This is the first Sherlock fanfic I've written and I hope you like it!

Special thanks to musicality7437 for helping me out with the grammar and typos :)

Disclaimer: You don't want to know what I would do it I owned Sherlock. I don't own anything

A single leaf fell from the tree he was standing next to. A dead leaf. He stared from there at the people who were starting to leave the crowd that circled the tombstone. He patiently waited for them to leave. He cursed under his breath the ones that decided to stay behind for a little while. Those people didn't even know John. Not like he knew him. They only saw the good neighbour. Not the hero John Watson was supposed to be remembered as. He sighed in relief as the last two people walked away. Now that he could have a moment alone with the person who used to be his best friend, Sherlock Holmes found himself frozen in place. He knew the feeling. He was terrified.

He forced himself forward only to find that the closer he got, the more real it felt. John Watson was dead. He still couldn't wrap his head around it as he arrived near the tombstone. HAROLD SMITH was beautifully written in the stone and as he read that name, a tear started to form in his eye. He quickly wiped it away. Sherlock would have wanted his friend's real name to be written there. He looked around once again to be sure nobody saw him. Not that they would recognize him, of course. The detective with the funny hat was long forgotten. The last time a newspaper wrote about him was over thirty years ago, when he conveniently faked his death, again. It took people a while to actually believe it, and they eventually did. They all thought Sherlock Holmes had died jumping off a bridge. Of course, he took Moriarty down with him. That time he made sure he got to say goodbye to John properly. Via text message. Of course John didn't believe it when Mycroft told him Sherlock really died, so he started looking for him. It took him only a couple of months. Sherlock didn't see that one coming. Now he didn't get the chance to say goodbye to John. Death was expected at their age, but it felt too soon. After John had found out Sherlock wanted to live under a different identity, John decided he wanted that too. Mary had died long before that, so it wasn't like Dr. Watson had anything to lose.

And so they began their lives as William Jones and his friend Dr. Harold Smith. John refused to give up on the "Doctor" title. Sherlock had always wondered if John ever realized their fake initials were actually each other's true ones: W.J. and H.S. for S.H. and J.W. From then on they lived a pretty ordinary life since they didn't want to draw attention to themselves. To the world, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been dead for thirty years and Sherlock, now William, supposed they had been. They had both changed then: Sherlock had managed to kill Moriarty, but in a way killed himself too. As for John, since Mary had died, he hadn't been the same. Being somebody else helped them to heal. The people that had just left were mostly friends and neighbours.

Sherlock took out his phone and saw the name Lestrade flashing on the screen. Lestrade had been the one to help them out with the fake ID's. Greg, just like John, didn't buy the 'I-am-really-dead-this-time' trick, so he had helped John to search for the consulting detective. Sherlock turned his phone off and stopped as he saw his own reflection on the screen, staring back at him. His hair had gone white, yet it was till curly, unlike John, who had gone bald a few years before. His face was full of wrinkles and he was assured, once again, he was not what he used to be. In fact, they had both changed so much that one day when they were out, and had run into Molly Hooper. Actually, she ran into them. It happened at a shop and she immediately apologised, but she didn't seem to recognise them. Sherlock then observed she had a ring on her finger. She had gotten married.

He decided he had stood silent next to the stone enough.

'This time I'm talking to a stone. Remember when you did?' Sherlock paused for a second as if he was waiting for a reply. 'I am really sorry for that. How long has it been? 30? 35 years?' The Sherlock Holmes inside of him would have said 32 years and 5 months precisely. William Jones though, didn't have to be precise. 'I suppose I'll be returning home alone, then? I don't even know how to make coffee myself. Who's going to send messages for me now?' he tried to lighten up the mood, even though he was in a cemetery, talking mostly to himself. It only felt right. 'Look at me John! I'm doing what ordinary people do.' he stopped as he felt like he was going to chuckle and it wouldn't be appropriate 'Now I'm quoting Moriarty. Sort of.. Did you know the last funeral I went to was my own? Of course you know. That was a stupid question. You've always known everything about me. And I was supposed to be the genius.' He stopped again, this time for a few minutes to gather his thoughts. He felt a headache forming and thought it was because his mind palace was being shaken up a bit. Not that he blamed it. Almost all the memories he had stocked there were about John, and now they were all he had left.

'I'm not going to ask you for a miracle. I know it's not going to happen.' He swallowed as he found it harder and harder to talk. 'All that I am asking is that you wait for me there, on the other side, Heaven, Hell, whatever you want to call it. I don't think I'll hang around here for long either. And before I leave, I want to tell you something I've always wanted to tell you. And in case you're wondering, the answer is no, I'm not going to say "Sherlock is actually a girl's name" even though it would have been funny.' his chuckle was drowned out by a single tear that rolled down his cheek as he took another deep breath. 'I love you, John Watson.'

For anybody watching, the image of an old man sitting at his friend's grave seemed sad, yet ordinary. This moment, though, was different. John and Sherlock had not been just friends. They were one. Brain and heart. Couldn't survive without the other, so now that the heart gave out, the brain knew it was his time to die too. The game wasn't on anymore and never would be again.