Hello and welcome to my first Sherlock fanfic! I hope this is received well; I enjoy any and all feedback I receive, so don't be shy.

A few notes about this chapter: It may seem confusing at first (particularly a few important parts) but I promise it will be explained soon (as in next chapter soon!). Also, Sherlock WILL be making an appearance, obviously-so don't give up just yet.

In the mean time, feel free to Britpick me or whatever it's called-I'm not from the UK or anywhere near it, to be quite honest, and as such my spelling/slang will reflect that of an American's. Just let me know if anything sticks out-though please do so kindly!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or BBC Sherlock, or any of the character/otherwise recognizable devices. I just own the plot-or what little of one there is, to be honest. ;')

Time passed utterly slowly when one was waiting their turn in a supermarket line. Then again, time seemed to pass slowly regardless of what one John Watson seemed to be doing these days. You'd think becoming absolutely lost in your head would be a welcome, a relief, or at the very least a great time waster; it was none of the above. No, John was sure he could cross out every positive result getting lost in your head was supposed to invoke; he'd had greater fun tossing from nightmares than he did imagining all the ways his life could have been different.

For instance, he could have been here, at the supermarket, idly shuffling behind an obnoxious woman with equally as obnoxious children, and there could have been a nice woman attached to his arm. She would be smiling, happy to be there next to him, and they would be giggling together about how much better of a job they would do raising their children. There would be a ring on her left finger—not too large, as John was never rich in any of his fantasies, no matter how hard he worked on them—quite nice, and it glittered in the ambivalence of the dimly lit market; a proud trinket to have afforded.

She was always smiling, always happy, but each time John imagined her looking just a little bit different. In one, she was a short, curvy woman with bright blue eyes and luscious blonde hair; perhaps the dream doll of any atypical male. In another she was just as tall as John, her brunette hair pulled back into a clean bun and her eyes a stony sort of grey. In every one she wore something akin to what he figured her personality would be like: blue blouse, neatly pressed skirt—professional; red, sleeveless, curve-hugging dress—naughty.

There were a million possibilities, a million and one combinations, and no matter which one John Watson's brain forced him to try out, he was never satisfied with the end result. In his imagination he would still be smiling, but there was always this terrible ache, this dull throb that began the moment he connected eyes that weren't his and suddenly, he was back at the supermarket, alone once again.

It's not like he was used to coming to the supermarket with someone; he'd never really fancied going with anyone, and he'd never really been given a choice, either. The only person he'd ever wanted to accompany him never did, and the only person he wanted to come with him now couldn't.

The milk in his hands was painfully cold, but for some reason his palms were sweating. The beeps from the items being scanned were melting together into one large, overwhelming noise that threatened his head to explode and suddenly, John realized he was having a panic attack.

The jug of milk hit the ground after he did.

Dear Sherlock,

I had a panic attack again today. Bit embarrassing, really. You know I've never been much of one to care what others think (how could I with you as a partner?), but it's become increasingly obvious why I've suddenly been falling like a diabetic school girl when I never used to do it...before. You know, before you...

Molly came round earlier this morning, and I think if it wasn't for her I wouldn't have gone out in public to begin with. No, I know what you're thinking—how could Molly, awkward and unable to form proper sentences Molly-be able to convince a stubborn git like me to leave my flat when I'd resigned to marrying my bed for the past six months? She didn't, really. I don't even know what she was saying, just that she was saying something and I'd had about enough of it. I've never been a mean fellow and I couldn't force myself to tell her to get out, so I simply up and left myself. She didn't follow.

It was Sally that found me there and took me home. She "happened to be there" and managed to get me out before too much humility had been spared at my expense. I told her I found it funny how she didn't have groceries for someone who had been there, and she flushed at being caught in a lie. She still tried to get out of it, and said I had no evidence that proved what she was saying was otherwise the truth. I had to resist the urge to say that of course it wasn't true. She was still in her professional clothing—badge and all—and she smelled right of Anderson, and since they have prejudice against committing obscene acts anywhere but their office, I knew she had taken it upon herself to follow me once Molly called to tell Lestrade I was finally leaving the flat.

When I told her this, she seemed infuriated; so lost in being outright caught that she lost it. She threw her arms up and screamed,

"Ever the freak you are, Sherlock!"

