As usual, I don't know own Sherlock :) I do like to play with them though!

"Grief is the price you pay for love..."

Snap.

Just like that.

It take a split second to change your life. Sherlock Holmes... is dead. He died two days ago. Why deny it? It's nothing new. I've lost a lot of friends and good men in Afghanistan - this isn't any different. Just another number to my tally.

Grief is not foreign to me. Especially not grief associated with Sherlock Holmes. I've already mourned him once - I don't see the need in doing it again. It's far too tedious. I sit on my chair in the Baker Street, staring at the once again - and forevermore - vacant chair in front of me. The simultaneous feeling of both heaviness and weightlessness is hauntingly familiar. I hear people say that when things like this happen, they start to feel numb.

I disagree.

I know what numbness feels like. It's your body's defense mechanism against the pain. You can't feel pain, but it's still there - nudging you persistently for attention.

I am not numb. I would know. I'm just... existing.

John Watson is sitting in his chair, staring into space. The End.

I hear a rap of knuckles on my door, and I raise my head to see Mrs. Hudson, carrying a tray of steaming tea and biscuits.

So that's where it came from...

I silently stare at her as she fixes my cuppa - not that I'll drink it.

"You should eat and drink more, dear," she says as she pours the milk. I just nod silently. Why should I drink more tea? To help me sleep? I'm already in a waking nightmare.

A word is not exchanged - and with empty eyes - I watch my landlady fix me a cup that will expectedly grow cold, but I still praise her valiant efforts. It's nice to be remembered.

She gives me a slight nod and carries the now-empty tray and closes the door. I resume my existing.

A few hours later, I hear the front door slam shut.

"John?" A voice that is unmistakably Lestrade's calls out, followed by the sound of footsteps. He enters the room and inspects it for a second before turning to me.

"Got a minute?" He asks. I nod, not meeting his eyes and playing with a loose thread on the armrest of my seat.

"John, look at me," he insists. God - we've done this before.

After 'The Fall' Greg had been a tremendous help. He had supported me whilst I mourned an empty hearse, and retrained me from punching Sherlock in the face when he returned. Now though... I was just tired of it all. Tired of mourning my best friend, tired of feeling alone, tired of the pitying looks everyone cast my way. There's only so much a person could take.

"John," I hear Lestrade say in a firmer tone - snapping his fingers in front of my face. I meet his eyes with great reluctance, and this seemed to satisfy him. "It's tomorrow."

I look at him blankly. So what? A person hears what people think of him (most of what they say, untrue) and then gets buried. Hurrah. What great fun.

"Will you come?" he asks, but I have the feeling he already know what my answer is.

"Why should I?" I say in monotone.

"Are you kidding, John? He's your-"

"Was."

"What?" he asks. I sigh heavily, and explain.

"He was my best friend."

"Oh," is all Lestrade can manage and he continues he's futile attempts to get me to come. "Well look, you can say goodbye-" I raise my hand to silence him, and look him dead in the eyes.

"Lestrade, I've said goodbye to him in the hospital. I've said enough goodbyes. Far too much. What's so different about this one? I'm doing it in front of his friends and family? I've done that."

It's his turn to sigh and rub his forehead.

"John, look. It's his funeral, and this may be the last time you see him before we bury hi-" I feel like a rubber band pulled too taut, and it was about time I snapped.

"I've already buried him Lestrade!" I yell at the man as I stand up. "I watched that bloody empty coffin get laid in the ground!" My voice suddenly drops to a low whisper. "And I only intend to do it once."

For a long, tense, moment, our eyes lock together and neither of us blinks - until Lestrade looks away. He sighs, and his lips press into a firm line. He nods at me stiffly and turns to get out.

I sit down in my chair, exhausted from the simple act of interacting with another person. I close my eyes, tea all but forgotten.

I sit in the back of the cab, next to Mrs. Hudson, who is holding a bunch of lilies in her hand. This is all too familiar. I drum my fingers on my knee, staring at the world outside.

'Everything's still moving. Can't say the same for myself.'

The cab stops slowly at the gate of the cemetery. Here we go again. Mrs Hudson exits the vehicle, and I follow her out. We walk silently through the grassy land, passing tombstones here and there, until we reached one that is quite familiar.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Mycroft never bothered to take it down, and given the circumstances, he didn't have to. It was the very same headstone of black marble, but it was newly polished and it looked like the golden paint of the name had been redone. It looked the same as it did three years ago - only now it actually meant something.

Mrs. Hudson delicately places the flowers on the grave and bows her head.

