ONLY TEARDROPS

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, or anything else you could possibly recognise :)

WARNING: Johnlock. Don't like it, just don't read it ;)

If you have a moment look up the song this was named after – Only Teardrops by Emmelie De Forest. It is an amazing song!

CHAPTER ONE: THE DECISION

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"Eye for eye, why tear each other apart?

Please tell me why, why do we make it so hard?

Look at us now, we only got ourselves to blame.

It's such a shame.

Tell me how many times can we win and lose?

How many times can we break the rules?

Between us, only teardrops.

How many times do we have to fight?

How many times can we get it right?

Between us, only teardrops."

Only Teardrops – Emmelie De Forest

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One year. It had been a whole year since the day. That day. The day it happened. It was hard for him to believe it had been an entire year; a year of eating, sleeping, working… a year of surviving. Surviving without him. John wasn't sure how a year had passed so quickly, it felt like only a week ago that he was watching Sherlock take that final step. It couldn't have been a year – how had he survived an entire year of this?

John sighed, scrubbing at his eyes with his left hand. In his right he cradled a cup of tea, the warm liquid slightly comforting against his palm. He sat in his comfy armchair by the fireplace, legs out straight and crossed at the ankles. The fireplace behind him was cold, empty. The armchair that sat across from him was the same way. Cold, empty. That was how John himself felt too. The tea did little to help. It seemed nothing could.

He stood and headed toward the kitchen, unable to stomach any more tea. Glancing at his watch he noticed it was nearly time to go, so he tipped the rest of the tea down the sink and sat the cup on the counter. He grabbed his jacket, doing a quick pat-down to ensure he had his keys, wallet and phone. Then he headed downstairs to where he was to meet Mrs. Hudson.

She was already waiting by the door, an arm full of flowers tickling her nose. She smiled sadly when she saw John, greeting him as cheerfully as she could manage.

"Ready to go then, are we?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be, dear."

The two exited the building together and John hailed a passing taxi. He slid in first and his landlady followed, setting the flowers on the seat in the middle. John told the taxi where they were going and he carefully edged them out into the flow of traffic.

They were both silent for a few minutes, both staring out their respective windows. John watched as the familiar buildings flew by, not even bothering to pay all that much attention to his surroundings. He tried not to concentrate on anything – on the thoughts that plagued his mind, on the memories of that day a whole year ago, on the idea that it had only been one year, and he still had many more to go. How many years would he have left? He hated to think that the rest of his life would be trying to survive, trying to get through just another day on his own. That all his days would be filled with trying to get past the loneliness that seemed to surround him, to engulf him. Would it ever get any easier? Would easier mean he was forgetting? Or that he didn't care enough? He didn't want it to get easier – he didn't want to forget. But he didn't want to continue on like this.

"It's been a year."

It took him a moment to register what Mrs. Hudson had said. When he glanced over to her she was watching him carefully, concern obvious. "Yeah," John agreed, "Doesn't feel like it."

"No it doesn't. It feels like just yesterday that he was running about, causing trouble and angering the police. Do you still keep in touch with that detective fellow? The one that was always coming around?"

"Lestrade, yeah. I talk to him every now and then. We don't really run in the same circles now that Sherlock isn't-" John paused. "Isn't around anymore."

Mrs Hudson smiled. "That's good. He was quite nice, even to someone as… challenging as Sherlock could be."

John barked out a laugh. "Lestrade was a good friend to Sherlock, that's true. Took a lot of crap from him too."

"I think we all did that dear."

John nodded. "But somehow he was worth it."

Mrs. Hudson was quiet again, but she nodded in agreement. John watched as she returned to looking out the window, watching London pass by.

They reached the cemetery a few minutes later. John payed the cabbie while Mrs. Hudson waited, and the two of them entered through the gates together. The path to Sherlock's grave was a familiar one by now, but Mrs. Hudson still reached for his hand as they walked. John was thankful for the action and he gave her hand a slight squeeze to let her know. He liked visiting Sherlock with her – she gave him a reason to hold himself together. He couldn't count the amount of times he'd just wanted to break down here, to scream and shout and curse Sherlock to the heavens for what he did. But he could never do that, and Mrs. Hudson's presence gave him one more reason to give himself. Some days it felt like he was just making them up.

As the simple black tombstone came into view Mrs. Hudson's grip tightened, before she dropped his hand completely. She hurried forward to set the bouquet against the cold stone, placing a soft kiss atop it before stepping back. John smiled as she did so and approached the stone himself, simply touching it with his fingertips. He stepped back in line with Mrs. Hudson.

They both stood silently for several minutes. Both had been to this site many times, and had said all they could think of to say. Neither wanted to repeat themselves. John stared intently at the black stone, tracing the shape of it, the individual letters.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

After what seemed like an eternity Mrs. Hudson turned away and started back toward the gates. John paused for a few moments longer, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. When he opened them again he spoke.

"It feels like saying goodbye all over again."

Why did he keep doing this to himself? Why did he return to this site again and again, when every time he saw that stone it felt as though a dagger were driving itself into his heart. He knew what numb felt like – numb was after the war, when he had nothing. Numb was unfeeling, cold, empty. He wished he could feel numb at this moment, but all he could feel was the red-hot knife of loss. As if it wasn't bad enough that the world had to lose a man as great as Sherlock, but he had lost him as well. Sherlock wasn't a great man to John, he was a good one. He remembered Lestrade once saying, when John had asked him why he put up with Sherlock, that he would hopefully one day become a good man. John could see what he meant. Sherlock had been the best man he'd ever known, even if Sherlock himself had never seen it.

