When I woke up this morning, there were two things I couldn't believe. One, that Sherlock was dead and two that I was having an argument with Mycroft.

"Look, I don't care who you have to kill to get it, I want a god damn military honor guard for the funeral." I was pacing back and forth in the living room, still in the rumpled clothes I worn the day before. There was still blood on it. His.

"It cannot be done, John. He's not some head of State. And if I pull this type of thing for him. Other officials will start demanding it for their fallen family members." Mycroft's voice on the other end was firm but sympathetic.

"Then tell them that it was a a post mortum commendation for service to the Crown."

"If you think for one minute that I am going to use the Adler case for this you are sadly mistaken!" Mycroft roared.

"You don't have to mention the case! Just that he did a service for the Crown. Hell! Make up something! You're clever enough. Dammit, Mycroft you owe it to him!" This was met with silence on the other end. It stretched out for a long moment and I almost thought that the line had been disconnected when he spoke again.

"You said that your old company would do?" came the final reply.

"Yes. The 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."

"It'll be done." And that's when he truly hung up on me. To be honest I don't know where I got there energy to fight with him. Maybe because it was so important to me. I slumped on the chair and leaned my head back as tried to choke back tears.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I began flipping through the contacts on my phone. I came across the number I was looking for. I sighed as I dialed the number.

I waited painfully as it rang.

"Hello Dr. Ella Stanton's office."

"Hello, I would like to make an appointment." I gulped.

"And are you a current patient or a referral?" Said the helpful voice.

"I- uh I'm not sure. I use to be one of her patients, not sure if I'm still on her list."

"Okay, sir. May I get your name?" She sounded as though she was use to dealing with the terminally slow.

"John Watson."

"Okay Mr. Watson-"

"Doctor Watson." He corrected her automatically.

"Alright Dr. Watson, we still have you on file. But the next opening isn't for another month. Is this an emergency?"

That surprised him. He didn't know that therapists had emergencies.

"No." He supposed suicidal might be an emergency but he wasn't that. Not yet.

"Would you prefer a morning or afternoon appointment?"

John thought about it for a moment. "Afternoon please."

"How's 2:15? Or we have 3:50."

"2:15 is fine."

"Alright, thank you and have a nice day."

He put his phone down and stared off into space for a bit. He was startled by the sound of it going off.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Greg."

"Oh hey." I had been expecting his call.

"So the funeral is this Saturday. What's this I hear you're handling it instead of Mycroft?"

"Well we discussed it and I knew him best. Better then anyone. Mycroft wouldn't know who to send the announcements to."

"Oh. Of course." He paused for a moment mulling something over. "I'm having my team show up in their Blues."

"That's awfully nice of you. My old army company will be doing an honor guard." I told him.

"Cooie!" he whistled. "How did you manage that?"

"I told Mycroft that he had to do it for his brother." He sat in stunned silence for a bit.

"That'd do it, alright." he said. I could almost see him nodding appreciatively. "Anderson and Donavan will be there."

"Why?" was my terse reply.

"Payback." I could almost hear the smile in his voice. I smiled too. Yes. It would be fitting. Make them come and see the people that respected Sherlock, that still believed in him.

"Who's going to be the pallbearers?" He asked, shaking me from my reverie.

"You, me, Henry Knight, Angelo from the cafe and couple of his other clients. People who know he can't be fraud because they came to him and he solved their cases."

"Right then. See you Saturday." This time after hanging up I held the phone in hand and tapped my chin with it.

I didn't know what to do with myself. I couldn't turn on the telly or pick up the paper. His name was still be splashed all over the news. I picked up a book but after awhile I realized that I hadn't turned the page once. I don't think I even remembered a single line.

I threw the book down in disgust. But then I just stared off into space. I still believe that the only reason I ate over the next few days is that Mrs. Hudson forced me to.

The day of the funeral I dressed in my dress uniform with the red and black. My captain pins emblazoned on my epaulets. I watched the Met show off their dress blues as more came out in force then I would have thought. The Super Intendant he heard tried to prevent them coming out in their Blues but somehow Lestrade had won him over. Donavan and Anderson looked decidedly uncomfortable. And I remember thinking that Sherlock would have liked that.

I sat numbly as people spoke of Sherlock. Mycroft, Lestrade and couple others. But I couldn't get up there. My voice had gone raw from the days of crying. I think Mrs. Hudson got up. I don't remember. I remember walking with Sherlock's coffin as we passed under the raised sabers of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I remember setting the coffin down. I even remember placing the first white rose on the coffin.

What I don't remember is making it home. Many people stopped by after offering condolences. But it washed over me as it started to rain. It poured for weeks. It was like the world mourned with me.

A month came and went and I found myself in her office.

"Why today?" she asked.

"You want to hear me say it?" I asked her incredulously.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment." She nodded.

"Do you read the papers?" I asked her. I stared at her in frustration.

"Sometimes."

