John Watson had changed. The man who had previously been so head strong and determined now simply followed the crowd not speaking, the man who was always known for his amazing bravery seemed to have no courage in his heart. The reason from this change was obvious to anyone who knew him. John Watson had changed as soon as Sherlock Holmes's body had hit the cold pavement outside of St Bart's and his blood had started to seep into the cracks.

At first people who knew him closely like Mrs Hudson and Lestrade simply passed off his changes as ways to cope with the grief. But as the weeks drew on it became painfully obvious that the Doctor was not simply going to snap back to the way his was previously.

John had no reason to look after himself anymore; there was no one in existence that he had reason to hold up pretence for anymore. He spent most of his time either at work or sat on the floor in Sherlock's old room, it being left the way it had been before as if the consulting detective had simply ran out for another case. Mycroft paid the other half of the rent, still paying for his younger brother although his energy no longer seeped through the house.

It was not just John's mental state that had changed but his physical appearance, also. His face was filled with lines; the smile he normally wore never graced his face anymore. His eyes were always shadowed by dark circles. His neck was always covered in Sherlock's spare scarf; he never took it off unless he was in the shower. He unwrapped it from his neck when he slept at the beginning but now he simply left it there, he knew it was a health risk, he knew the piece of fabric could so easily lead to his death but john could simply not bring himself to care. He had lost weight, a dangerous amount of weight, his clothes; the jumpers that he was known for seemed to just hang off him now. His limp had come back, it was not as bad as when he had first met Sherlock but there was a noticeable difference in his walking.

Everyone tried to help John, but they all failed, somewhere inside every single one of them they knew that there was only one thing that could help John Watson and it wasn't possible to get it, because Sherlock Holmes was dead. They all knew that the Doctor was in need of his friend, he needed him, but Sherlock was no longer there.

It was exactly a month since Sherlock had died, John had not taken notice of the time passing as each day seemed to last a year for him now. But as he picked up the morning paper that Mrs Hudson left outside on the kitchen table, he was greeted by the face of his best friend, the picture that he was so well known for, in the hat Sherlock had hated so much. John threw the paper across the room, not bothering to read the article, but the eyes of his friend seemed to burn into him. How dare they try to discredit his name even more? Had they not destroyed him enough, the lies piling up and piling up until the only way Sherlock had seen out was to throw himself of the hospital John just happened to be standing under.

John grabbed his coat, pulling it around him and zipping it up, careful not to trap the scarf inside the zipper, he went to the kitchen counter and grabbed something before making his way out of the door, and tracing a route with his feet, he did not want a cab today, there was no reason for someone else to share his sorrow, the route that would take him somewhere he swore he would never go again.

It took him just over an hour to get to his destination, he had held the tears in, ignoring the burning sensation in his eyes, but as soon as he saw the lump of black marble showing the spot where his best friend lay his battle was lost. The tears started to fall thick and fast, he blindly walked towards the headstone, his tears obquering his vision so much he could not see, he collapsed but kept crawling until his back was pressed up against the stone containing Sherlock's name. John pulled his legs into his chest and wrapped his arms around himself, turning into a tiny ball, sobs making him rock backwards and forwards

Sherlock Holmes had not left London just yet; he started to clear up Moriarty's men there before he moved onto the rest of the world. He was hiding with the homeless, them helping him after they owe him so many favours. Sherlock made sure to stay away from John, he could not see the man for John's own safety but Sherlock was also scared. He had been following John's blog and unfortunately for him Sherlock's brother, Mycroft was aware he was alive. The stories Mycroft had given Sherlock or more the look in his eyes as he sugar coated the stories that he was telling Sherlock about his friend terrified him. That coupled with the blog entries that seemed to get more and more desperate scared Sherlock more than he had ever been in the face of Moriarty. Now the pain that John was experiencing could not be blamed on any other than Sherlock himself. He was responsible for the downfall of his best friend, the destruction of the man he had come to know.

Sherlock had been milling about in the back streets of London; he had killed a grand total of 4 of Moriarty's men since he had 'died' but he knew there was still more out there. For now though he was just strolling leisurely through London, memorising the city he loved before he would have to leave it in a time that seemed every approaching. Sherlock was brought out of his thoughts however by the ringing of his phone. He knew before he even looked it was his brother; after all he was the only one with the number.
"Mycroft."
Said Sherlock, in a matter of fact tone down the phone.
"Sherlock thank god, you need to get the cemetery now!"
Shouted Mycroft, a hint of panic in his voice that Sherlock is not used to hearing.
"Mycroft, earth on earth would I go there?"
Asked Sherlock, it took one word for the tall man to start sprinting full speed through the back streets and the word is
"John."

