So often it rained when John went to visit his best friend's grave. Maybe he chose those days deliberately. They fit his mood. He sometimes felt like the sky was sharing his pain. He'd never been the same since that day. He wasn't even sure if he'd smiled or even had a happy emotion since that day. He couldn't let him go. It had nearly been 3 years and yet he still couldn't. What a truly brilliant man he was. There it was; a crack of a smile. A smile that only ever came to him when he remembered the sociopath. For that brief moment, he was happy but it never lasted. His smile would fade the moment he realized these were just memories.

People kept telling him it would be okay. He would move on. All the cliché things one would say when someone lost a loved one. John could never take them seriously because he knew everyone around him had lost faith. Everyone had bought into the lies broadcasted on the papers and television and accused him of being in denial because of how close he was. He shook his head and laughed bitterly as these negative thoughts surfaced. Life never was the same without Sherlock Holmes.

He arrived at the grave and talked to Sherlock once more. He did this often. John visited whenever he had the free time to do so. He would tell him about his week and the going's on in his life, which wasn't much. Then, he would leave. Weeks passed and he continued to do the same thing. Visiting him like this made him feel a little less alone. Not much but a little and that's what he needed. This one particular visit, he did something he'd hoped no one would see him do. John got down on one knee and looked every which way, to make sure no one was watching him.

"Sherlock...I don't know what you've been doing to me these past few years but it's not been fair. I miss you so much. So much. You're...dead. And yet I still can't get you out of my mind. Just like when you were here, you're that annoying voice gnawing at me… but do you know? I'd give anything to hear you again, even just talking about how stupid you think my blog is...or...how trivial things don't matter" He laughed, trying to reassure himself that he wasn't going to tear up, "I've never stopped believing, Sherlock. Ever. But...I know you're not coming back. M'never gonna get that miracle, am I?" He laughed again and cleared his throat before looking around him once more, "And since I know now no one will be around to hear me, and the fact that I can't embarrass myself by attempting to say it to your face...I'll let you know. You asked me before why I got bothered...why it upset me what people said about you. Well.." He lifted two fingers to his lips and kissed them before pressing the fingers against the grave in the middle of his name, "I.." He closed his eyes and shook his head once before opening them to stare straight at the tombstone to complete his confession, "...love you. Hopefully that explains things"

Not a moment later did he stand up and leave the site, not knowing that he hadn't been alone; that two pale blue eyes had been watching him intently this whole time.

-
John went about his week as he normally did. He got up, showered, went to work and came home; as dull as ever. No one to complain to or lecture. No soothing violin music or insufferable bullet fire. Nothing. Just a calm, quiet flat as relaxing as he'd ever wanted but now he just couldn't stand it. The quiet was so loud to him. All it did was remind him of the nothing he was surrounded by. He'd become accustomed to everything about Sherlock he'd said was bothersome. His head fell in his hands. John had never felt so empty.

He visited Sherlock's grave a couple more times that month, one time bringing flowers to set down. It was normal. This had become a part of his routine. But the next time he visited was anything but routine.

It was cloudy but a nice day, nonetheless. John was walking up when he saw something in front of Sherlock's grave in the distance. He raised a hand over his eyes and squinted in an effort to see better. It wasn't flowers. He walked a little quicker, his curiosity growing. When he was close enough to tell, he stopped in his tracks. A sound emerged from him that was the mixture of a breath and a gasp.

A scarf.

A blue scarf.

He shook his head in disbelief. No. No. Someone was playing a game with him. Had to be. John got closer and bent down to pick it up. The feel of the material sent him into nostalgia. His heartbeat quickened and his mind was blank. It couldn't be him. That was simply impossible. This was just some cruel joke being played. He squeezed the scarf in his hands and that's when he heard a sort of crinkling sound. John looked at the scarf he held and unfolded it. There was a note inside. He took it out and straightened the paper:

Believe.

That's all it said but that was enough for John, He held the scarf close to his heart and then tied it around his neck. He inhaled through his nose, taking in the scent of it. It had been a while but he could swear it smelled like him.

John didn't know what was going on or if this was even real or not but he didn't care. He believed in Sherlock Holmes, just as he always had. It may have been a dream or fantasy but he somehow knew he'd come back to him. One day.

John , A bitter laugh, How long's it been since I last saw you smile...?