"I don't think you'll be coming back this time, will you dear?" She asks, her voice choked. Nonetheless she trudges on, but her voice drops to a whisper. "You know I'm quite mad at you for making John go through this again. Still, I know it wasn't your choice."

A long pause follows.

"You know what Sherlock, I've actually already run out of things to say, since I've already said them the last time..."

Another silence.

"Goodbye then, dear." Her voice is low, and the last words are barely audible.

I hear her hiccuping sobs that she tries to cover with her handkerchief. She looks at me, eyes brimming with tears, then waves her hand - indicating she couldn't go on - and walks away, leaving me alone.

I stare at the stone for long moment - my lips pursed, head down, and foot tapping against the earth. After a while, I clear my throat, and begin with a steady voice.

"She's right you know. I do hate you, on some level. You promised, remember? You promised you wouldn't leave again."

Silence.

"I saw your funeral. Mycroft sent me the tape. What they said about you was absolute rubbish. They said you were a great friend and colleague. That you were the best man they'd ever know and they'll miss you. Bollocks - I know."

I wring my hands slightly, thinking of what to say. I continue with my voice only slightly uneven.

"Well, since I didn't give you another eulogy, I may as well tell you everything now. You are the most rude, obnoxious, promise-breaking, self-centered arsehole that I've ever met. But you were my best friend. I guess I really am an idiot."

I can't think of anything more to tell him. As I turn to leave, I remember something. A conversation with the consulting detective, after chasing down a murderer.

"You know you can't go running around London - chasing after criminals - and not expect me to follow you."

"You'd follow me anywhere?"

"To the edge of the word, mate."

"The world doesn't have an edge."

"Well then you go look for it. I'll be right behind you."

I laugh bitterly at the memory, and face the grave once more.

"You know I would've followed you." My voice is laced with anger and steadily growing in volume. "I would've been happy to chase those damn serial killers with you. But noooo. Bloody typical of you to go where I can't follow."

I feel the rage boiling in my chest - looking for an outlet - and - as much as I wanted to - I could not stop the exclamation that followed.

"How could you do this to me again?!"

Noticing my mistake, I turn and walk away - away from the grave, away from him - away from everything. When my shoe stepped in a puddle, it was only then did I realize it was raining.

"John," Mycroft starts, fixing me with a stern look. After all this time he still can't accept the fact that I'm not intimidated by him. "I've already arranged an appointment."

"No." I reply flatly. He sighs and runs a hand through what little hair he has left.

"Therapy can be very helpful John," he argues. I scoff at his statement.

"It was helpful Mycroft. Now it's just annoying." I say, and look out the window.

"Tell me one thing Mycroft." I turn my head, knowing I had gained his attention. "Is he really gone this time?"

He expression immediately softens, and he looks at me understandingly.

"Yes, John. It is true this time. I give you my word." He whispers, and my head turns to the floor.

I close my eyes and press my lips into a firm line. I feel a slight pressure from behind my eyes, but I push it away. That was what I needed - the confirmation. Now, I felt as if something was slowly unraveling inside me, but I can't tell what. I look at him, and nod minutely.

"The appointment is tomorrow at noon," he says, and I barely register it. He walks out, with a mumbled farewell and I raise my hand in acknowledgement.

And I'm alone again.

Fifty minutes.

Fifty minutes are spent in silence. Ella sits in the chair in front of me, scribbling down notes on her clipboard.

"Have you talked to him?" She asked, finally having enough.

"I've yelled at him, yes," I respond with dull eyes. There was a reason I hated therapy sessions.

"No," Ella says. "I mean have you had a conversation with him? Told him how you feel?"

"A conversation?" I laugh half-heartedly at the idea, and lean forward. "Do you honestly want me to have a conversation to someone who won't reply - who isn't even listening - and talk to the wall like a bloody lunatic?" I sit back once again, and stare at the fabric of my jeans.

She regards me with soft eyes. "You're grieving John. No one will judge you, and - based from the last time - your friends will most likely encourage it."

I look up, and she fixes me with a searching gaze.

"You have to get it out, John. You can't bottle everything up. You're not a soldier anymore."

What affects me most is the fact that she's right.

"You can do it in private if you have to," she continues. "Anywhere you'd like."

And I know just the place.

The roof door swings open, and hits the wall with a dull *clang*. The cold air is biting, and I gather my bomber jacket closer, walking into the open space. I look up to see the stars, greeting me and twinkling in merriment, and the moon lighting up the night sky. I survey the area, and see an old lawn chair, sitting in the corner. I drag it near the roof's edge of Barts' hospital.

I sit down on the chair, and shift a bit uncomfortably, looking up to face the moon. This was what people did in the shows on the telly, so I might as well try. I had nothing more to lose.