John's tears were still falling but they were not as fast paced as they were previously. He could see now, the water was no longer blurring his vision. His back was still pressed against the cold marble behind him. Fleetingly John had the wonderings of whether they buried Sherlock in his coat, with his scarf. He smiled slightly at the image of his friend playing hell because there was blood on his jacket. Unknown to John, Sherlock had just arrived and was hiding behind a tree in the cemetery, far enough away so John could not see him but so he could hear everything John said. He tried to stop his brain from trying to deduct John because this was the one time he didn't want to know the life of his friend; he did not want to know what effect he had on the man that was pressed up against the headstone. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to run forward and show himself to John but he knew he couldn't, he shouldn't.

"You know I never even entertained the idea that you could die? Isn't that silly? I am a medical man and yet I regarded my best friend as if he wouldn't die. After Afghanistan I swore I would not become close to anyone, watching bullets rip people you love to pieces puts you off caring for people. You start to realise that caring is just another form of torture because it all leads to pain in the end. But then I met you and bloody hell how you changed me. You in all your deductions could probably see the changes that were happening right before your eyes. I was sleeping better than I ever had since I had come home. There was a few times that I had nightmares, but I think you managed to know when they were happening, because every single time I woke up, panting, there was a soft melody to play me back to sleep that you were playing on your violin. Now have nightmares again, although they are nothing to do with Afghanistan. Every single time I close my eyes I hear that phone call in my head, and watch you plummet to your death. So I have stopped sleeping, I simply wait until my body passes out from exhaustion."
Said John, staring at his hand there was still clenched around his knees.

"I honestly don't want to be here anymore Sherlock; I have no one, everywhere I go I am haunted by memories of you and things that we did. I can't go out in London anymore because I know you are not there to give me short cuts and…. Oh god."
Sherlock moved closer, he could see the tears streaming down John's face again.
"You know, we talked so much but at the same time we said nothing at all. I mean as you flung yourself off that building did you believe you were going to heaven? Or did you think that was simply the end of you? I hope it wasn't just black, I hope your family are with you, and mine. God I can imagine our parents chatting about the embarrassing stuff we did when we were kids."
There was a break and John gave a shaky laugh.
"You know Mycroft once told me that when you were little, that you used to dream of being Pirate."
Sherlock put a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.
"The idea of you as a kid wandering around with a sword and a one of those hats on is hilarious. You know I said I wouldn't do this. Come here and talk to you….. Because I know somewhere you are sat calling me an idiot but I can deal with that. But I can't deal anymore. I don't want to be on my own, I need you Sherlock."
John's voice broke then, and Sherlock could swear that his heart did too.
"I don't know what to do without you. In fact I don't want to do anything without you. It's such an effort to even move now."
Sherlock suddenly had a very uneasy feeling in his stomach. Which only increased when John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the kitchen knife he had brought with him. Sherlock watched as John shifted it from hand to hand. The taller man moved out of the trees, into open view, but John was busy watching the glint of the blade under the sunlight to see him.
"People say this is the cowards' way out, but I don't think so, if it means I can see you again, I can deal with being a coward."
Said John, he brought the knife up and before Sherlock could stop himself he ran forward and pushed John to the floor.

John was confused for a moment what happened? But he quickly noticed the body weight that seemed to be pinning him to the floor. He was dazed slightly, but it did not take long before the smell that was attacking his senses clicked in his brain. He knew that scent, he had lives with that scent, and he had breathed that scent in for nearly a year now. There was no pin-pointing what it actually smelt like but he knew it instantly. He kept his eyes closed, and simply kept taking great breaths through his nose. He had missed the smell so much.

Sherlock meanwhile was terrified. He knew John was alive, he could feel the body under his breathing. He could not believe what he had just stopped. He knew that his death would affect John, just listening to him down the phone that fateful day on the roof but he never thought it would ever affect him as badly.
"John. Open your eyes for me? Please?"
Said Sherlock lightly.
"No."
Replied John, a look of confusion crossed the older man face, it soon left though as John continued.
"If I open my eyes, you will disappear, and the hurt will come crashing back harder than it did before. I would quite happily sit with my eyes closed forever, if I could feel your arms and hear your voice."
"John I am here."
Said Sherlock, he sat the Doctor up, letting him rest his back on Sherlock's own chest.
"You can feel me breathing beneath you."
He took one of John's hands in his own, slowly running his calloused fingers over the younger man's knuckles.
"You can feel me holding your hand, my finger running over your hands, the callouses rubbing the skin roughly, my skin so hard from me playing my violin at random point throughout the nights."
Sherlock took in a shaky breath.
"Please John, I am begging you. Open your eyes."
"And if you are gone, I will feel no guilt for taking my own life."
"I can take that chance, as I can assure you I will still be here."

