friend."
The doctor was silent for a very long time. His gaze shifted upwards, to the clouds. They floated by lazily in the summer wind. A few tears formed in his eyes. "I love you, Sherlock, and I miss you." John Watson whispered, clutching his cane.
After another minute more, he straightened up as best he could, and saluted the grace of the best detective the world had known, and walked back to his waiting cab.
John took a long time going up the steps of flat 221b. At the top, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The man that stared back was a man well into his eighties, who was once blonde but now had gone grey. Tired blue eyes blinked at the almost foreign reflection. The old veteran moved into the sitting room and slumped unto his chair. For over forty years, he and Sherlock had shared this flat while solving crime. Sherlock had died once, and he had died once again. With that thought, John fell asleep in his chair.
In the middle of the night, John woke to the sound of a violin playing. The old doctor smiled, to the empty flat.