She immediately processed her error, but the damage was already done. She reached out to apologize, to tell me she was sorry, but I was already on my way out the door. It's not that she said your name, Sherlock, and it's not that she reminded me of you like she probably thought was her mistake. No, I'm never angry to be reminded of something I never want to forget. What I was angry about was what she had implied; what she dared allude to.

She compared me to you, Sherlock. What an unjust, unfair, and undeserved comparison. I could never be you. I just don't think I could ever figure out how to be quite as perfect.

John set his pile of letters on his grave, not surprised to find that there were less bouquets this week. There had been flowers constantly on Sherlock's grave for two months after his death, courtesy of all his remaining fan girls. After that, they had slowly died off; his grave was now only decorated with much less elaborate designs. A simple rose from Sally, but it had died weeks ago, meaning she hadn't been back to the grave in quite some time (feeling a little guilty, perhaps?); a few daisies from Mrs. Hudson, who managed to make it down here every so often; and some other random, unrelated flowers which was obviously Lestrade's doing because he couldn't coordinate colors to save his life.

He knew Sherlock wasn't one to like flowers, but that didn't make the efforts from the others any less meaningful. Perhaps not meaningful to Sherlock himself, but John could appreciate their efforts and he figured karma would, too. Regardless of the synonym between flowers and showing your appreciation for the dead, John couldn't bring himself to buy flowers for a man who would have never wanted them in the first place.

"Really, John? Flowers?"

It was almost like he was there with him, sometimes. It was hard to not think of him, and John had never realized just how well he had known Sherlock—that or the responses fake!Sherlock was reciting in his head were as inaccurate as Mrs. Hudson's choice of lottery cards. The real Sherlock was probably shaking his head and laughing from his comfy seat in Hell, mystified at John's inept translation of his character.

He really ought to stop bringing Sherlock into every last thought he had—especially the ones that already contained him.

He'd been writing letters to Sherlock for the past year. Every day of the week he would sit down and write to him; sometimes about nothing, and sometimes about everything. There was no reason to hold anything back because John never had. True, most of the time Sherlock wasn't listening and it was a bit like talking to a brick wall, but John supposed it wasn't that different now. He'd never gotten responses before, and he certainly wouldn't now. In its own little way, it was mildly comforting.

He deposited all 7 letters every Sunday at Sherlock's grave, wrapped neatly with a bow that Mrs. Hudson had started adoring them with. She'd caught him leaving one day and demanded answers and this was barely a few weeks after the incident first occurred so John couldn't find it in himself to lie. He never could lie to anyone, and especially not Mrs. Hudson. She was the only other person aside from himself that got a glimpse of who Sherlock truly was simply because she'd been the only other person he'd let get that close.

He'd always seal the letter and lay it flat on their—his dining room table, and by the end of the week he would come home from his meager job to find them already wrapped and ready to go. He'd be off at exactly four o'clock and home by five; he never lingered too long. Why should he? His letters had all he needed to say, and frankly there was nothing else the soldier wanted to talk about anyway.

When he would come back the next Sunday, his last pile of letters would be gone. He'd never done much to make sure they stayed there, just set down some paper and didn't even bother praying they stayed. He could only figure they were swept away by the wind, or—and this was of a higher probability—they were snatched up by the grave keeper, because they weren't exactly decomposable nor decorative. Maybe a little intrusive but what was John going to do? Protest? He hardly found his case sustainable himself.

But I need those letters to be there, he could imagine himself saying in court—practically begging—because what if he comes back? What if he finds them?

He'd be kissing his ass goodbye and saying a proper hello to the loony bin with that one. They didn't take too kindly to possessiveness and desperation in London; it always made everyone so uncomfortable. It was why many didn't like Sherlock, after all. He'd always been so desperate that no one had ever known what to do around him to ease his tension, least of all John, though he'd been told once or twice by Lestrade that he was the only one able to do so.

Sherlock may have been desperate but he wasn't pathetic; no, they were two different things separated by a very fine line. Most seemed to understand that but it still made them quiver with uneasiness. A classic example would be Sally, who had detested Sherlock since the day she'd met him. John had never been sure why, really, except maybe she had something akin to jealousy considering her Sargent status and ample education. Sherlock really was extraordinary but she wouldn't believe it, couldn't believe it no matter how often he proved himself. John was sure he cared more about proving to Sally just how brilliant Sherlock was than Sherlock did, but that tended to be the case with everything. Sherlock was never interested in proving anything to anyone, least of all someone that offered nothing he desired in return.

