"One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me - Don't…be…dead."
It was six months since John had spoken those words. Six months since he had asked for that miracle. John looked down at the grave of his best friend in silence. He had forgotten about his last request. Not that it really mattered, he thought. What mattered was that he hadn't been there for … no, don't do this to yourself. Not today. He straightened up and breathed out slowly through his mouth, before clearing his throat.
"Don't quite know what to say. I think 'happy anniversary' isn't quite the right sentiment."
He sighed remembering Sherlock's distaste for the expression. "Sentiment."
"I… I miss you everyday… every goddam day. I really hate you for it sometimes, if I'm honest. I think I'd be happier if I just forgot. But I won't. You'll always be my best friend Sher… Sherlock, and no one's going to change that."
He wiped his cheek and began moving back to the entrance of the graveyard. It was a pretty miserable day. Not raining though, so John decided to walk the 30 or so minutes home. He felt like he needed the air.
Everyone was bustling about like it was any other day, not remembering what happened six months ago today, not knowing what they had lost. What he had lost.
Lost in his thoughts, he hardly noticed anything around him till he'd made it back to his street. He was brought out of his revere by something he saw in the corner of his eye – a long blue coat…
"Sherlock," he whispered. Before he knew what he was doing, before he even had the chance to think about how ridiculous it was, he was off at a run, crossing in front of oncoming traffic to get to the other side of the street. He ran up to the corner he'd seen it by, before turning and…
Nothing. There was nobody to be seen with any sort of coat on, especially not the distinctive one he saw… or did he?
Exhausted by the emotional strain and his sudden exertion, he sat down on the steps of someone's doorway with his face in his hands. And then without realising he was sobbing there on the street, his raw emotions breaking under this latest strain.
Of course he saw him today, he thought. On this day he was likely to mistake anything for his friend, to cling onto anything that would give him hope.
"John."
John gave a yell of surprise. He'd jumped to his feet as well, and now was frozen. "John, it's me." Of course it was. He'd know that voice anywhere.
Slowly, without blinking, John turned around to face the man behind him, who had clearly just come out of the house he was sitting in front of.
Tall and imposing as always, though admittedly a little thinner, Sherlock Holmes was looking down at him.
"Son of a…" John's fist collided with his chin, making a very audible collision.
"You bastard! You complete and utter bastard! Six – bloody - months!" He shouted, throwing three more punches at him.
"OW… John you made my lip bleed…"
"EXCELLENT! How about what you've done to me, Sherlock! What you've been doing to me for half a year!"
He'd gone a bit hoarse now. People were staring. Not that he cared.
"I understand," came Sherlock's hurt voice, as John saw him sink back behind his emotionless mask. "For what it's worth, I am sorry. I'll leave now."
John stared at him. "Leave…?" And with that he pulled Sherlock into a rib-crushing hug.
"Do that to me again, and I swear I'll kill you. Properly this time," John chuckled into Sherlock's shoulder. After a few moments he felt Sherlock's arms wrap hesitantly round his back. He was being hugged by the living, breathing Sherlock Holmes.