A/N: I've always wanted to write one of these. Post-Reichenbach, the way I think John would really react. All of the ones I'd read so far make him get over Sherlock or just mope and whine like an eight-year-old. John by definition CAN'T move past Sherlock in this incarnation of him, but he's no pansy, either. So if you were expecting hard-heart!John or pansy!John, sorry. This is not it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but if I did, we'd have Season 4 by now, and Johnlock would be canon. Just so you know. But it isn't mine, unfortunately, so I just have to borrow the BAMF characters and hope I don't ruin them. A shame.

Enjoy, my lovelies!

Exactly three months, four days, seven hours, and three minutes passed after his death before I was able to think a complete sentence. Most of my existence during that time was spent a nothing, a shadow on the wall, a dust mite in the air, stuck in limbo, in hell, in a vegetative state. I don't know if I slept. I don't know if I ate. I don't know if I drank. I don't know if I urinated or defecated. I don't know if I breathed.

I know I cried, hot, salty, bitter tears that stung my cheeks like the acid Sher - he accidentally spilled on me during on one of his stupid experiments.

I know I emptied the contents of my stomach into the toilet countless times, unaware that there was ever anything in there to expel, hating that there was.

I know I shouted at the skull, at the violin, at the stupid yellow smiley face on the wall, maybe even at Lestrade or Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson or some combination of them, but I don't know what I said, whether I meant any of it.

I know I was not John Watson, which sparked my first coherent thought of the time after the Fall (always capitalized, the event that ended it all): Sherlock would be disgusted. Even as I ran to the loo to vomit at the thought of his name, I knew it was truth. Sher - he would be appalled at how thoroughly sentiment had destroyed me.

I flushed the toilet and sat on the cold tile, considering my loss of and recent return to sanity. I knew that he would hate the first and celebrate the second. I didn't think I could stand being someone he would hate, so I would have to return. I nodded, and the motion made me nauseous, but I willed my stomach to still. I would be sane, for him.

I hoped that, in time, I could be sane for me, too, but I figured that baby steps might be required in this case.

After that moment's reconciliation with truth, I made myself tea and pulled out my tin of comfort food: chocolate biscuits filled with strawberry jam. Not the most nutritious food to start with after - Jesus, three months? - but I wanted a little comfort to start with. Mrs. Hudson came in while I was sitting at the table, and I smiled at her.

"It's okay," I said, my voice hoarse. (Was I crying? No... I must have yelled a lot lately, then. Huh.) "I'm back." We had tea together in silence, her hand over mine, the message clear.

"I miss him, too."

At the end of tea, I set up an appointment with my therapist. If I was going to be a human being again, I needed a shoulder to cry on. Not literally, I assured myself. I refuse to be anything but strong in public. It's what he would want. Mrs. Hudson suggested going to visit his grave afterward, and I agreed. Closure might be good.

For the next week, I did my best to return to fighting condition. I began eating regular meals again. I bathed and shaved and changed clothes and did laundry. I cried six times, a little less each time, and I was pleased that the last day was dry-eyed. That's how I would stay when I visited the therapist. That's how I would stay when I stood in front of his grave.

When I said the goodbyes he robbed from me.

I tried to sleep, too, although that turned out to be easier said than done. Nightmares weaved in and out of my nights, never taking full control, but never leaving me alone either. This was worse, I realized, because I never could guess how I was going to sleep, I could never brace myself, so I ended up waking more drained than when I fell asleep. All the same, I managed an average of four hours of sleep each night, which was a definite improvement.

Mrs. Hudson was an angel, always nearby when I wanted her, but not hovering like a helicopter. She said very little, an oddity for her, but I was grateful for her near-silence. Any and all words said in the flat felt empty, but I refused to move. Moving was giving in to the pain, and I would not give in any more. Sherlock would hate that. Besides, I wanted to stay where I was truly happy for the first time, where I first texted a murderer, where I first listened to a violin solo and enjoyed it, where he and I were together.

