I do not own any of these characters. Believe me, if I did, I would've made Sherlock and John get married instead of Mary and John. (Moffaaaat!) Also, this might contain feels - just a warning. Honestly, I hate that word, but there's no other way to put it, so... Oh and it's from Sherlock's POV, of course. He's such a little sh*t. Also, I might not update as much as I'd like to (or, possibly, as much as you'd like me to), but I'll try to post a few new chapters every week.

Okay - here goes.

I've been watching John since the beginning. And I don't mean from the beginning, as in his birth - I'm not that old - I mean, of course, since a coffin was buried in the cemetery under my name. He's come to visit the grave every day, even the week he was sick and it was raining out - raining more than it usually does in London.

Graham's been to visit once or twice, of course, muttering "I wish you were here, Sherlock" sometimes, and so have Andersen and Donovan, holding hands and Andersen stroking his beard, as if he noticed something was off with my fake suicide - I noticed he wasn't wearing his wedding ring. His wife divorced him, finally.

The Woman even came once, wearing a hood that hung over her eyes except for when she kneeled over my grave and whispered "I know you're there, Sherlock." She seemed to be recovering well from Arabia or wherever it was she was nearly executed, and was wearing a simple diamond ring - an engagement ring, I noticed. Possibly from her assistant. I didn't come out. She could have told John. Or she could have assumed that he knew, being as close as we were.

But none visited as often as he had, or cried as much as him. My blogger. My roommate. My best - and only - friend. But in the end, he was so much more than just that.

Feelings had never worked for me. And I had been scarred for life when Redbeard, my childhood dog, had died. Mycroft had never helped either - with his incessant "feelings are not an advantage, Sherlock."

So I tried ignoring them. And when that didn't work, I turned to drugs. When Mycroft found out - he was bound to, with all his cameras everywhere - and burned all my supplies. So I pretended they didn't exist, and sometimes that worked. But sometimes my feelings were too strong for me to simply play pretend.

Like with John.

I watched him at the grave as much as I could, but he stayed out there for sometimes hours on end, and I had appointments with Mycroft to talk about coming back - if I ever would. In the end, we had decided, yes - but a little at a time. Bit by bit. Person by person. Of course, we would save the ones most likely to spread the truth for the end - idiots like Donovan and Andersen. And probably Gilbert.

Now, I crouched in the grass, hiding behind trees, waiting for my blogger. He usually came three times a day - he was nearly due for his second. 3:12 PM, sometimes 3:11. I checked my watch. It was 3:10.

A minute later, he came with a box and a nice couple of white roses, freshly cut. His hands were rough and had needle pricks on them - from his doctor work, I assumed. He knelt by my grave and opened the box.

My skull. I thought they'd have thrown that out by now for sure.

John laughed a little, but I heard the sadness in his voice.

"I've been talking to him," he said, his voice raspy. "Like you used to. There's Greg and Molly, of course, but they're always busy. And Donovan and Andersen are idiots - it's almost like they've all forgotten you. I haven't, Sherlock. I mean -" he gestured down to himself. "Look. I'm still talking to your grave, two years after the Reichenbach fall. So I started talking to Billy - but I won't need him anymore, I suppose. My mate Mike - you know him - I'm rooming with him. He offered to yesterday, at least - and I think I'm taking it. I have to move on - if I can, that is. And I can't quite talk to a skull in his presence. I might not -" he choked a little, and I shook my head, trying not to cry. "I might not visit as much anymore, Sherlock. But - I have to tell you something - I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Or, I suppose - I was in love with you." He shakes his head a little. "Bloody hell, Sherlock."

Suddenly - before I could think about what I was doing - I was moving behind him and fishing my phone - that is, my new one - out of my pocket and typing a message in the message box, praying he had his mobile with him.

Wrong (behind you. look.) -SH

I heard his phone ding, and apparently he did, too, because he fished it out of the pocket of his khaki pants and checked message. I heard him gasp, a sharp intake of breath, and slowly, he turned around.

I'm sure my face was completely blank, because Mycroft never bothered to teach me what to do in these situations - not exactly what you would call "common."

John's eyes first rested on my feet, then traveled up me and came to stop on my face.

"What do you mean, wrong?" was the first thing he said, and it was completely ridiculous, because that's not at all what you're supposed to say when your best friend supposedly comes back from the dead - but then again, there's no handbook for this stuff.

"Present tense, John," I managed to choke out, and then he was standing up, his face tense, and I was sure he was about to punch me - but then he kissed me. And I was kissing back - a reflex, just a reflex, I told myself, but I knew it was hopeless trying to convince myself that - because my emotions for him were too strong to just pretend.

We broke away and John shook his head.

"You have to explain. Unless you're a hallucination and I'm -"

I scoffed. "You're not crazy, John, just a bit daft. Did that feel fake?"

"You - you're real?"

I shook my head. "Idiot." I saw his facial expression and smiled ever so slightly. "Don't take it personally, nearly everyone is." There was an awkward silence for a bit. "You're not angry, John?"

John rolled his eyes. "Can't we get to that later, Sherlock?" I pictured his lips, kissing so many lips, foreheads, bleeding from the cold, but they were soft now, on mine, and that was all that mattered. My blogger.