"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be… dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this…"

It's been two months since Sherlock's suicide. And every night, the nightmares have gotten worse. They were more awful than the nightmares he had before Sherlock.

He hated him.

Because he left John, after giving him a life that he so desperately needed.

With his limp, his nightmares, his desperate need to do something. He needed a friend when he had absolutely no one. And Sherlock dropped—no, John couldn't think of that word—arrived into his life so perfectly. Knowing exactly who he was within the blink of an eye and John couldn't stop himself from being intrigued.

Why? Why?! Why did he become so intrigued by this man—who should have been a stalker, knowing so much about him—but instead he moved in with the man.

Because he needed someone to confide in that wasn't his therapist because Sherlock—just like a twisted case excited him—excited John. The thrill of the chase, seeing grotesque, dead bodies, and figuring out puzzles excited John. He was able to accomplish more with Sherlock, that dickhead of a genius, but now… John didn't know what he could do.

Two months.

John first went out. With as many people as he could. He tried to find someone new to entertain him, keep him on his feet the way Sherlock did. But no one could. There was no one out there that could fill the void Sherlock left in his life.

"This phone call, it's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

The blinking cursor daunted John Hamish Watson. It was the promise of a story, but John couldn't bear himself to write it. There stood a blank page, a canvas yet to paint on, and there was nothing he could do. Sherlock was the greatest man he ever knew, but there was nothing he could write on the blog about him. Write how Sherlock was a fraud? Sure, he told John he was, but John knew the truth. Sherlock wasn't a fraud; he never was. He was too damn brilliant for that.

With a frustrated sigh, he ran his hands over his face and looked down at his phone. He shook his head and went into the administration section of his blog. His cursor hung over the delete button.

It would be easy, to do it this way. To just forget about Sherlock, forget he ever existed. After all, he left such a huge, gaping hole inside John, it would be just easier to forget the man that left it. It would never be filled again. Maybe a little, here or there, but never wholly. But as his index finger hovered over the button, he couldn't bring himself to click it. Just as he couldn't bring himself to write the true story, he couldn't click the damn button. He let out a cry of anger and violently stood up, looking around his new flat.

Nothing was the same because John couldn't stand it being the same.

Sherlock was his life. He followed the man around like a damn puppy. And he just left. And like the puppy he was, he was left sputtering and whimpering without his master.

He clutched his head. He never knew he needed Sherlock like this. He longed to hear his deep voice say something witty, yet a tad narcissistic and cruel to those of "average mind."

He got into a taxi cab, but he hardly remembered calling it.

"Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."

"Yes."

Standing in front of Sherlock's grave, it hurt just as much now as it did when he saw the blood on his face. The way his eyes looked with the blood splattered near them—like clear, ocean water. He had never seen them so peaceful before. They were always calculating, thinking, critical. And now he saw them so peaceful. And he couldn't have hated it more.

Maybe the pain was from the head trauma he received from the kid on the bike, but John couldn't breathe when he saw Sherlock's limp body. Just like he couldn't breathe looking at the capitalized name on the gravestone in front of him.

He hadn't visited since the funeral. He hadn't a clue why he came today. He ran his fingers gently over the letters. He could almost laugh at the way Sherlock's eyes would crinkle as he smiled. Or the way they would light up at a particularly good case. The H.O.U.N.D. case had to be his favorite, though John didn't exactly feel the same way. Being a lab rat does that to you.

John could never forget the way Sherlock looked at Irene Adler. When she showed up to him wearing absolutely nothing, Sherlock looked at her with this… face. A face that had never been shown to John. And that bloody hurt.

It was a face almost of adoration, almost of desire. Sherlock never got that face, ever. And John was unable to contemplate it. Nevermind the fact that breasts were in his face as she turned to him. When he looked at her, it took all he could to hide his jealousy. Pure, unadulterated jealousy. Why? Because John wanted to be looked at that way, but never could be.

"You don't have a girlfriend then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Alright… Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine."

"So you got a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."

"John… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm not really looking for any…"

"No. I'm…not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine."

"Good. Thank you."

It could never have worked.

Sherlock was adamant that he focus with the case. He wanted no distractions because it blocked his way of thinking. So, in a way, John should have seen it coming… But there was a feeling in the back of his head that maybe—just maybe—he could get Sherlock to look at John just once the way he looked at Irene. He loved it when Sherlock punched him. The fact that he was touched by Sherlock in the slightest bit.

And Irene was right. He did care about Sherlock—he aimed not for his mouth or his eye… He aimed for his cheek, the area that wouldn't stay permanent or last for a particularly long period of time. Maybe it was the doctor in him, but maybe… Maybe it was something else.

"Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH"

"If inconvenient come anyway. SH"

Because John was so intrigued by Sherlock, he decided to put up with him.

