A/N: So, yeah. The Reichenbach Fall broke my heart… which led to large amounts of Sad!Fluff needing to be written. This refused to be ignored. So I am going to rather spectacularly fail my exams tomorrow. Any feedback would be appreciated. :D

Un-betaed, so any mistakes are all mine. :/ (I blame the emotional damage)

Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters, (if I did, I'd hug them to death).

Warnings: Spoilers for S2 E3.

Here we go, enjoy! (:

The war was about the adrenaline, the danger of being constantly on a knife's edge. Knowing you could die at any moment, knowing there's a pretty high chance you won't make it until tomorrow. But then he'd abandoned the war. One of the dangers had hit him hard, and he'd been sent back.

And then there was Sherlock. Sherlock knew about the adrenaline, gave it back to John. Then they were jumping over rooftops and car bonnets. Being held at gunpoint and John was holding back the giggles as Sherlock criticised their attacker's technique. But then Sherlock had abandoned him. Been hit by the dangers, lied, and jumped. Gone.

John had spent a year wasting away slowly at the flat. Hobbling along with a cane. He'd ignored his therapist's calls until someone came and did a house visit. He'd told them to piss off, they didn't come back again. Lestrade was dutifully ignored. If he believed the lies then he wasn't the good man John had thought he was. Even Mrs Hudson eventually moved on; she held a knitting and chat club in her flat every Tuesday. John stayed upstairs, listening to the faint echoes of conversation through the floorboards. Both wanting them to shut up, and wishing he could be part of it; that easy friendship. He'd lost his.

After a year Mycroft had called again. John had ignored his calls of course. Ignored them like he ignored every way Mycroft had attempted to interfere. He didn't need to pretend he was interested in John now his brother was gone, John didn't want charity, didn't like the pitying glances. Refused to stop for a chat with a pretty girl in a black car. This time, Mycroft left a letter. John opened it before he inevitably burnt it. There was no point if it was something useful. (He couldn't help but hope it was news about Sherlock).

There was a ticket. Abseiling.

John fully expected to burn it. Leave the ashes in the grate, let them slowly seep across the flat until the whole place was grey. Let the armchair and violin and sheet music and half empty cigarette packets be buried in a mountain of dust and death.

But somehow, he found himself turning up to the class. Donning the ropes and safety jacket, tumbling down the cliff-face with only a thin cord to stop him. He let the adrenaline wipe out any thoughts. His cane was once again forgotten.

And Mycroft sent more. Soon John was skydiving, bungee jumping, diving, hang-gliding. The adrenaline was back, coursing through his veins. The flat got tidier as well. The dust painstakingly brushed from the violin, and it was packed away carefully, reverently, (Sherlock's heart). The vacuum ate away the ash from the grate, the kitchen was wiped down, there were no more body parts in the fridge.

It didn't hurt as much as he'd expected it to, going back to the single headstone. He brought a camping chair and a flask of tea. Two cups. (Some habits are hard to break). He sat and he told Sherlock about his life. He spoke to him like he'd refused to speak to his therapist, he told him everything he wanted to say and more.

He ranted, he screamed, he apologised. Then he showed him some photographs of himself with various trainers. This was Pete, he taught him how to freestyle dive. They were going for drinks next Thursday, it was going to be nice. He told him how he cleaned the flat, how he refused to apologise for getting rid of the mould experiment on the mantelpiece. (Didn't say how he'd documented the results anyway). He spoke about Mrs Hudson, how she had a framed photograph above the door of him, a simple inscription - they'd agreed. ('Sherlock Holmes. A hero in a world where they don't exist.')

Sherlock didn't answer. Of course not. But John knew he would understand, he could almost see him rolling his eyes at his soppiness, telling him that he was being sentimental for nothing. John would have told him to piss off if he could, laughing.

And then the tea was finished, and it was getting dark, and cold. And John packed up his flask, folded his chair away and said goodbye.

And it didn't hold an ounce of finality.

He smiled at the stone, fancied he saw Sherlock grinning back. 'You can't smile here', he'd grin, 'its a cemetery'.

"I do love you, you know." John told the inscription. And somewhere in his heart, Sherlock smiled.

"I know".