How could I give up the place where we were together?

The week ended slowly, time creeping past like molasses, but it did end, and I visited the shrink. I almost didn't make it. I almost cried, but I held on.

"My best friend ... Sherlock ... is dead." Good thing the bitch was too stupid to see that I was swallowing down bile after I said his name. He wouldn't have been.

My visit to the graveyard wasn't much better, but I was armed. I had words to say, and I would say them. I would not fail him in this, not when I failed to stand by him ("You machine!"), not when I couldn't save him ("Goodbye, John."), not when there were words to say.

"You told me once" (Breathe, John, breathe.) "that you weren't a hero." ("Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." Wrong, you idiot, can't you see how much?)

"Um," (Breathe...) "Well, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but" (Don't ramble, he'll stop listening, you'll bore him, don't bore him.) "let me say this: You were" (My everything, my life, my every breath, my whole world, how could you take that all away from me?) "the best man" (the only man, The Man) "and the most human" ("Iraq or Afghanistan?" "Not good?" "Coming along?") "human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me you told me a lie." (Not fake not fake not fake not fake not fake not fake not fake. Real.)

I moved forward, touched the gravestone, fighting back tears, because I wanted to touch you instead. I wanted you, not some monument to my greatest failure. I should have saved you. I should have stopped you. I should have died instead.

"I was so alone," (I am so alone, you bastard.) "and I owe you so much." (I owe you the world, but now I can never pay you back, now all I have is the hole where you were.)

I turned away, swore to myself that I would say no more, that there was nothing else to say, that I would leave and never come back. Don't you dare cry. John Hamish Watson, don't you dare. I did turn back, though, because there was one thing left. One final request from the man who had lost everything.

"One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock," (Puke and die, John.) "for me." (Keep going, keep going, keep going, don't let him hear the sentiment, he'd hate the sentiment.)

"Don't" (Don't cry.) "be" (Don't you shed a tear! Not one tear!) "dead." (FOR THE LOVE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, JOHN WATSON, DON'T CRY!) "Would you," (That's right, get angry, you won't cry when you're angry.) "just for me, just stop this." (Shit.)

I walked away then, sure that I if didn't, I would dissolve into a puddle of tears and shame on the ground at his grave, and I refused to do that. I walked as fast as I could, refusing to limp even as the pain in my leg grew. Psychosomatic, I know it is, and I refuse to pity myself like that. He wouldn't. He didn't.

I trained my eyes straight ahead of me, military-steady as I crossed the graveyard, but I felt eyes on me. I itched, longing to look and see if maybe, just maybe, it was him, that he had granted my last request of him, but I knew the truth. He wouldn't just sit back and watch me fumble along without him. He would race up to me - no, he was just float back to me, the bloody phantom he was, eyes shining as he explained at inhuman speeds how he did it, how he lived. No, Sherlock would never just watch.

And I could really go without Mycroft's pity right now.

I returned to the flat, heart heavy but mind clear, ready to figure out the hardest question of all: What next? I couldn't imagine returning to surgery anymore, not without him to drag me away from it. I couldn't do the normal things without the abnormal things to counter it. Of course, I had to say something on the blog - no goodbyes, no testaments of faith, no anger. I'd hold my dignity, and his too, and we would stand together, but something must be said.

After a few hours, I decided on a single sentence. "He was my best friend and I will always believe in him." It was kind of a testament of faith, but I didn't think he would mind. It was dignified to believe in a friend, after all. Honorable, even.

That task done, I returned to the issue to what to do with the rest of my time. I couldn't sit around writing about my time with him, because that be obsessive, and I refused to be that way. Only he could get away with that, and that's how it should be. I couldn't do nothing, because that was akin to going insane, which was also not an option. The army wouldn't take me back, and I refused to ask Mycroft for help. But maybe...