The nicotine patches and the horrible nights that Sherlock would shake with withdrawal from his nicotine and cry out for cigarettes. He hated those nights, staying up and doing his best to hide his expression from Sherlock. That way, Sherlock couldn't find the spare pack of cigarettes he had under the skull.

The numerous amount of times John had to go to the store to get food because they never had any, or any milk, for that matter.

All the mocking Sherlock would do at the titles on John's blogs. He was particularly proud of them. He actually enjoyed making those blogs, even though Sherlock would scoff and just walk in the other direction.

Or perhaps the time he refused to wear clothes in the Buckingham Palace. That actually made John quite happy. Sherlock was in Buckingham Palace in nothing but sheets. When John asked if he was wearing pants… The laugh they shared, it filled his heart. And the way Sherlock practically pouted when he was forced into clothing almost made John laugh straight in his brother's face.

"I mean that you're not exactly a private detective anymore. You're this far from famous."

"Oh, it'll pass."

"It better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn. And they'll turn on you."

"It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me. I don't understand, why would it upset you?"

Why would it upset John that the press would turn?

Because it did.

For all of Sherlock's deducing abilities, he couldn't see that.

Moriarty wanted a game and a game he got. With Sherlock's rise in fame, it only made it easier to bring Sherlock down. What comes up must come down. And John was sure if Sherlock were here right now, instead of under him and the ground, he would tell John who said it. Then proceed to say how ridiculous that phrase was, give him a reason. He could probably write a five-page essay about it if he really wanted to.

John knew that something bad was going to happen from Sherlock's rise in fame, but it was too late before he could tell Sherlock just that. He was… mad with him. Because things were happening too bloody fast. He had just been phoned that Mrs. Hudson got shot and Sherlock didn't want to do a damn thing about it.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"No. Friends protect people."

Sherlock had been trying to tell John just that all along. He was a solo act. After all, John basically just ran behind him cleaning up all his messes. And, when times got tight, he would step in and offer a hand—though it would often go unnoticed or no one needed it. And by no one, he meant the famous SH.

He wanted to be so much more than a solo act, though. He wanted to be the one person Sherlock could open up to. He wanted… Just like when he was talking to his therapist, he couldn't open himself up. He couldn't face the truth…

"Goodbye, John."

John realized that he was becoming smarter in the presence of Sherlock. He realized that the genius trusted him enough to go on a case for him. John wasn't aware of it at the time, but as John sat on the grass above Sherlock's coffin, it dawned upon him.

Sherlock trusted him.

And Sherlock didn't trust many people. They lived in a flat together for over a year. They had been great friends… And John could say this because, now, he could see that Sherlock really did enjoy their company.

When John wore the vest with the bombs connected to it, he could see the worry in Sherlock's eyes. Though they had known each other for a couple of months, Sherlock was worried about John's life. Unlike those people who would call crying, reading messages from Moriarty, he could see the worry. And nothing has ever made John's heart warm more than that.

John had only ever dated in the first place because he was so damn frustrated that Sherlock couldn't see what was right in front of him. He might have been a genius, but he never could see how much John truly cared for him… But, then again, maybe he did and just chose to ignore it.

John shook his peppered head, unable to believe that, just like he couldn't believe Moriarty didn't exist. Because he did.

And because John knew—God, he knew—he loved Sherlock.

As the tears rolled down his cheeks and into the lush, green grass, John had to admit it to himself finally. After over a year of living with the man and after two months of him being dead. He finally was able to come out and say it to himself. He ran his fingers over the letters again.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

Taking in a ragged breath, John closed his eyes and whispered, "I love you…"

That's why he asked if he had a boyfriend, that's why he moved in, that's why he cared so damn much about that one last miracle, that's why he didn't want Sherlock to be exposed, and that's why Sherlock called him before he jumped.

Sherlock knew it, too.

Heart pounding, eyes bloodshot, and panting for breath, John had torn through a million memories to finally put together that Sherlock knew that John loved him, even when John didn't know himself.

That's why, in the lab, Sherlock thanked John, not Molly. And why Sherlock trusted John and only John to carry a pixelated version of the "Consulting Detective" around a crime scene.

Pressing his heated face against the cold marble, John sobbed.

Unlike the first time, where he stopped himself and put his mask on. The very same mask John was used to after watching many of his comrades die in Afghanistan. Just keep moving on, because moving is living. A quote from Titanic that John couldn't agree more with, even if it was under different circumstances. Though John knew he wouldn't be able to move on from this one.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times that I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man and the most human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."

John's head snapped up. Because this wasn't a voice in his head that has been haunting him for two whole months. No, no, this was the real thing.

He looked up to see a shadow and the shadow stepped forward.

And in front of his eyes, he could see him. The consulting detective, the high-functioning sociopath, the fake sleuth, the man he loved.

Sherlock Holmes.