John Shuffled round to fact Sherlock, he opened his eyes slowly. He was so shocked he stopped breathing for a minute when he was met with the image of his dead best friend. Sherlock automatically felt the lack of breath entering the Doctor body.
"John….Breathe…. Please." John did, as if on auto pilot. It was a great shuddering breath. Sherlock watched transfixed as John brought his hand to rest on Sherlock's chest for a moment before slowly, and with shaking hand unfastened the buttons on the other man's tight fitting white shirt, as soon as all the buttons were undone, he pushed the chest open. Sherlock felt uncomfortable but his brain would not comply with the urge in his body to push John away, instead they were too busy tracking every simple movement John made, to busy sending electric shocks to every single patch of skin that John's hands came in contact with. John pushed his hand against Sherlock's chest, it took a few seconds before Sherlock realised what he was doing.
"It's beating." Said John, quietly and wonder coating his voice.
"Yes John, it is." Said Sherlock, all witty comebacks leaving his brain. He heart was throbbing in his chest; he could not believe that his friend was hurt so much that even the idea of Sherlock being alive was one he could not comprehend. John's hand next came up from his chest and ran it threw Sherlock's long dark hair, playing particular attention to the right side of his head, his fingers probing his scalp before coming down and running over his cheekbones.
"There was no injury John."
"But how…." John was silenced by a finger to his lips.
"A story for another time, there is simply no time now and we are too exposed to have a conversation of that magnitude." Sherlock took a deep breath.
"The conversation we must have however is just as important."
John simply looked at the man puzzled.
"What the hell were you doing just now?" Sherlock said, anger tainting his voice. John looked at the floor, he looked sheepish.
"I didn't know how to… live…. Without you. I mean I know I did before but after you went away I had no desire to do anything. Everything just reminded me of you and that sent pain through my body, more pain than even the bullet caused me. It was all just too much, and I didn't want to feel so broken anymore." Said John, quietly. "I tried Sherlock, I tried so hard, I fought but in the end all I felt was pain, nothing could make me happy anymore."

Sherlock stared in wonder at John, how had he made such an impact on the
doctor sat before him.
"John, I don't know what to do to make this better? It's not something I have previously experienced." Said Sherlock. John smiled slightly.
"Just stay, keep proving you are not dead, and soon the pain will go."
"I can't do that. I need to leave John, Moriarty's men are still targeting you, you have no idea how much danger we are in sat in the open like this. The only reason you are not dead is because they all think I am dead. I must leave. I need to kill them, all the force that could come after us and then I will come back. I will spend years making it up to you if you need it John."

"So you have come back just to leave me again?" Asked John.
"I wasn't going to come back, but Mycroft told me to come here and I am glad I had, if I didn't I wouldn't have had a reason to come home. I need you John Watson, more than my brain likes to admit."
"I don't want you to go….. Not without knowing where you are what you are doing, whether you are okay? You can't just leave me here not knowing, I will lose my mind!" Shouted John. Sherlock put his finger to the other man's lips.
"Shhh, it would not end well if either of us were spotted. I can get Mycroft to set up an account you can reach me on, but we can never mention our names, or anything along those line okay? We cannot be caught out John. It would certain death for at least one of us if we were found. I would have nothing to fight for if you died John, you must be careful, please." Said Sherlock his tone pleading.