The thought struck me like lightning, with just as much pain involved. It would never work. I would self-destruct. I couldn't survive that way, and he would want me to survive, wouldn't he? Yes, he would, but he would also want this. Maybe... maybe I could do this. For him. Maybe then he'd return the favor I asked of him. Maybe.

Fingers shaking, I dialed the number I knew by heart, refusing point-blank to acknowledge the doubts and fears running rampant through my mind.

"Hey, John, how're you doing?" I could hear straight through the fake cheerfulness in Greg Lestrade's voice to the regret, pain, and concern underneath. I wondered offhandedly if I screamed at him too during my time as a nothing.

"A little better today. I visited his grave today." How did I get my voice to sound so calm?

"I heard." So Mycroft was watching me. Little bugger. "What can I do for you, mate?"

"Well, I was thinking about what to do now. I don't think I can go back to surgery anymore, but I'm sure as hell not sitting on my ass. Both would drive me up the wall with boredom."

"You almost sound like Sherlock." I hear the joke in his voice, but I still suck in a breath at the sound of his name. This has got to stop. You will hear his name. Get over it!

"Yeah, well... I was wondering if I could do his job, as a consulting detective. I know I'm no genius, but I think I might've picked up one or two of his tricks over the years, and, well, I think he would be pleased to know I was continuing his work." There was silence for a long moment, and I started wondering if this was such a good idea after all.

"John... you know he's not coming back, right?" Lestrade's voice was hesitant, like he thought I was a bomb set to explode. I laughed bitterly at both the thought and at the words.

"I know, I know. I just... wanted to honor his memory and all that. I'm not just doing this for him. I'm doing it for me, too." Lie, but I will be making it a truth. Baby steps.

"I... okay. Alright. Yeah, you're right. Actually, I'm working on a funny case right now. Locked door homicide. It would barely make a three on his scale, but it'll make a challenging first case. You wanna take this one, or do you wanna wait for a harder one?"

"I'll take whatever you get," I heard myself saying, although I could hear him screaming about wasted time in my head. "I'm not as picky as he was. I'll meet you at the crime scene, you can fill me in there. Text me the address, okay?"

"Alright, mate, see you in a few." A few minutes later, address in hand, gun tucked in my pocket, I headed out to meet Lestrade on my first case without my partner.

It wasn't easy for me, although I knew he would have figured it out in seconds. I did my best to see the case through his eyes, looking for every detail, and constructing the big picture. I talked to the victim's family, his suspected enemies, his friends, neighbors, and coworkers. It took me two weeks, but I figured it out. The neighbor's cat sneaked into his house behind his three-year-old daughter and decided to take a nap atop his bookshelf, where he kept an assortment of ancient weapons; he was a history professor at the local university. He gave a shout when he realized he'd won the lottery, scaring the cat awake. The cat leaped up, hissing, and knocked over an Ancient Greek battle-axe, which fell onto victim's head, blade-first, just as he was jumping up, so that it cleaved his head open.

I knew that he would have seen the cat hair from the first second, the lottery ticket the second, and figured it out from there, but I decided to be pleased that I figured it out at all. It was a victory, and I wouldn't let his relative success ruin it for me.

I continued to work as consulting detective for Lestrade for the next three years, and my good reputation with the police (I tended to be nicer and more sympathetic with the police - Anderson and Donavan excluded) inspired others in Scotland Yard to ask for help. I wouldn't accept other clients, partly because I wanted to differentiate what I was doing from what he and I did together, and partly because I knew how fickle the people were. I wasn't taking going to help the people who condemned him.

That said, by the end of that third year without him, I did get much better, solving fives and sixes without a whole lot of time, usually a matter of days. Sevens and eights gave me trouble, usually up to two weeks per case, and I could chew on the few nines and tens I got for weeks straight, but I took everything the police came at me with. I knew that even though I was good, I was not nearly at his level. I could use all of the practice I could get.

