All rights for Sherlock reserved to the BBC. I don't own anything (unfortunately).
The dark haired man who stood at the grave yard stood there all morning. He came at four in the morning, and has not moved since, not even to drink or to eat. His long coat seemed weird in the bright London sun of that day, but no one had noticed it. No one had noticed him. He did not want to be noticed, not after everything that he has been through. He was too famous and too brilliant to let himself get captured right after all the announcements that he had died. He was, after all, one of the most brilliant men of his generation. He was… Sherlock Holmes.
He waited there all morning. He waited for the people to come, waited to see them reacting the way he expected them to react. He saw anger in Molly's and Mrs Hudson's actions, heard it in their words. They were angry, angry that they believed him, angry that they never thought it might be a fake. All of his crazy actions, the shooting and the speeches and his disregard of their feelings, and every other thing that he has ever done to them. They remembered each and every one of them, but they were willing to forget, knowing who he is and what he does. Yet, now that the "truth" was out in the open, they were angry, and justly.
But John… John did not seem as angry as they were. For a long moment all he could do was to stare at the grave, at the pure white stone with the simple letters written on them. All it said was "Sherlock Holmes". Nothing big, nothing special. It was exactly the way Sherlock would… no, the way Sherlock wanted it to be.
"You… You told me once," John cleared his throat, "That you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this- you were the best man and the most human… human being that I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. There." He breathed out, looking at the ground, does not exactly know what to do, before walking towards the stone and gently touching it. "I was… so alone, and I owe you so much." He left the stone and turned away, walking a few steps before stopping and turning back towards it. "But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be… dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it, stop this," He gestured at the grave. He then looked down, so overwhelmed by emotions he could not say any other word. He took a few breathes, trying to hold the tears inside, before giving the grave – and the hiding man – one last nod before leaving.
Sherlock remained there long after he was gone. He could not help but wonder what had he done to deserve the loyalty of a friend like John. Ever since he was a boy, he had always said he had no friends. It was always just him, alone, sometimes even against his own brother. But ever since John and he had made contact, his world seemed to be changing. He was almost like a brother to him, and it was the first time Sherlock could say that about another human being. He claimed to have no heart, and when it came to his cases, he really did have no heart, but when it came to John Watson, it changed. He had put him through suffer, true, but when it came to their lives, there was no one he would rather trade his life for. Even if he did not really commit suicide.
But the truth was, throughout John's speech to him, he could not stop wondering who the one to be sending John to him was. He did not care whether or not there was a God – it was irrelevant to his job, always was and always will be – but after the time they had spent together, he started wondering whether or not such entity existed. Because if that was the one who sent him John, he could not help but be grateful for receiving such a loyal, trustworthy friend.
He left later that day, as daylight started disappearing. He walked all the way to his hideout, thinking. He was thinking about John, Mrs Hudson and Molly, and about Moriarty, his worst enemy, who was now dead. More dead than he was, really. He could not help but smile slightly at this joke.
He walked upstairs to his small apartment. Only after he sat down he let himself think about John again. He did not deserve such loyalty. Yet there was John, not believing his last words that he had lied to him. And he was grateful.
"I will be back, John," He quietly swore, cleaning his new gun. Once he will take care of that last small business, he will be able to return to his life, without fearing the only people he cared about might die. "I'll be back."