I take a deep breath, count to ten, and begin...

"Hi Sherlock," I say quietly - but a few seconds later - I shake my head, and chuckle slightly at the oddness of the situation.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, and talk again. "I can't believe I'm doing this, but it's the only way to get everyone off my back." I know it's illogical, but I could not help but wait for a response.

The small twinge of sadness of not receiving one catches me off guard. Why would I be upset? I knew not to expect an answer. I knew he wouldn't reply. So why did I feel like the night was colder? I dismiss the thought and try again.

"So... I'm sorry for yelling at you. Well, not that sorry, since you deserved it, but still. I don't know what to say. They told me to talk about my feelings, and I know how much you hate that." I stare at the sky - deafened by the silence.

I cannot believe he has the gall to ignore me. He leaves me alone, and doesn't even bother to reply? He doesn't even care?! How dare he?! I feel the same thing I felt at the grave. It wasn't anger per se - but it was something.

"Well," I begin, shouting slightly - and I know it will only get louder. "Even if you hate it, I'm going to talk about my emotions anyway, and you better damn well listen!" I finish with a yell, and stand up swiftly from my seat.

"You are an insufferable idiot! And guess what! I miss you! Alright, I miss you! You didn't even bother to clean up the flat before you left! You leave me here alone after you promised not to leave! How could you do that? nYou promised! You're making me go through all of this again! You're making me grieve you again and it's not fair! You left me here ALONE!"

Still no reply.

"You're not going to interrupt me? Like you always do?"

Nothing.

"Interrupt me," I growl out.

Silence.

"Interrupt me!" I yell to the empty air.

In that moment, I knew that he wouldn't - and he never will. And that's all it takes.

I feel my legs buckle underneath me, and I crash to my knees. I raise a trembling hand to my eyes, startled to find it wet. I feel sobs in the back of my throat, and I can't hold it back no matter how much I try. I place both arms on the ledge on the roof, and cry into the sleeves of my jacket - and somewhere in my mind - I register that I am crying on where he stood years ago.

I want to cover my ears to block it all out, but my energy is spent, and I can do nothing but wear my heart on my sleeve, and cry until I have no tears left.

'Are you crying? Why are you crying?! You're a soldier! Pull yourself together!' a voice that sounds like mine commands.

'Correction. You were a soldier.' a voice that sounds unmistakably like my therapist rebuts.

Sobs rack though my body as the internal battle rages on.

'Whatever! In the battlefield, you don't have time to mourn your friends!'

'Well guess what - you're not on the battlefield anymore - and you have all the time you need.'

'I am a soldier!'

'No you're not. You are not a soldier anymore. The same way you are no longer a blogger. So I ask: What are you?'

'I don't know.'

'What are you!'

'I don't know!'

'Yes you do! Now answer me! What. Are. You.'

That is the moment I realize - I do. I say I'm not in denial, but I am. The only difference is that numbness is not my body's defense mechanism against the pain - it was returning to my military instincts. All this time I've been slipping - and now's the time I fell.

'I'm a person who's just lost his best friend in the world...'

"We all go through the distinct 'Five Stages of Grief': Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally... ACCEPTANCE."

6 months later, I am back on the roof. That night was the first step in a long road, but I am doing better. I pull up the old chair, and take a look at the stars, welcoming me back. I look over to see the moon, and I smile at it sadly. I take a deep breath.

"I'm back," I begin, and continue speaking. "I've met someone you know - her name's Mary. I don't think you would've hated her as much as my other girlfriends - oh, and she loves you by the way. She's seen the pictures and the blog. I really like her, and I'm serious about this one."

I then talk about Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft - going full detail about his weight. I talk about my jumpers and jam - tea and biscuits - anything I could think of. And for a moment, I felt like I was back in Baker Street, with my irritating flatmate, who I'm crazy enough to call my best friend.

I stop mid-sentence, and look at the moon solemnly.

"I still miss you, you know. It's not like I'll forget about you. But I'm doing okay. I'm alright. You'll always be the best and the wisest man that I have ever known, and that's not going to change - I promise you that. Just wait for me there, Sherlock. I'm taking my time."

I could've sworn that for a second, the moon shone brighter. A smile finds it's way to my lips, and I pick up where I left off.

Sometimes I needed to move the chair, since the moon couldn't sit still - just like him. I talk for hours, my voice never giving out. I talk well into the night, with the man I would forever call friend.

I know he won't interrupt - and that's fine with me - because somewhere deep down...

I know that he's listening...

"Days will pass and turn into years,

But I will always remember you with silent tears..."