Even though Sherlock's name had been cleared less than six months after his passing (a load of witnesses seemed to come out of nowhere once everyone finally figured out the real Moriarty was dead and gone), Sally still seemed reluctant to truly believe it. John had still heard her mumbling things to Anderson when she thought he wasn't listening, and it was because of that John stopped coming around when Lestrade asked for help on cases. It wasn't as if he truly needed the help—they both knew John had never been Sherlock; had never even been remotely close. He was brought around for pity, because Lestrade was scared what he would do without Sherlock by his side.

John lingered at Sherlock's grave for just a bit longer today, staring at the reflected marble and only semi-surprised to see the face in it. He looked older, worn, and tired—lack of sleep, maybe, but John had never really gotten much sleep in the first place. Not before Sherlock, not with Sherlock, and not after. The only difference between the three time periods was the lack of concern for sleep when he'd been in the presence of his best friend.

But now he wasn't and John had already had two long years to get over that fact. The fact that he went to bed at a reasonable hour every night; the fact that he no longer had strange assassins from mysterious organizations pointing guns and other insane weapons at him and his date; the fact that he constantly had a supply of milk and fresh jam not invaded by random human body parts that lingered far too long in the fridge.

The fact that he was alone.

That there was no more Sherlock.

He'd had two years for God's sake, so why wasn't he bloody over it?

By the time John was back from the cemetery, he was aware that he never actually did get any milk from the supermarket. He'd barely made it in the door before he was rounding right back out it, a bit more excited than he would have thought considering he was leaving the flat.

It was later in the day now, as his walk home had taken a little longer than he would have liked. He'd stayed far too long at Sherlock's grave today, and he felt a little disappointed at himself for being so…what was the word? Weak? Sherlock would have found him weak. Maybe he'd even be a little repulsed by how often John visited his grave; how much loyalty John had to him after all this time.

By the time John had gotten to the supermarket, he felt extremely stupid. It was Sunday, wasn't it? And it was late…which could mean only one thing. He cursed beneath his breath as the familiar head of brunette became visible at the cash register, and John immediately spun on his foot. How wonderful, he'd wasted even more time doing something unnecessary. It's not like there was anything—or anyone—that John had to come home to, but it was still a time waster and ever since Sherlock he'd been ingrained with the idea that frivolous time wasters were almost like the devil.

There was a short cut though, wasn't there? He'd seen it once or twice, but he'd never taken it. It was a back alley that cut through about four blocks and half his time, and saving time seemed absolutely necessary right about now. Shoving his hands in his pockets, John turned the corner and was immediately taken aback by the silence. The lack of cars and people bustling about would have been comforting if it didn't leave John alone to his thoughts.

He had a knack for getting lost in them; so lost, in fact, that he typically didn't notice much going on around him. His body was on something like auto-pilot. It knew where it was going, so it did the work for him while he got to fiddle about in his brain. It was a straight path, nothing too terribly difficult, so John really wasn't worried. He wondered what it would be like to be Sherlock, and to see everything laid out in front of him like a grandiose map of information.

It turned out that, had John possessed Sherlock's ability to deduce (or even a bit of common sense, really), then he wouldn't have walked into the alley at all that night. He wouldn't have found himself face to face with a criminal about to commit a very, very illegal act against a woman, and he wouldn't have tried to stop it. He wouldn't have gotten in a fight which left him broken and bruised, and he certainly wouldn't have ever been face to face with the barrel of a loaded gun.

"You picked the wrong guy to fuck with tonight, pal," the vigilante growled, and John noticed that his voice was hoarse like a smoker's. He was breathing heavily, probably heavier than John even, but he was the one with the gun and John felt himself at a loss for what to do. He'd had years in Afghanistan over this guy and he was sure he could disarm the amateur gun wielder in less than a few seconds; he'd been told how to do it a thousand times, after all.

But no one had ever told him what to do when you don't mind the gun pointed at you so much, not really.

So John stood there without a fight. The woman was long gone, and she wouldn't be back. She probably wouldn't even be calling for help. He was alone yet again. He was just so tired, so very tired…

For the second time that day John fell to the ground, this time with a much more serious wound than a bump to the head.