You are the hole in my head
You are the space in my bed
You are the silence in between

What I thought and what I said

John Watson stared out the window from his position in the front room, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair and supporting his head. The ache that had been developing behind his eyes was aggravating him more and more. Rain poured against the window and cast a somber mood into the flat.

There was only so much John could do right now. Thoughts had invaded his head out of nowhere, and it was all he could do not to break down once again. It wasn't necessarily the grief that overtook him this time, but the memories. So John was sat in his old comfortable chair, the one he'd become so familiar with in the past three years; visions of memories danced behind his eyelids.

He had learned a long time ago that the bad memories were the worst to hold on to, so John had taken on Sherlock's old method of "deleting" them. Of course, they were never really deleted at all—just stored away so he could look at them when he was ready. However, the moment never came. How could he ever be ready to go through that? The man was his best friend. He had given him life back. Reminded him what it meant to be happy. So in the end he was forced to go through them with all the pain they produced or shut them out completely.

Sometimes forgetting was the worst part—forgetting the little details of the man who had completely consumed his life at one point. So there were times like today when John would be almost crippled by the weight of the thoughts in his brain—some bad, some good. There were just so many.

John jumped at the sound of his phone ringing in the kitchen. Groaning, he lifted himself from the chair and tried to force back the sharp pain behind his eyes.

"Yeah," he answered, failing to look at the caller ID.

Mrs. Hudson's voice crackled through the earpiece. "The taxi is here, dear. Be down soon—I don't think he wants to wait."

John mumbled a quick, "Be right there," and hung up. He grabbed his jacket and swung it over his shoulders as he made his way down the steps. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called out.

"In here, John." She appeared from the doorway behind the stairs. "Are you ready?" The inquiry was laden with more than just one question—she was searching for much more than a singular answer.

The former soldier straightened and nodded, bending down only to give his landlady a quick hug. "Better than I could be, I would guess." He shot a sad smile to the woman and extended his elbow for her to grasp. "Now, let's get going. The cab is waiting."

As they slip out the front door, John fails to notice both the small look of relief and the sigh that escape from Mrs. Hudson.

X

The rain was a mere drizzle when Mrs. Hudson and John exited the cab at the cemetery. John pulled out his umbrella and held it over his landlady's head. "Are you sure you're—."

"Mrs. Hudson." The doctor fixed Mrs. Hudson with a stern look that said not now. A few seconds went by before his expression softened and he nodded at the rows of headstones. "We should go. The rain isn't going to let up anytime soon."

As if to punctuate the words, the wind picked up and he had to struggle to keep the umbrella upright. "How's the surgery, John?"

A few weeks following the death of his best friend, Sarah had contacted John, a follow-up of an application he had sent in a few days prior. She had given her condolences—why did everyone seem to give them to John? Why not Mycroft or Sherlock's mother?—and had simply given him the job, no questions asked. Since then, John had been doing great with his work and had even gotten a raise. It seemed that without Sherlock around, John was able to focus on things he wouldn't normally be able to. The flat was cleaner, there was food in the refrigerator, and there were even nights when John got sleep.

"Great, actually." They were approaching a black headstone now, and both knew it was time for quiet. For a few minutes each silently paid their respects.

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and laid a hand on John's shoulder. I'll be on the bench, dear." It wasn't said, but the woman knew he needed his little bit of privacy to say what he needed.

"There were times when I thought you were alive, when I thought maybe you could have faked your death. There are moments when I wanted to find you and kill you for putting me through that. Now I just can't think about it anymore. I don't think about it. You're dead, and I know that now. It's been far too long to believe anymore. I will see you then, Sherlock. I'll see you again.

"You were such a beautiful human being, even if you were a git sometimes. You were bloody brilliant. Of course, that may just have been you acting. I can't believe you'd do those things. I didn't know you, though, so how could I know why you did it? You are a fake, plain and simple. You really killed me, you know. For a while I was sort of broken—I wanted to believe you so bad. I wanted to believe in you. Ha. I was just believing in a fairytale. God, when I saw you jump…eh…I thought that was the end. But I had hope, you know? You took that away. But I shouldn't have had hope anyway, should I? Oh, God, I was so naïve. I wanted you to be real. I wanted you to save me, didn't I? You were so larger-than-life, so full of a certain danger and unpredictable-ness that I thought I needed. Hell, maybe I did need it.

"And yet for the longest time I defended you. I would tell everyone that you were real, that you were not lying—and every time I would get labeled as crazy. Maybe it's time to stop, Sherlock. Maybe it's time to move on. A year is too long to wait."

"John, we're leaving."

"Right, well. This will be the last time, then? The last time I talk to you. Oh, what a relief. Well. Ah, ehem. I will try to forget you, like you said."

John touched his hand to the top of the tombstone for only a second before doing an about-face and walking towards Mrs. Hudson and the cab.

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