John said nothing more as he turned away from the grave, marching back across the grounds to Mrs. Hudson. The two hailed a cab and were soon on their way home. This trip wasn't as quiet at the drive there.

"I can't keep doing this, John." Mrs. Hudson reached for his hand, cradling it in both of hers softly.

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"This!" She gestured wildly behind them. "The mourning, holding on to the memory of him so closely. He was a fantastic young man, but it has to be time to let it go."

"No," John was shaking his head immediately. "I can't do that Mrs. Hudson, I just… Sherlock was… I don't think I can just yet."

The woman beside him smiled sympathetically. "I know it's hard, dear. He was special to everyone."

"You don't… you don't understand. He wasn't- I'm not-"

"I know. But Sherlock wouldn't want us moping about, wishing he were here. He'd want us to get on with it and do something useful." She was rubbing her thumb in comforting circles on the back of his hand now, still watching him carefully.

"I don't care what he'd want!" John snapped, "He's dead!"

It was only a split second before Mrs. Hudson's face crumpled. Both hands flew to her face, leaving John feeling worse than ever.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I just…" He watched as she pulled her hands downward to watch him with watery eyes. "I just don't know how."

There was silence after that admission. How were you just supposed to get over someone? Sherlock had left a large hole in John's life – he'd been more than just a flatmate. He'd been a colleague, a friend – John's best friend. If there was one constant in his life, John knew it was Sherlock Holmes. Unpredictable, flighty, ever-moving Sherlock Holmes. John still wasn't used to being alone in that flat. He would always expect to see Sherlock – curled on the sofa, hunched over John's laptop, sitting by the fire with a cup of tea that John himself had made. He still sometimes went to make two cups. He'd barely moved anything about, he just couldn't bring himself to change it. He was never this careful about it when Sherlock was alive. But now it seemed like it was all he had left.

"Maybe…" Mrs. Hudson was speaking again, quieter this time. "Maybe it's time for you to get a new flatmate."

Silence. John could barely understand the words she was saying to him. A new flatmate? But where would they sleep? Where would they sit? There were only two bedrooms – his and Sherlock's. There was no room for a third arm chair. Would they mess with Sherlock's experiments? Would they make the apartment smell different? The apartment was only built for two – there was no room for a new flatmate.

Mrs. Hudson was watching him, holding her breath. When John didn't speak, she continued. "I know you're trying hard, dear, but you're working yourself too hard. You could really use someone to help you pay the rent, and maybe to liven that place up a little. You can't live there alone forever."

John considered it, he really did. A new flatmate. It felt as though he would be trying to replace his old flatmate – which is exactly what it was. Replacing a flatmate. That he could do. But no one could replace Sherlock, the strange, eccentric, and ever-quirky man that seemed to change John's life completely. No one could replace his best friend. Would getting a new flatmate be trying to replace Sherlock? What would Sherlock think about John finding someone else? John didn't need to consider that for long. Of course Sherlock would never agree to it. John knew the man well enough to know that Sherlock wouldn't want anyone else in their place.

But maybe Mrs. Hudson had a point. He was working as many shifts as he could at the surgery, but he still had to make time for cases. He wasn't a detective by any means, but he liked to help Lestrade out with some of the harder ones. He'd watched Sherlock do it so many times he was able to pick some of the clues others couldn't. Some of the clues. He knew, were Sherlock there, he would have some of the cases solved with just a glance. John liked to think he helped the police find the conclusion, even if he wasn't as bright as Sherlock. There was no way he could maintain this while working enough hours to pay the rent and keep food on the table. Mrs. Hudson had helped him out a lot, but he could let her keep doing it.

What would a new flatmate really mean? How much would it impact on the flat? He couldn't stand throwing everything of Sherlock's out, would his flatmate want to do that? What kind of person would they be? Surely after having shared the space with Sherlock no one else could ever compare. But would they have to?

John groaned. He was thinking too hard about this. A new flatmate didn't mean a new best friend, it didn't mean replacing Sherlock. Surely he wouldn't be able to stop himself from comparing them in his mind, noticing all the differences between his new flatmate and his old one. But maybe, just maybe, if he found the right person, it may work.

He smiled slightly as Mrs. Hudson who was still watching him. "I'll look into it."

The woman nodded, giving him an encouraging smile. "That's all I ask."

John didn't say another word for the rest of the trip, just stared out the window. A new flatmate. Maybe it was a good idea, it could help him move on with his life. He could never forget Sherlock, and no one would ever replace his friend, but maybe he could get past it all. Moriarty was dead, there was no threat on his part, no chance of it all coming back in his life unexpectedly. Maybe he could put it all to rest and those images of Sherlock, perched on the edge of the building, falling, still and silent… maybe he'd get a break from them. Maybe he'd be able to think about the better things – that spark he always got in his eye at a new problem, the flair of his coat behind him as he rushed down the stairs and into the night, the breathless laughs they shared in the brief moments of relief… Maybe he could think about these things without picturing the stillness, feeling the cold.

Maybe it would be a good thing.

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Many thanks to the awesome KokoMini for being my beta for this, even though she hasn't seen Sherlock (Blasphemy! I know). But for being my strict grammar buddy, and putting up with my lengthy explanations of scenes and situations, thanks.

Please leave a review and let me know what you think :D