I have recently discovered that I am a diehard Johnlock shipper, and although I've tried to keep the Sherlocking to a minimum I just can't stop myself with this one. There isn't any romantic Johnlock in this chapter yet as such, but it will be appearing later on :) enjoy!

I whisper goodbye, I swear it's not for the last time,
I know it's not easy,
This could never be easy,
Five thousand miles with traffic of you in my mind,
There'll be pain, there'll be glory,
But you don't need to worry,

Cause my heart will wait,
My heart will wait for you,
My heart will wait,
My heart's gonna wait for you, always.

- My Heart Will Wait, Joe Brooks

He hasn't cried since it happened.

He knows he probably should have done, he should get it out of the way, and it might even make him feel a bit better.

But he hasn't. And he doesn't.

He knows why, of course. It's because he can't get it through his head. That Sherlock is gone, that Sherlock is dead, is such an alien idea to him that his brain has disregarded it as nonsensical rubbish.

He just can't believe that it can possibly have happened.

Of course, he spoke at the funeral, and although he had referred to his genius friend in the past tense during the eulogy, the words felt odd in his mouth.

Getting home, he refuses Mrs Hudson's offer of a cup of tea. Easing himself into his armchair, he stares at the empty leather seat opposite him and remembers.

Sherlock, crouched in front of the pink suitcase.

Sherlock, playing his violin at three in the morning.

Sherlock, shooting the wall in his boredom.

Sherlock, sitting deep in thought with his fingertips pressed lightly together.

Sherlock.

So many memories.

He wonders what he should be feeling. Sorrow? Anger? Pain? Hatred? Loss?

He doesn't know.

Something catches his eye. A photograph, on the mantelpiece. Not framed, just lying there, reflecting the soft glow of the lamp.

He stands, slowly, walks over.

Picks it up.

It's from the time Sherlock arrived back at the flat, covered in blood, after spending the day at the butcher's stabbing a dead pig with a harpoon. He hadn't been in a great mood that day, not being one to get messy if he could avoid it, but he was so soaked and looked so ridiculous that he hadn't been able to stop himself from laughing when John had burst into hysterics at the sight of him. Seizing a rare opportunity, John had snapped a photo on his camera, and although Sherlock had probably noticed, he didn't comment. Now, he looks at the picture, printed off just days before – before the accident, for Mrs Hudson. She'd wanted a picture of him looking happy, and as it was one of the few in existence featuring a Sherlock showing genuine emotion John had volunteered it. After what had happened, of course, they had forgotten about it.

'You're not dead,' he whispers to the picture. 'You're not. I know you, remember? One hundred percent.'

The face in the picture keeps smiling with its frozen lips, unable to respond.

'Stop this, please,' he whispers. 'I know you're out there somewhere. This was just some stupid thing, and you didn't fall, and you're still – out – there - '

Somehow, he's ended up slumped on the floor, the photograph clutched in his hand, and for the first time he feels damp tears on his face.

'Come back. For me – please.'

The nightmares come that night, and he knows, as he wakes with a start in the middle of the night, his body drenched in cold sweat, that they are not going to leave.

After the incident with the photograph, he cries all the time. And that's when he knows the denial stage is over. The pain has arrived, raw and harsh and unyielding, and he is certain that he will never be okay again.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, and I promise Johnlock in the next couple of chapters (if that's an incentive to keep track of this story :D)

Iliketotastetherainbow x