After the first year, I realized that I could understand why he never ate or slept on a case, as there was just never time. How could I stop to eat when there's a murderer to stop? Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade helped keep an eye on me and told me when I needed to take a break, kind of like what I used to do for him. I even tried to construct my own Mind Palace, but mine was really quite shoddy, so I abandoned it.

Some of the nasty wounds on my heart he left healed and faded, although I never could say his name and I flinched every time I heard it. I forgave Lestrade, began going with him post-case to celebrate at bars. I went back to St. Bart's, although that took me far longer than I would have liked, and I began to hang out with Molly, who I could tell decided it was her job to watch out for me, her own way of paying homage to the man who touched her life. I let her, since I'd always liked and admired her secretly. She and I had a special bond in my mind: we'd both been pushed around by the great genius himself, but we'd stood by him anyway, even as things got difficult. I began talking to Mrs. Hudson about normal things again, and I managed to mostly clear out his old things, although I put anything I thought might have been personal or important into storage. I got everything from him in his will, as he said he owed me everything and Mycroft nothing. I disagreed heavily on the first part, but I was all too happy to hear the second.

I never did forgive Mycroft for selling him out to Moriarty, but after I regretfully had to ask for his help in securing CCTV footage for a case, we came to an agreement: he would help me with a case when and only when I asked for it, and I would solve the occasional case for him.

I stopped dating, since I never could quite explain what I was or who he was.

I grew out a mustache since 1) I no longer had to worry about a girlfriend who might object to it; 2) it was too much trouble to shave off every time I finished a case and found it half-grown (although I drew the line at a beard); 3) it was another separation between who I was when I was with him and who I was without him; and 4) I knew he would have hated it, so maybe if I kept it, he would have to come back in order for me to shave it off.

I kept all of the texts he ever sent me, and when I missed him more than usual, I read over his them, reminded acutely of him.

I stopped having nightmares on a daily basis. I noticed I slept better when I slept in his room, so I moved some of my things in there for convenience's sake.

I visited Sherlock's grave five more times. Once I yelled threats and abuse at him. Once I pleaded with him to return. Once I tried to work out the details of a case by talking to him, but it didn't work. Once I just sat in silence, willfully fighting back tears as waves of pain and sentiment surged through me. Once I told him I loved him. I think I meant it, but I never told anyone about it. I didn't need their pity. I felt Mycroft watching me each time I visited, but I didn't face him. I especially didn't need his pity.

I didn't blog about my cases, and I refused to blog at all unless he came back.

I never told anyone about the little bargains I made to try to influence him to come back. I wasn't crazy. I knew he was dead. I just didn't want him to be, and I refuse to give up hope on him, not when everyone else was.

I never stopped believing in him.

It was three years, six months, twenty-three days, and two hours after his death that Lestrade texted me with the case about the Golem. I don't think he knew or remembered that I chased and fought the giant alongside him during that first Great Game with Moriarty, but I did. It took everything I had not to lick my chops. Finally, a chance to take a close look at Moriarty's empire, something Lestrade had been very careful to keep me away from. It's true that Moriarty had not been seen or heard since the Fall, but I doubted that his web of assassins and thieves was as inactive as he.

The case was at least a nine, and, as such, it took every one of my facilities to even stay on the trail, let alone get any closer to completing it. It took me seven weeks and five days, but I managed to map out how the Golem was connected to Moriarty, and some of the connecting murders I learned about with him. I celebrated for all of six hours, but that's when I noticed something strange.

Some of the lines had been severed. Moriarty's web was crumbling, and I could tell at a glance that it wasn't crumbling naturally. Someone was taking it down via anonymous tips and sabotage. I did a little more research, looking into the nature of the mysterious saboteur and how he or she worked. By the time I was done, I found ten others who had been taken down in a similar manner. Three stuck out to me in particular: Sebastian Moran, Isaac Proctor, and Charles A. Milverton. Each of them were snipers, but what got me was who they didn't kill: Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and me. Apparently they would have killed us on the day of the Fall, but something stopped them. The report didn't say what that was, but my gut, which I had learned to trust in my time as a consulting detective, said it was him and his Fall. He sacrificed himself to save us all.