"And you watch telly?" I asked her nodding. I pointed at my seat. "You know why I'm here."

"I'm here because-" I stopped and closed my eyes.

"What happened, John?"

I opened my eyes and fought the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. "Sherlock-" I closed my eyes again. I couldn't say it.

"You need to say it. You need to get it out." Her voice was calm and caring.

I nodded. It was was I was here after all. "My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... is dead."

We talked for awhile and when the session was nearly over she said, "The stuff that you wanted to say... you didn't say it."

"Yeah," I breathed.

"Say it now." She told me.

"No," I told her shaking my head. "I'm sorry. I can't." She sat watching me until my hour was up. But I couldn't bring myself to tell her. To tell her about the unbearable ache in my chest.

Afterward Mrs. Hudson came in a taxi and we went to the grave.

We stood at the grave after placing the white flowers for a bit and then she spoke.

"All his stuff, all the science equipment, I left it all in boxes I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it a school. Would you-"

"I can't go back to the flat again. Not at the moment." She laced her arm through mine. "I'm angry." I told her.

"It's okay John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. The marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns after one in the morning."

"Yeah," I agreed.

But she went on. "Bloody specimens in the fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food!"

"Yeah." I said trying to stem the tide but it coming.

"And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with his carryings on!"

"Yes, yes. I-I-I'm not actually that angry. Okay?" I finally got her to calm down.

"Okay. I'll leave you alone to ah- you know." She put her finger to her lips as she fought back tears.

I waited until she was far enough way so she wouldn't hear me, hear what I was going to say.

"Um..." I started but had to fight back tears of my own. "You." I swallowed hard. "You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um..." I paused as I was about to say something painful. "There were times I didn't even think you were human." Looking down I continued. "But let me tell you this: You were..." I fought, looking for the right words. "The best man. And the most human- human being... that I've even known. And one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. So..." and at the risk of sounding childish, I added. "There." I took a deep breath. It was becoming harder to say what I need to. I looked back at Mrs. Hudson and then stepped forward to touch the grave stone.

"I was so alone... and I owe so much." I sighed and walked away. But I had to come back.

"But please. There's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead." my voice cracked on the last word. Tears stung my eyes. "Would you do that? Just for me? Just stop it." I pointed at the tombstone. "Stop this," I cried. The tears that I had fought all day came pouring down my face. I took a deep breath a stood at attention and then did an about face and marched back to Mrs. Hudson.

I dropped her off at Baker St. and carried on to the hotel I was staying until I could find somewhere else to live. I laid on the bed and cried.

Cried until every last tear had been cried out of me and drifted into an uneasy sleep. The first of many nightmares started that night. It was always the same. I was chasing Sherlock through the London fog and just as I would catch up, I would notice the ledge and I would grab at his coat as he jumped and I could feel the wool slip through my fingers as he fell to the street below. Then I would wake up in a cold sweat, screaming his name.

I felt so weak. So helpless. I looked out the window and then grabbed my cane to go for a walk. My limp was back. And worse then ever. It was a constant reminder of the days with the brightest, bravest man.

I don't know how long it took me after that first session, to say his name out loud again. But even my friends knew better then to mention his name to me.

There was only one constant in all this. She was stronger then I was. I thought she would be a wreck too. But she had this quiet solidarity that strengthened me. And that was Molly. Dear sweet Molly Hooper. She would come over some times and bring over Chinese and just talk.

She would prattle on about her cat, the latest body that came through her morgue, how Lestrade was doing. Just little things. She would let me cry on her shoulder when things got to much to bare.

She even stayed in contact with me after I moved out to the country.

Three years would pass like a whirlwind. Out of the blue I received a call from Lestrade.

"John? John Watson? Formerly of Baker St?" came the voice on the end.

"Greg? Greg Lestrade?" I couldn't have been more shocked.

"Oh thank god. You're like my third John Watson, I've called today."

"I didn't know that there was that many of us." I cracked.

"Nice to see you still have your sense of humor John." Came the dry, not amused reply.

I rolled my eyes. "What do you want Greg? I have patients waiting." I looked back at them and waved, mouthing "Another minute."

"How would you fancy coming down to London for bit?" I turned back to the phone shocked.

I folded one arm in front of chest propping up the arm that held the phone.

"Wild horses couldn't drag me back, why?" I was starting to get seriously annoyed.

"We think he might be back."

He didn't have to say who he was. There was only one 'he'.

"He's dead Greg. I've come to terms with that."

"So explain to me who would your old landlady would be hiding in your old flat."

I was about to say anyone but that wasn't true. Mrs. Hudson wasn't a stupid woman. "I'll be on the next train to London." I turned to my patients.

"I'm sorry family emergency," I told them as grabbed my coat and ran out the door.

The train was on it's way before I thought about what I was doing. But I couldn't turn around. Not when there could be a chance. Even if it was .000001 chance. It was still a chance and that's all that mattered