An: This is what happens when I go on tumblr and read too much angst=y fanfiction.

Disclaimer: Don't Own. Wish I do – but then I'd probably be dead.

Title: Worlds Apart

Prompt: Sometimes you need to let things be, so you can heal, just a little bit.

Each morning is the same as the last, waking up, undressing and showering, getting dressed, eating an apple with a cup of coffee, and taking a cab to St. Bart's.

It took a while before sitting in a cab wasn't painful anymore; before he didn't automatically turn to his non-existent companion to ask a question or make a joke, a remark about the state of cab drivers in London today. But he was fine now, it was fine, it was all fine. Only he wasn't sure if it really was, not in the slightest. How could it be, when the only man – the best man – wasn't by his side anymore?

He tried not to think about it now, realizing that thinking about him would not bring him back was painful, but he'd done it. He'd done things that others couldn't understand, but he did them, to make it hurt less. He refused to move out of Baker Street, even though the memories of the man that no longer was haunt his nightmares. He took the job at Bart's, even though passing by that spot hurt every single bloody time. He still keeps in contact with Mycroft – and Lestrade – even though he hasn't forgiven him yet; he doesn't know if he ever will. He does these things, not because he wants to remember only man he thinks he'll ever love, but because caring is not an advantage. So he goes on with life, existing like so many others he sees on the streets, but he's forgotten how to live.

The thought enters his mind just as he steps into the cold and sterile mortuary. Molly is there, with the newest cadaver, and a tentative smile on her lips. She doesn't know if it's okay to say anything today, possibly because he's three minutes late, more likely because he has the slightest hint of a frown between his brows. The day passes by without much fanfare, much like the last did, much like the next will be. The end of the shift approaches with the threat of imminent rain, but of course he's forgotten his umbrella; he's not even sure if he has one anymore, not since that one case with they'd taken a year ago. Once again, the thought brings forth an uneasy bitterness in his heart. He's tried to quell it but it seems to never leave; staying just past the shadows in the dark, waiting for moments like these to try and evoke those feelings again.

He makes his way up the hill from where the cab's left him. He was soaking within minutes of stepping out of the cab; it had started to rain at some point during the ride there. It seemed fitting, the one day he comes to this place, the skies open up to show their remorse. He'd read somewhere in a random mythology book lying around the flat that people believe rain to be angle tears in the first days of humanity. Another fitting notion, that the heavens shared his pain on a day like today. Mulling the theory in his head, he stops at a grave under the old willow tree. It was odd that there was a statue of Michael behind the black granite headstone on the grave.

Kneeling down, he places the arrangement of flowers he'd bought along down on the grave. He's not the first to be here today. The headstone was now half covered in various different arrangements of white roses and lilies. He scoffed, they'd both hated roses; he remembers saying once that they were tacky, unoriginal. One of the reason's he'd asked for the seemingly random arrangement at the florists was to be able to convey his feelings to some degree without having to vocalize them.

He looked down at the colourful array of yellow and violet tulips, apple blossoms, pink carnations, daisies, heathers, zinnias, pansies, hydrangeas, delphiniums, forget-me-nots, ivies, and nasturtiums and thought of the weird looks he'd gotten from the florists at the shop. They didn't know why he asked for that particular combination of flowers because it was completely contradictory, and many of the flowers didn't go with the others, a bit like his relationship with his only friend had been. But he realised that though the their characteristics and personality had been clashing – at odds – for a majority of the time, they still worked, much like the bouquet of flowers at his knees.

"Hi, I'm sorry I'm late. I didn't want to come today, but I couldn't leave you hanging." Sighing, he sat back on his haunches, making himself comfortable on the soft wet ground. The rain had stopped now, ironically. "I know that you didn't let it show, but you'd get so lonely sometimes. I hated to see you sad when you thought I couldn't see. I hated not being able to do anything to help you."

Tears were starting to sting his eyes now, and he mentally cursed; he'd sworn he wouldn't cry today. Yet here they were, making an appearance once again, like every other time he'd come to this grave. "God I miss you. You know, Mycroft misses you too, but he won't admit it. I think he feels guilty about how it all went down." The wetness on his face was no longer because of the rain and his hair – unruly from having grown far too long – no longer stuck to his forehead. He twirled the wedding band on his left hand, expression uncharacteristically solemn. "I can't seem to stop these days. In the eleven years I've known you, I didn't think it was possible for it to get worse. But somehow, it's gotten really bad recently."

His shoulders shook as his body wracked with sobs, lungs desperate for much needed air. Breathing was starting to get difficult these days and the sobbing was just making it worse. Minutes passed before he spoke again, this time his voice raspy; he sounded frighteningly out of breath. "I need you. I really do." Another sob broke through; the tears making dirty tracks down sunken eyes, across the pallor of his colourless cheeks.

"I know it's been three years, but I've become so completely lost without you," Fingers on his left hand shook with the intermittent tremor that'd had returned years ago, after that blasted Fall. "I want you to know something. I want to tell you that I lied. I lied. I lied about so many things, little inconsequential things, details that had no meaning at all in the grand scheme of things. I'm sorry, so, so, so sorry, for every single time I said something to hurt you or made a snarky comment. I didn't mean it, you know I didn't. I couldn't mean it when it came to you. You meant too much to me, mean too much, even now."

Slowly, almost warily, he raised his hand to touch name written on the headstone. He could have sworn it wasn't just his imagination; that the whispering wind was saying something, calling him, begging and pleading. Six words formed in the silence of the night, with only the stars above and the light breeze as witnesses.

"I love you, John Hamish Watson"

It took a while before he could gather enough strength to stand up again, and when he did, heaved a heavy sigh, as if bracing himself against what was to come. The walk back from the grave took considerably longer than the walk there had. At the gates, he managed to get a cab home to Baker Street, but refrained from thinking about what awaited him at the flat. Paying the driver, he made quick work of unlocking the door, and making his way up the stairs. He wasn't surprised to find that Mrs. Hudson had left dinner on the kitchen table, which was surprisingly free of any ongoing experiments. He ate a fraction of what was set on the table and covered the rest up. The voice that should have been asleep been there broke him out of his reverie.

"Papa, did you just get back? What took so long? Did you go to the cemetery again?" The young boy seemed to be more awake than should have been, considering it was three hours past his bed time. He turned to look at the dark haired boy, with a concerned expression in the blue eyes, his eyes. It was surprising pleasant to see that particular look of concern after such a long time. He remembers when his best friend did it, when he could look at the beautiful man, and just be happy to be in his presence. And the painful clenching in his heart lets up just a bit when he realizes that he still has this as a little keepsake; Hamish was the ultimate mark of their love and when he smiled, it made the world shine just a bit brighter. So he turned to look up to his only son, and replied with a wistful smile at the boy who looked like him.

"Yes, I went to see John."

BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING! Yes, I'm sorry I killed John, but I thought it would be sadder if it was him that died instead of Sherlock. More coming I think. Perhaps there will be something a little happier…depends on whether Tumblr decides to stop killing me with the stupid SDCC. Every time I go on, I feel like I need to get on a fucking plane to San Diego.

K