It was the weekend, and John Watson hated the weekend more than any man in London. He had nothing to distract him when he wasn't in the surgery, so he spent the majority of his time lazing around the flat, drinking an inordinate amount of tea and trying not to think. The rest of his time he spent avoiding Mrs. Hudson and her overwhelming cheerfulness. In the past week, she had taken up the habit of bringing John baskets of biscuits in an effort to brighten his spirits, saying that he shouldn't be so down because it wasn't what he would want. John wasn't having any of it. Other than the cookies. He very much liked the cookies.
But why should John care what Mrs. Hudson's sensitively-phrased he would have wanted anyway? Sherlock bloody Holmes had gone and left him alone, and now he had no say in how army doctor John Watson lived his life. And as much as John told himself that, it could never be true. It had been more than two years since the incident at St. Bart's, and John had still failed to move on with his life. A sense of Sherlock's presence – even in his long absence – anchored John to 221B; Mrs. Hudson perceived this and allowed John to remain even though he could still only afford to pay his half of the rent.
John still thought of him, had left his things in the flat largely untouched – with the obvious exception of perishable human body parts that he had to throw out. Even ridding himself of those had given John an inexplicable nostalgia. Well not inexplicable, not really. John knew now what he felt for Sherlock, the depth of his feelings, but he avoided thinking about them because there was no point anymore.
John sighed, gathered his belongings, and headed out of the flat for the first time all day.
He squared his shoulders and drew in a ragged breath as he approached the familiar headstone. John sometimes wondered if one could ever get used to seeing his best friend's name on a slab, if he would ever become used to the idea that they would never see each other again. So far, the adage that 'time heals all wounds' had proven devastatingly wrong. Moriarty had vowed to burn the heart out of Sherlock, but John often felt that he had gotten the short end of the stick. It was John who had been left to struggle through the world without his heart.
He gathered his resolve and walked up beside the headstone, standing to the side rather than in front, squaring his shoulders in his typical military fashion, and placing one hand on the cold surface. After that first day, John had not stood directly in front of Sherlock's tombstone again. Knowing he was buried beneath his feet, it felt too much like he was standing on his friend's face while visiting him. Never mind sitting down. John Watson sitting on Sherlock's face – people might talk. John gave a tight-lipped smile at the memory and then shivered – whether from the knowledge that no such memory could repeat itself or from the winter chill he couldn't say.
"Right then. Onto business, Sherlock." John recognized how ridiculous Sherlock would find it that he spoke to his gravesite as though he could hear John's words. They had never discussed religion, but Sherlock was certainly not one to believe in life after death. That would be irrational. Even if there were some continued existence, John imagined Sherlock would soon be bored out of his mind from being dead with nothing to do and nothing useful to deduce.
"So. I brought you what I promised at my last visit. Something to stop you being bored. Just about the only gift you would find acceptable in death, I imagine. These are Lestrade's unsolved cases for the past month; I grabbed the lot so you can pick out the interesting ones. It wasn't easy to get these either, so you'd better appreciate them, Sherlock."
John nodded to signal the end of his speech, turned on his heel, and marched away, keeping with his habitual formality in the cemetery.
Walking home, he thought back to the initial weeks after Sherlock's death. Sure, he had been distraught at first, but about a week later he had convinced himself that Sherlock faked his death somehow. There was just no way a genius of Sherlock's caliber could lose, even to Moriarty, much less kill himself; John was sure of it. He had spent weeks searching for clues feverishly, and even after his therapist said it was nothing more than denial, even when he found no hints as to how Sherlock had faked it or what his whereabouts were, he had spent the next year waiting for a message from Sherlock. He jumped at every text, every sound in the flat, hoping Sherlock had returned. But he hadn't. He didn't.
John made his way back to 221B slowly, not looking forward to the emptiness of the flat. He opened the door and steeled himself for the familiar wave of sadness that inevitably washed over him every time he recalled the loss of his flatmate. There it is. The wall of emotion hit him harder than usual, probably because he had just been at the cemetery.
John blinked against the tears threatening to form in his eyes – he never cried at the graveyard on the off chance Sherlock really was looking down on him somewhere and could see – and staggered into the kitchen to make himself a cuppa, but he stopped short upon seeing a note taped to the kettle. Scrawled in small black writing were the words "Never could come into the flat without going straight for tea, could you, John? You really should learn to be more observant. –SH."
In that moment, despite the medical impossibility, Dr. John Watson could have sworn he felt his heart stop.
He turned to face the flat and there, perched in his usual chair and cleaning the bow of his violin, sat Sherlock fucking Holmes.