Good Lord.

That in and of itself nearly broke me, but I took another look, determined to find out more about the saboteur, especially once I realized that those three were the first the saboteur took down, with the most ruthlessness. This was personal. The rest were just finishing the job, which meant that it was someone who knew us. I almost called Lestrade first, but I decided Mycroft would be the better place to start. It would give him less warning, less of a chance to fool me.

"Dr. Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" God, I could have socked that smug face if I weren't talking over the phone.

"I just need a little information, Mycroft. Please try to be honest. I know it'll be a stretch, but it's for a very important case."

"Very well, Dr. Watson. What do you want to know?"

"Have you ever heard of Sebastian Moran, Isaac Proctor, or Charles A. Milverton?"

"No, I have not. Should I have?" He's telling the truth. Lovely.

"Maybe, maybe not. I know how little you care. Thank you for your honesty." I hung up, dialed Lestrade, asked him the same question. He didn't know them. Neither did Mrs. Hudson or any of the policemen with half a brain. By this point, I was dying with curiosity. Who would take down the men who nearly killed his only friends? I know he would have, but he was dead, wasn't he? So who did that leave?

I decided after a lot of inner debate (nearly seven hours' worth) that I had to know who my mysterious ally was. Three days later, I thought I figured out where and when he (or she) would strike, and two days after that, I figured how I could watch without being seen.

So, after handing the Golem on a silver platter in to Lestrade and dodging the questions about what took me so long ("It might have broken the ten-point system, Lestrade. That was the hardest case I'd ever taken on." Not a lie.), I settled in at the hotel across the street from the place where one of Moriarty's men would be stopped, knocked unconscious, handcuffed to the wall, and pinned with a list of crimes and the evidence that connected the assassin to the murders. I knew what who the man was, a Dr. Grimeby Roylott, and what he looked like, so I knew to watch out for anyone who approached him.

Three days passed before I saw anything. I noticed a man, normal maintenance type, turn off a CCTV camera at the end of the street. No big deal, it probably needed repairs, right? But he didn't take it down. Instead, he moved over to the next camera and deactivated that one too. No one noticed him but me, which helped him disable every CCTV camera on the block. Just in time for Dr. Roylott to step onto the street.

I watched the fake maintenance man to see if he was going to take the assassin down, but he just got into his truck and drove away. Instead, a tall, pale-skinned man in sunglasses, a scarf that covered up most of his face, and long, red, curly hair (Not originally red, natural brunette. I was getting good at telling the difference.) stepped onto the street and walked determinedly towards Roylott. I knew I'd seen him before, on a case with him certainly, but I couldn't make out enough of his face to see who he was. I watched as he took down Roylott with precision, cuffed him to the lamppost, and pin the evidence to him. Just as he began to walk away, I took off out of the hotel. By the time I got down to the street, the man was at the end of it.

I walked at a brisk trot, careful not to lose sight of the man, although I did note that the maintenance man drove back past us, presumably to turn the CCTV back on. He did not hail a cab, although he did walk halfway across London to the very edge, to a dingy little shack on the Thames' riverbank. I debated approaching him, since I didn't think he noticed me yet (I'd gotten really good at hiding, too), but that changed when he took off his sunglasses and scarf, just outside the door to the shack, and looked around. I gasped, the word out of my mouth before I could bite it back.

"Sherlock."

A/N: Well, this turned out a lot longer than expected. *stretches* Believe it or not, it was supposed to be longer, but I cut off a couple thousand words. This seems like a good place to end a chapter, doesn't it? *evil wink* Next chapter, I'll evaluate Sherlock's time away from John, which will probably be much longer, so don't hold your breath ;) After that... well, we'll see, won't we?