John limped through the seemingly endless rows of tombstones trying to be as fast as possible. He wanted to be done with this. Sooner rather than later.

He knew the way by heart, had seen every grave on his way a thousand times nonetheless he kept looking around. He was observing everything he passed because he wasn't able to face his destination. Not yet.

John was staring at the expensive black marble that had become the symbol of everything that was sad and dark in his life.

"It's actually kind of funny, Sherlock. Sometimes, I am even able to laugh about it. Surely, you wouldn't see it that way but….It's just…I don't know." He tilted his head, staring at his shoes and the earth beneath them.

"They all see it. Every single one of them. They pretend not to. I am fairly certain that I am playing my role very convincingly though. Because I am the best actor. I am so good at it, you would be pleased. No, that is the wrong word. You would be impressed how I developed the ability to make everyone believe that I am feeling better. That I am not feeling lonely without you. That I don't have to struggle to get up in the morning. It helps, you know. I watch their relief when I smile at them and I am almost able to believe it myself." He shrugged his shoulders at that.

"I know you would see right through it, but that doesn't matter. And, actually, nothing matters anymore. You left me, Sherlock! You fucking left me!" He took a steadying breath to calm down, it was a cemetery after all.

"There is no sound, taste or voice that doesn't remind me of you. Everything lost its value the day I lost you. Sentiment, I know. God, I am just so angry. And it makes it worse that I can't hate you. I wish I could. Oh, how I wish I could hate you. Maybe I could move on then. Maybe I could start a new life somewhere else. But I'm just sitting there. Every day. I'm staring at your violin for hours, imagining you'd come and play for me. Imagination grew very important to me in the last month, I daresay. I can't even count how often I've pictured you returning. I can almost hear you chuckle at that. Amusing! I remember your laugh but not my own. I don't think that's a problem, I won't need it again. Just another thing I have lost." He was clearing his throat to find the bravery to proceed.

"Yorick speaks of you, you know? You always argued about his name but that is none of your concern anymore, is it? How else would you name a skull? And he is quite smart. He is right about so many things. I understand why you talked to him so often. He is the reason that I am talking to you now. There was one thing he said… and I…I had to agree with him." He knew that it would be hard and he didn't want to hurt Sherlock but he had to say it. He had to say it out loud.

"I….I wish we'd never met! There! I said it." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The sky above him was blue with a single bird flying around, searching for prey. John's gaze was fixed on the engraved letters.

"Erm…I…I have to go now, Sherlock." Hesitating, he let his fingers slide over the 'S', feeling his eyes burn.

"I miss you. I love you." He shifted into his military stance and quickly turned around. He knew he'd never come back.

Sherlock was slumped against a tree, hugging his legs tight. He had buried his face between knees and chest, sobbing quietly.

He had lost John.

Forever.

That night, John was standing in the middle of the living room. All he could remember was his own voice screaming this painful word, the name he would never forget. And blood. God, he needed to talk. There was no one. As usual. But this was not what made John turn around in utter disbelief. Yorick. Yorick was gone.

Hello John. Pub? – Greg

Always the eloquent DI, John thought, instantly dismissing the offer. It was three days after Yorick had magically vanished from 221b and John was already freaking out. Somehow, he had never noticed how many conversations consisted only of him talking to that skull.

Scratching his neck, a newly developed habit that caused sore and itchy marks, John considered never talking to any human again.

Appealing. Not healthy, at all.

To go or not to go.

Yorick might have laughed at that.

"Oh, God!" John groaned.

He jumped off of the couch, hurrying to the bathroom while he typed on his phone. If he wanted to go out he would have to shower first. He smelled a bit. OK, not just a bit.

Thirty minutes later, he stood in the doorway. He knew why he hesitated and found it perfectly reasonable. Pity. Greg would have that look on his face that always made John want to cry. No, not cry. Weep. He sighed heavily.

"Soldier on."

He took the stairs two at a time, his jaw tight and his eyes looking straight ahead.

Sherlock stared angrily on the floor of his hotel room, clutching his hair painfully in his right fist. He was sitting on an awfully modern leather sofa that was neither comfortable nor cheap, which made Sherlock even angrier.

His gaze was still locked on the little fragments of bone that had covered the floor after throwing an annoying, if not hateful skull on the wall. In his left hand, Sherlock held the solution to all his problems, tempting in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

The table in front of him was already prepared. Somehow he had managed to avoid seeing his own face in the small mirror. He forced his eyes shut and turned his head away from the evidence of painful loss. With two fingers, Sherlock tore the small plastic bag open before he scattered most of the clean white powder all over his reflection in the mirror.

It was OK. That would help him to stay alive. To survive the guilt and the loneliness he had to bear. Beside the mirror, his phone moaned obscenely.

He showered and left the flat. – MH

Sherlock blinked a few times. What now?

It was 1 am when John came home. He felt exhausted and empty. The night with Greg had taken all his acting skills and the stairs seemed to feel a personal grudge against him, trying to be as hard to climb as possible. The dizziness John felt was suddenly replaced by pure wonder when he step through the living room door.

Every surface in the room was inhabited by various skulls. Not only human skulls, there were some cats, dogs and even a few mice skulls. On the couch-side table which was covered by no less than 12 skulls, lay a small piece of paper neatly folded to stand like some sort of reserved sign in a restaurant. John took the two steps to the table cautiously and slow, fearing he might pass out from the absurdity. A quick look around assured him that he was alone in the room before he leaned down to grab the paper. He rounded the table and sat down on the couch fiddling with the small note. He just assumed that it was a note, what else would it be?

Fourteen years ago, Sherlock had a case that involved an alleged Shakespeare-manuscript and a narcissistic expert, a combination that forced him to develop the ability to forge handwriting. It wasn't really necessary but Sherlock just wanted to compromise that cheeky bastard. It took him a long time until he was able to produce an exact copy of Hamlet and by that point he knew the play by heart.

Sherlock had often planned to delete this knowledge but he never did, partly because he quite fancied Shakespeare but mostly because John did too. They argued about the skull's name now and then, and Sherlock never admitted that he envied John for the idea.

Writing the note for John took him 15 minutes and three attempts. When he was done, he folded it neatly in half and let his fingers slide over it.

You will get your miracle, John.

Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar…

John immediately knew that it was a Shakespeare quote. Well, the language made it obvious. He jumped up from the couch to search through his books for the source when another thought struck him. WHO?

Who would take Yorick, replace him a few days later with a lot of brothers and sisters, and leave a note for him that would lead him think about….doubt?

Doubt was something he'd gotten used to. He had doubts about his future, his feelings and sometimes he even doubted his past. In his weakest moments, there was nothing he was certain of, except one thing. He always, every second of his existence, believed that Sherlock wasn't a fake. If the note wanted to make him believe that he lied, John would be certain that it didn't come from a friend.

It came back to the source then. He had a much smarter plan this time. Searching though all of his Shakespeare books? Stupid idea, really! There was his laptop, right under these three cat skulls. John arranged them carefully in the few free places of his desk before he settled back on the couch with the laptop on his knees.

He typed in the quote and "Shakespeare" and was instantly rewarded.

Hamlet. He should have thought of that! What he didn't expect was the end of the sentence. Well, he expected that there was more because of the way it trailed off, but he really didn't expect this. At least it gave the exact source so he could re-read it in one of his own books. Just to be sure.

"Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love".