It had been a year to the day since Sherlock had died. A year since John had entered 221b Baker street. A year since he had heard Sherlock's voice or seen him. No one truly remember Sherlock like John did. They remembered the detective, the annoying little brother, the tenant. John remembered the man. He remembered how Sherlock drank his tea, and how he had been to Buckingham Palace dressed only in a bed sheet. He remembered how he would smile so condescendingly when he thought himself superior(always). He remembered how he tied his scarf about his neck, how he walked, how his eyes would light up at the prospect of a challenge, and dim again when the challenge fell short. John remembered how Sherlock was so very pleased with the idea that Moriarty could equal him, and then so very annoyed at the idea that Moriarty could actually present a challenge.
Mostly, John remembers the look on Sherlock's face just before he stepped from the ledge. He remembers how Sherlock attempted to explain away his innate knowledge of others. He remembers how Sherlock ordered him to walk back, look up, see him there on the roof top. He remembers how he demanded that John look at him. He remembers that Sherlock told him this was a note - "isn't that what people do? Leave a note?". He remembers that he apologized. Above all that, John remembers Sherlock saying goodbye, taking a step, and plummeting to his death.
Everything after that is a blur. John rushing across the street to see Sherlock lying dead on the ground. Doctors rushing out to collect Sherlock, doing what they can, but he is gone, gone, bleeding out across the pavement - that can't be right, Sherlock can't be dead. The doctors pronounce him dead, put him a body bag, and cart him away. Hours turn to days, blurred together from John. Then suddenly, John is standing in front of his grave, begging, pleading - "One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..." Weeks pass, then months - his limp returns, no one to keep telling him it's all in his head, and finally he is here. Sitting, leaning against the back of Sherlock's grave - the same place he sits every week. This week is different.
"Hello, Sherlock. It's been a long week. I've stopped seeing my therapist - haven't been to see her for months, but you already know that. It's been a good, long time since I talked to anyone about you. Everyone else seems to be trying to forget you, you know. Mrs. Hudson is thinking about renting out the flat again, but I keep telling her not to. Your brother refuses to talk to me anymore. Molly has a new boyfriend - finally moving on from you, I suppose. It's strange. You are so memorable - so bloody strange - and yet no one seems to remember. Is it just me? Did I make you up? Maybe you were only real in my head. I think that every week you know. It can't be true, I'm leaning against your grave after all, aren't I?"
John pauses, releasing a slow, steady breath, turning his head down, gazing into his hands. He is quiet for a good few moments. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock walks closer, his coat and scarf flapping in the breeze, making not a sound. He stands above his own headstone, gazing down at his best friend, wishing to tell him the he still lives yet knowing he can't. Silent as the breeze, he turns and sits on his own grave, leaning against the front of his head stone, knowing that only a stone lies between himself and Watson.
"I see you everywhere, you know. In the market - there was a man that looked just like you, but he disappeared when I turned to look again. Sometimes, I sit down for tea, and when I look up, you are sitting right in front of me. I always hear you playing that damned violin. You are everywhere, but I know it isn't really you. I know it isn't because you are dead."
Sherlock closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the gravestone. Every week, he comes and sits, listening to John spilling his heart. Every week, he relaxes into the soothing lull of John's voice, wishing that just once, he could speak back.
"I hear your voice too. Talking to me. Every week, I come to this place, and sit here, and every week, I can hear you talk to me. When I am at home, I hear you telling me not to be stupid. It's never you though. It can't be. Everyone tells me that it's all in my head, and I've finally realized that it is. You are never coming back. When you stepped off that roof, you made me watch as you fell to your death. You made me watch as the only happiness I had died. You made me watch as my best friend died. I want to be angry at you, now, but I can't. I can't because there is no point. Being angry at you won't change anything. You won't step out from your grave and be alive. You won't ever come back."
Sherlock breathes out slowly, and an idea passes through his head. If John can hear him speak to him anyways, it surely wouldn't matter if... He opens his mouth and says, "I'm sorry, John." It's quiet, nothing more than a whisper, but it's enough. John hears him and is silent for a moment. Then he chuckles.
"I knew you'd come. Now of all times, I knew you would be here. You just can't leave me alone, can you?" He trails off for a second before continuing. "No, I suppose you can't. Your just my imagination after all. It's all in my head. Still, I'm glad you are here. I'm glad that I'm not alone for this."
Sherlock smiles slightly. "I'm always here, Watson, you know that." It's true. Between hunting down Moriarty's men and eliminating them from the picture, Sherlock is around John. The man in the market place had been him, and on occasion, he would slip into John's new flat when he was away or asleep. He knew that he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. They had lived together for 3 years, after all, and Sherlock could admit that he missed the doctor.
"I know you are. You never let me forget you, not that I have ever tried. Still, I wish it were really you. You, of all people could talk me out of anything." This raised alarm bells in Sherlock's head. Behind him, John sat, fingering the gun that he had just pulled from his pocket. It was his old gun from the military, the gun that he used to carry everywhere when he worked with Sherlock, should he need. He needn't bother to check the magazine as he knew that it was full. He had filled it himself before heading to the cemetery.
"I've never needed to talk you out of doing anything. You have always seen reason yourself," spoke Sherlock slowly. Behind him, John snorted.
"Oh that is rich, Sherlock. You have always told me that your intelligence is far superior and yet here you are, lacking it. That's how I know it couldn't be you, really. You sound just like me, right now. I needn't even remind you of all the stupid ideas I've had - you remember them all just as well as I do, seeing as you are me. I am glad that you are hear though. It seems only fitting after all." John's breathing was slow and steady as he quietly clicked off the safety on his gun, pulling back the hammer.
"It's been a long year, Sherlock. A long, long year. I quit my job recently, cut off contact with everyone - Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. My sister, Harry, has long since giving up on calling. But I wanted to talk to you again, so here I am."
Sherlock sucked in a breath. It seemed as though John needed him far more than Sherlock had realized. "You, of all people should know that you need people to help you move through grief, John. You need them. I am not coming back to help you," he said, clenching his eyes tight, knowing that it was a lie. Sherlock was coming back. There was only one person left, one person standing in the way of himself and the man sitting behind. This one person was all that was in the way of him and John resuming there lives, as surely as the head stone was all that was between him and John leaning against each other. He heard a breathless laugh behind him.
"I - I- I can't talk to you on the phone for this, so we'll just have to do it like this."
Sherlock paused. "What's going on?"
"An apology."
"What?"
"Everything I believed about you. I was wrong."
"Why are you saying this, John," asked Sherlock, steadily, his heart beating a million miles in his chest, but John continued.
"I'm a terrible friend."
"Watson - "
"You wanted me to tell Lestrade, you wanted me to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. You wanted me to tell anyone who would listen to me. That you created Moriarty for your own purposes, but I didn't."
"Why wouldn't you?"
"Nobody could be that clever," John said, but it was all wrong. His voice felt stilted, forced, almost as if he were following a script.
"I could."
"I finally researched him. After you died, I discovered everything that I could to clear your name. It's a trick. From Moriarty."
"Why all of this now?"
"Because I want you to do this for me."
"Do what?"
"This conversation, even if it's in my head, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
'He is following a script. This is exactly how our conversation went on the day that I convinced him I died.' realized Sherlock with dawning horror.
"Goodbye, Sherlock," John said as he raised his gun to his head. Sherlock leapt up, reaching for John, horror spread across his face.
"No! Don't—"
A gunshot ripped through the still morning air.