"You made me want to die Sherlock, give me one good reason why I should try? You prove that I should and I will do it without question." Said John, Sherlock took a deep breath.
"You asked for me to prove it, and so then on your head be it." Said Sherlock, suddenly with no warning Sherlock's lips descended onto John's. It was not just a kiss but a declaration of feelings, a plea to be safe, a goodbye, a hello, a kiss of so many feelings. Everything that Sherlock felt about John he poured into that kiss. The kiss kept going, their lips still joined, moving against one another, John completely submissive to Sherlock. Their arms were wrapped around each other, holding the other in, knowing that there separation was going to happen, that there was no questioning it. John pulled back first, not breaking the hold they were in, his chest heaving against Sherlock trying to draw in much needed oxygen.
"That was my one main regret. That I had to leave you without you knowing how I felt, that I had never felt your lips on mine, that I had never given us a chance." Said Sherlock, a fear tainting his voice that John had never heard before.
"You proved it to me, I will be here, I promise you that as soon as you get back if you still want to we can have a good go at us, just Sherlock…. Make sure you get back please?" Said John, Sherlock hugged him tighter pulling the doctor into his chest.
"I will come back to you, and when I come back we will be together, as we used to be solving cases and driving each other insane as well as being together in some new ways. Every day I fight, I will fight to get back I will fight to get back to you, not Mycroft, not Lestrade but you John, you will be my strength." John looked up at Sherlock, tears tainting his eyes again.
"That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me." Said John.
"Well I do have odd moments of brilliance." Said Sherlock. John laughed, the tears changing the sound slightly.
"No Sherlock, you have odd moments of stupidity, you are brilliant, every moment of every day, don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"I can have a few hours more with you, what do you want to do?" Asked Sherlock.

"I just want to stay like this, your arms around me, your smell in my nose, and the feel of you against me. I need to memorise what this all feels like, I will have to go so long with just these memories."
"That sounds simply perfect." Said the dark haired man, and with that John lay his head against Sherlock's chest and simply took pleasure in being held by the man he had thought he would never see again. Sherlock just held John simply, memorising every detail of the man in his arms, the man who had captured his heart. His lips pressed against John's head at random intervals, and it was not ling until the slump in John's posture and the slowing of his breathing told Sherlock that the other man was asleep. A tear dripped from his blue-grey eyes, knowing what had to be done now.

John awoke the next morning in a bed that was very familiar to him, Sherlock's bed, in 221b Baker street, John felt sadness take over his soul as he realised that last night, was simply a dream his mind had conjured up, it was not the first time that John had dreamt that the detective was alive, but the dream last night was simply so much more in depth than normal. The feel of Sherlock's arms, the feel of his lips. He was startled out of his thoughts by his phone, tinging, with the tone which meant he had a text.

'Check the kitchen table, left something for you.'

Said the text, without hesitation John got up, pulling himself across the floor, the coldness of the wood on his bare feet a slight shock to his feelings. His gun in his hand ready for any type of trap that could be awaiting him. He walked to the kitchen table and grinned, a tear of joy slipped down his face and a laugh of pure joy escaped from his lips. Sat on the table was a plastic gun, normally out of a child's play set, a piece of paper holding an email address and an envolope. He opened the envelope quickly pulling out the folded piece of paper.

John.

I will not write my name as you should know who this is, if by nothing else but my writing, I apologize for leaving you so suddenly last night, but I needed to leave and I worried if I did not leave then that I would never be able to leave you. I gave you everything you wished for last night, now it is time for you to give me something back. A list of requests if you please: Email the address I have left for you every day, I may not be able to read them every day but if there is one there for every day I am away it will give me a better judgement of you mental state meaning I can keep an eye on you, that and it will put my mind at rest, giving it time to work on other things that will get me back to you all the quicker. I want you to go back to work with Lestrade, you are happiest when you are help others and although they would never truly admit it, they all care for you in the police station, and I believe that they will keep you safe for me when I am unable to, offering you support when I am unable to. The last thing is every single time you feel like you are alone, write me an email, look at the pictures I have enclosed and remember that I am coming back to you, no matter how far a way I may be away from you, I will always be with you, my life is enclosed in that flat, with you.

I will miss you my love, keep my violin safe, I will need it to annoy you with when I get back, my brother will protect from any threats whilst I am away from you.

One more request, keep yourself safe for me. I want to come back to you, you being exactly the way you are now. After all you are the heart to my brains.

I will think of you every day, my dreams will contain you, and I will be fighting this war against them, for you.

X

John looked at the note in his hand before folding it back up carefully and sliding it back into the envelope, he pulled out the four other pieces that were in there, they were all pictures. The first was of John and Sherlock laughing at something out of the camera in Baker Street, the joy on their face so obvious. The second was of the night before, the two of them simply sat against the other, the care on their faces reflecting things so that words were not needed, the third a picture of them kissing, and the forth made John laugh out loud. He stared at the picture before him; it showed a small boy with dark curls, and angular cheek bones, dressed in full fancy dress as a pirate, the hat tipped to the right and the gun is hand on his right hand side held up towards the cameras but so it did not obscure the boy's face, the boy of course being a young Sherlock Holmes. John sat on the couch and looked at the pictures. He knew that Sherlock would never leave him, and he knew that knowing the other half of the duo was coming back that he could survive until the brains of the operation came home, all he had to do know was to keep the heart out of trouble.