Life was empty after Sherlock's death.

In the months that followed John spent countless hours at his best friend's grave. Sometimes he'd just sit and talk, sometimes he'd stare off into the distance, but other times – during the worst times – he'd cry. He'd sob, shoulders shaking violently, and release soft, silent tears. Broken tears from a broken heart.

He just wasn't the same anymore.

See, Sherlock had brought something out in him. He'd taken John out of his shell, cured his psychosomatic illness, and made him feel more alive than he'd felt in a long time. And, despite how horrid he had been on occasion, the consulting detective had become his best friend.

But none of that mattered now.

John's chest ached when he tried to think about it, and when he wasn't at Sherlock's grave he spent most of his time trying to find ways to take his mind off it. Mrs. Hudson had been afraid at first that he'd turn to alcohol, but John was stronger than that. That didn't stop her from worrying about him still.

He only called Harry occasionally anymore, and he hardly ever accepted help from his previous shrink. But the one thing he'd sworn to never do ever again was to set foot in the flat at 221B Baker Street that he and Sherlock had shared.

Never again.

Sometimes, though, John got these strange feelings. When he was at the cemetery, or at the supermarket, or getting lunch, or taking a walk, or even when he was at home in bed, he'd feel eyes on him – as if he was being watched. And though his instincts told him someone was there John refused to believe it. It was just the stress getting to him, he told himself.

If only he'd glanced over his shoulder.

X X X

Sherlock stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his green eyes – sharp and unrelenting and coldly calculative – watching the cars go by. At first glance one might think he was waiting for a taxi, perhaps, but he ignored all that went by. Instead he stood, still as if frozen in time, the cool wind blowing a few locks of curly, dark hair askew.

And no one even glanced twice at him.

It had been nearly a year since his staged death, but Sherlock still wasn't convinced that it was safe. And until he knew that his friend's lives were no longer in danger, he would not risk returning. The world had to forget him first. They needed to forget Sherlock Holmes.

Only then could he come back.

But it was so hard to stay away. It was hard when Lestrade sent him e-mails, begging for his help and relaying cases to him even though the Detective Inspector thought him to be dead. It was hard when Mrs. Hudson cried to herself every time she saw a deerstalker or saw a crime on the news that he would've enjoyed solving. But it was especially – especially – hard when he saw John at the cemetery, crying to himself when he thought no one else was around.

And oh, how Sherlock wished he could step out from his hiding place and face his friend again. But he could not, and he knew it. It was too dangerous. He had to be sure that they were safe, or he would not come out.

He could not.

So instead he stuck to the shadows, following them. Sometimes it was Lestrade, sometimes it was Mrs. Hudson, but mostly it was John. Oh, John. The poor man hadn't had another relationship since Sherlock's 'death'. He was so different now; he no longer flirted with women or joked with Mrs. Hudson, and he hardly ever smiled. It was as if the only emotions he understood anymore were sadness and anger.

Lots and lots of anger.

But it was the worst when it came to Donovan and Anderson. John had restrained himself from their vicious taunts for a long time, and usually it would've been easy to just brush it off. But it was different now that Sherlock was dead. In fact, just a few weeks after his 'death', John had snapped and attacked Anderson so ferociously it had taken Lestrade plus two other men to get him restrained.

He'd spent a night in jail for that, but Sherlock could tell he was proud of it.

And, while all these things surely broke Sherlock's heart, the thing that made it harder was when he saw the things John posted; the flyers he put up, the graffiti he sprayed along alley walls throughout London, the tags he put up on the internet. It was like he was trying to speak to Sherlock, trying to tell him that he believed in him, no matter what. And that wasn't even the tip of the iceberg, because then Sherlock saw the others following John's example and spreading the word around faster than anything he'd ever seen. Spreading it like wildfire through a dry forest.

Believe in Sherlock.

And oh, how it broke his heart.