I couldn't resist writing this out. It's mostly a trial run for a lot of different things, including the Sherlock fandom. I hope I've pulled this off! Oh! It's kinda inspired by Miranda Lambert's song Over You. And a HUGE thanks to Alienated-Alien for introducing me to Sherlock!

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but the BBC version belongs to them. I'm not nearly smart enough at all to come up with the brilliance that has come with Sherlock.

I'm Not Going to Ever Get Over You.

John remembers what it was like before he met Sherlock Holmes. He'd just been sent home from the service, battered and broken. He could hardly sleep from the nightmares that plagued him.

He'd felt empty. No one had cared about him. He was alone in a city full of people. He'd wanted to return to the war, where he could be of use. Where he knew what to do. But the war had robbed him of his purpose and his ability to even practice medicine.

Then Sherlock Holmes had walked into his life and made him feel needed.

That was until the man had committed suicide and nearly destroyed John Watson.

John sat beside the window in 221B Bakers Street. Snow fell softly from the sky, mixing with the grime in the street below. John pulled his sweater tighter around himself, warding off the chill.

It had been nearly two years since his best friend had died. Two years of depression and sympathetic gazes that made him want to scream. Two years of therapy and unstoppable pain.

He looked across the room to the mantelpiece. He could barely see the pictures in the dim, pre-dawn light. They'd only been taken a few months before Sherlock had jumped to his death.

They'd looked so happy then. All of them gathered together for the Christmas party. At least before Irene Adler had sent Sherlock her phone.

John stood and walked closer to the picture on the far end of the mantle. It was his favourite

John blinked the spots from his eyes as he unhooked his arm from around Mrs Hudson. Sherlock lowered the camera and John couldn't help but stare. Even he had to admit it: his friend looked very… good. Jeanette couldn't keep her eyes off of him when she'd first arrived. Of course, that was until Sherlock had deduced that she was menstruating. (John could still shake his head with a smile when he remembered that.)

"Boys, how about one of you?"

John smiled down at their landlady and opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said and glided over to stand beside John.

"Oh dear!" Mrs Hudson said and began to look around. "Where did I put those reindeer antlers? One of you must wear them!"

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. They doubted she would find them when they were hidden behind several expired cans of vegetables in one of the kitchen cupboards, but it was for the best that she not look.

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson," John said, halting her searching hands with one of his own. "We'll find it later." Or, in other words, never.

"Oh, alright," she said and took up the camera once more. "But you'll have to take a picture with them later, Sherlock!"

"I'd rather wear the ear-flap hat," Sherlock whispered lowly, lips barely moving. John was the only one who heard and he began to laugh right as the flash blinded them.

John gazed down at the picture of Sherlock and himself. He was caught, forever laughing and Sherlock… Sherlock was smirking. There was no doubt that, if the party hadn't of been interrupted and taken a turn for the worst shortly after Molly arrived, the genius would have gotten into mischief. Or more than he normally did.

His throat tightened as he brushed a finger over the two men in the picture. It seemed so long ago now.

John placed the picture back in its place, left hand shaking. He looked around and felt his eyes burn. He had to leave again. He quickly took his coat off the hook, with one of his scarves, and picked his keys up from off the table before heading downstairs.

"John, is that you, dear?"

'Of course, Mrs Hudson. It's not like there's anyone up there with John.'

John gripped the banister and blinked tears away. This happened too often when he returned to the flat.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson," he choked out.

She stepped out into the hallway at the bottom of the steps and John went the rest of the way down.

"How are you doing?" she asked, concerned. "It's been a while since you've been back."

"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson," John said, repeating his daily mantra, only replacing the name with the person who'd asked him this time. "I've just been busy."

"Okay, dear," she said, as convinced as all the others. She could still see the sadness that John had held since that day. "Let's have tea when you come back."

"Okay," John said as he slipped by her and out the door. "I'll be back."

The crisp air outside stung any part of him that was uncovered. It quickly dried his eyes and John shoved his hands deeper within his pockets.

Where to go? He'd just stayed the last week with Harry and they'd had enough of each other for the time being. Greg would still be working, as would Molly. There was only one other spot he frequented. He raised his head and stepped towards the street, hailing a cab. Soon he was sitting in the heated backseat of a car and headed towards his destination.

Many people thought that he couldn't handle going to Sherlock's funeral when he had been so obviously devastated by his best friend's death, but they'd been wrong. Without seeing that coffin lowered into the ground, as hard as it had been, he would not have been able to keep going. He would expect Sherlock to dash from his room, announcing another case.

He'd stayed at the graveyard, even after the coffin had been completely buried and everyone else had left. He'd stared at the letters carved into the headstone, almost unable to fathom his life without the mad man.

"Please, Sherlock," he whispered. "Just one more miracle. Just… Don't…Be…Dead."

A tear rolled down his cheek, soon joined by others.

John remembered the moment when he'd woken in the hospital that day. A nurse told him that he'd passed out on the street.

"How's Sherlock?" he'd asked. Surely if something had made him pass out, his flatmate would be there as well, most likely in the bed opposite him.

