Sherlock Holmes may be no angel but John Watson certainly was. Johnlock

WARNING: I do not have a beta and I am horribly out of practice when it comes to creative writing so be warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock but I do own Benedict... No he's not locked in my closet... What kind of question is that?

Standing in the shadows of an old willow tree, green eyes watched the middle-aged man standing at a dulling gravestone. He had come back every week; always sinking to the ground and asking the gravestone the same questions.

"Can't you pull out one more miracle, Sherlock? Just for me, I'd do anything just please, please don't be dead. You can't be dead. You just can't be."

Every Sunday since his death without fail John pleaded and cried. And every Sunday Sherlock would be standing in the shadows waiting and hoping that this week he would not come. Rationalizing to himself, that despite Sherlock not actually being dead, John still needed to move one from this. However in the back of his mind he always hoped today would not be the day that he came to his own grave and no one was grieving.

It was grotesque. It was selfish.

But Sherlock had never been a particularly giving human being.

And six months had past and no matter the weather John's Sunday evening was solidly booked from 4 to 6 p.m. and no matter how far Sherlock had traveled trying to disband Moriarty's gang he was always there silently waiting and watching to see if this was the day.

He knew the dangers he was inflicting upon himself and John. But the thought of leaving John completely alone was nearly unbearable and the thought of not seeing John standing at his grave was even worse. But still just as faithful as gentle John, he stood here, the dangers be damned. But still the thoughts rang in the back of his head.

If he were seen by someone everyone he cared about would be as good as dead.

Cared?

When had that happened? When had Mrs. Hudson or Molly or even bloody Lestrade become actual human beings to him? Not just the pieces in the intricate game of 'keep Sherlock entertained.' And they had become not just human to him but they had become real people, people he was willing to give not only his life, but his pride for.

He supposed that was John's doing.

Sherlock prided himself on being a man of logic. Of being able to count the times a human had been able to honestly surprise him on one hand. He had lost count when John Watson had entered his life.

The man had hit him like a whirlwind.

Blindsiding him, knocking him from the back and then scaling his walls when he wasn't even looking. He had wormed his way into Sherlock's barely beating heart and gave it a jump start. Suddenly he was actually caring about people's feelings and apologizing when he had stepped over lines.

All this 'courtesy' nonsense.

It was approaching 5:50 John would be saying his goodbyes shortly. This was always the most heart wrenching part. The part that keep Sherlock coming back week after week.

And like clockwork John stopped crying and straightens his clothes, wiping away a few stray tears. He stands up straight, hand behind his back and feet together, toes straight like the Military man he is.

The first time he had done this Sherlock had been taken aback wondering what exactly John Watson was up too. And mentally scribbling down another note on the mental list he had now for things John Watson did that puzzled him.

Standing there perfectly still as always he lifted his hand out in salute. John uttered out a speech of sorts. Always different, always paining.

"I will never believe a word of it Sherlock, you were as real a man as I am, as true a man as I am," a pregnant pause followed but eventually he let out the last bit. "As real a human as I am, if not more so."

Lowering his arm he let out one last shuttering chock before turning and leaving one last sentence hanging in the air behind him.

"I won't be coming back Sherlock, I won't."

It was these words that kept Sherlock coming back every week. This broken promise from John every week, that reassured him that he was still loved, he was still precious in John's heart. Every week he came back. He lived for these words and he relished in them.

They kept his barely beating heart still going.

John Watson was not the most brilliant of men nor the most striking or exciting. He was far from flawless. But he was something Sherlock Holmes had never seen and he loved him for it.

A/N: So yeah that's my prologue. Tell me if you think it's any good what so ever. I enjoy constructive criticism.