It had been about three years since the suicide of the "Fake Genius" Sherlock Holmes. Nobody really cared anymore. You never heard people say his name anymore, and his picture was never in the paper. There were a small amount of people who even remembered him. He hadn't had many friends, and nobody had been so terribly upset. It was only the death of someone that they had known. Nothing special. But sitting in an old armchair, in front of the fireplace with the skull on it, sat one man staring into the fire. He often though of Sherlock. It was rare for him to not be thinking of Sherlock. This man was John Watson. He would sit for hours in Sherlocks old coat, hugging his old violin. But no matter how many people tried to convince him that Sherlock was not real, he still believed. He knew Sherlock was dead. But he often said that nobody could convince him that Sherlock was a fake. He was a loyal friend to Sherlock. After his death, John's limp had become a pain again, and the tremor was back in his hand. The funeral had passed in silence for John. He had stood looking at the body of Sherlock for four hours. There weren't many people at the funeral. It had been John, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Donovan, and Anderson. At the funeral, Anderson has made a snide remark about Sherlock. John had not hesitated in attacking him the very next time he saw him. Had Anderson thought he would not have heard that? Then, at Mycroft's request, left John alone at Sherlocks side. He hadn't said anything then. But he had visited the grave everyday after that for two months. But why? What was he wishing for? Another miracle? He had asked him on another visit. Nothing changed. Now he only visited occasionally.
As night fell, John looked out the window. It was still a little light outside. He put on his coat and went to buy some flowers. Mrs. Hudson was not in, so he called a cab and went to visit Sherlock.
It was a little chilly, and the ground was hard as the leaves crunched under his shoes as he walked to Sherlock's grave. He replaced the old flowers with the new flowers. He tried hard not to cry. But it was so hard. John took a deep breath. The street was quiet, and nobody was watching him. That was good. It helped him to mentally prepare for what he was about to say.
John walked over to the headstone and sat down next to it. He played with the blue scarf around his neck. It had been Sherlocks at one point. But John had started to use it. After a few moments of silence, he started talking to Sherlock. "Well Sherlock. It has been a while. I don't suppose if you were alive you would remember anyway, but today is my birthday. I came because I need to tell you something. It is very important. And if you get mad, you can forgive me because its my birthday." At this point John leaned his head against the black stone. "I miss you more then anything Sherlock. You were annoying, but I liked it. Why can't you be here to smile at me? I love the way you smile, and how your hair looks. I wish you were here with me Sherlock. You always took care of me no matter what. Like that violin playing whenever I was having nightmares? Yes. I did know the reason you played so early in the morning. I'm sure it was obvious to you, how I felt about you. I just never got the chance to tell you while you were alive. I love you Sherlock. I don't think that the feeling was mutual, but I just wanted to tell you how much I miss and love you Sherlock."
John stopped talking and sat there as his voice cracked. He closed his eyes, and though of Sherlock, and of all the times that they had had together. He didn't notice the tops of somebody's footprint were they had obviously kneeled down. Neither did he notice the recorder they had been placed in the dirt by this same person. If he had, he would have at once suspected Mycroft.
As John sat at the grave, a pair of long legs with black pants and black shoes walked down Baker Street and put a letter with no return address on the doorstep of the house marked 221B. There was a swish of black as the man got into a cab and drove away.
When John came home later, he picked up the letter and went up to the flat. He looked at the letter. He wasn't accustom to receiving letters like this. He sat down and took a closer look at it. When he opened it, a picture fell out. It was of him and Sherlock smiling together without a care in the world. Who would have sent him a picture like this? A tear rolled down John's cheek. He read the card. It was a simple message. "Happy Birthday Doctor John Watson." There was so etching odd about the card though. It seemed so familiar. The smell. It smelled so good. And something about the writing was bothering him. Then he realized what it was. The handwriting was Sherlocks and the card smelled like him. But that was impossible. Sherlock was dead. That was what John told himself to stay calm. But his heart was already racing. He turned the card over, hands shaking more then ever now. In the bottom left hand corner was a yellow smiley face. Exactly like the one Sherlock had drawn on the wall all those years ago