The nurse's lips tightened and she shook her head before leaving the room.

And that was when John remembered. Sherlock wouldn't be in a hospital bed or even a chair in the waiting room. Or even in the flat, working on the next step in the case. He was on a metal slab. Dead. Suicide. He'd jumped, even when John had begged him not to.

He barely noticed the same nurse as she ran in and pricked his arm with a needle. As the sedative took effect, John had whimpered.

"Sherlock."

"Sir."

John blinked and brought himself back to the present. "Hmm?"

"We're here, sir. Would you like me to wait?" the cabbie asked.

"Oh no, don't worry about it," John muttered as he pushed some notes at the man and exited the cab before it drove away.

John slowly made his way up through the quiet yard. Finally, he sat down in the snow facing the lonely stone.

Sherlock Holmes

John came back here every once and a while. It was the only way he could still talk with his best friend.

"It's me, again," he whispered. "You probably already thought of it months ago, but Greg and Molly announced their engagement. They're getting married just as soon as his divorce is finalized.

"Mycroft's been paying for your half of the flat. I think he feels responsible for what happened. I think that day was the first time I've ever seen him actually emotional. It made it worse."

John smiled. "I'm driving my therapist crazy. She keeps hinting at a breakthrough she thinks I'm close to. I want to tell her that I had that breakthrough months ago, but… I wanted to tell you first. I just didn't have the guts to tell you…" he swallowed. "Even though I'm just talking to a headstone.

"Anyways, so here it is. First time I've ever said it aloud. Sherlock Holmes, I…loved you," John said, voice cracking. A tear fell from his cheek and several followed. "I wish I had been faster. I might have been able to stop you. I wish I had listened to you and never left. God!" he exclaimed, burying his head in his arms. "I wish had told you I'd loved you, but I hadn't known then. It took losing you to finally realize and… Damn it, Sherlock! I miss you. The flat, my life, nothing's the same without you."

John wiped his face against his jeans. "I know what you're saying now. 'What happened to John "I'm not gay" Watson?' Well, I still don't think I'm gay. I've never looked at another guy but you. You were the exception to that rule. You were the exception to all my rules."

The blond man fell silent. What else could he say? He's said everything he could for this visit.

"I still miss you, you know. Everyone tells me that it'll be okay. Just give it time, but time isn't working. They all think you were just my best friend, but… Irene was right. We were a couple, whether or not we admitted it," John looked up. A family was stepping into the cemetery and the sun was rising. It was time to go. "I'll come back again, but it's time once again, Sherlock."

John stood and touched his cold hand to the freezing stone. He took a deep breath before walking away.

The taxi dropped him off outside of 221B and John rubbed his chilled hands together as he looked up and down the street. Parked right outside the deli was a dark, government car. John only had one regular visitor who had those cars.

"Mycroft Holmes, what is it this time?" he yelled as he carefully unwrapped his scarf as he walked up the stairs. He unzipped his jacket as well. "Was it too cold to abduct me?"

John opened the door to the flat and saw a figure in the early morning light. A figure that was much too slight to be Mycroft Holmes.

John staggered against the door frame as he took in the pale features and the dark, messy hair.

"Hello, John," that voice said, low and sweet as it once was. The voice he remembered couldn't even compare to this apparition's. "If you'll let me, I'd like to come back."

John closed his eyes, attempting to will away this vision. That was it. Mrs Hudson would see him talking to his dead best friend and she'd call Greg and they'd lock him away in a padded room.

"John?" that voice asked, much closer than before. He opened his eyes and the vision was right in front of him, face pinched in concern. "John?"

John inhaled deeply, before balling his fist and punching the memory across the face.

Wait. Ghosts weren't solid and neither were hallucinations. And their noses didn't gush blood when hit.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he answered, voice nasal as he pinched his nose.

"You're real?"

"Of course, John," Sherlock nodded and winced.

John nodded mechanically before taking hold of his arm with a shaking hand. "Come on," he whispered, leading the man toward the kitchen. He sat him at the table and took the first aid kit out from under the sink, before sitting in front of him.

He tended the other man's injury and cleaned the blood from his face carefully.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"Hmm?"

He shifted in his seat, causing one of John's hands to nudge his nose. He winced and stilled. "Mycroft recorded everything you…told me. Or my headstone really."

John paled. "Everything?"

Sherlock nodded. "Even today. He…showed it to me and…I couldn't stay away any longer. John, you…fascinate me."

John blinked. That may have been as close as Sherlock had ever come to saying those three special words. The ex-soldier carefully leaned forward and, paying no mind to the blood that stained Sherlock's face, kissed him.

He drew back, lips tingling. For the first time in two years, a grin broke across John's face and an answering one shone from Sherlock's.

And that is my first Sherlock fic. I hope that you've enjoyed this and please don't forget to review! I just wanted to post something in celebration of finishing my first year of college. I had intended to finish it some time today, but ended up staying up far too late because I couldn't stop. Now I can finally write what I want and not just what my professors want! Wish me luck on my grades!