His fingers curled on the smooth black granite that made up the unfilled grave of his best frien- no, his truest friend. His face contorted with tears that he would never allowed to fall, no, because He would only make fun of poor Dr. Watson. John's eyes closed tightly as he struggled to control his emotions.
"Crying over my grave, is it, John?"
His smooth, arrogant voice would say to John. There would be that cocky half-smile and a crinkle of those too-blue eyes and John would suddenly feel like a blithering idiot. But a wonderful blithering idiot. So he didn't cry, he didn't make any of those pathetic gasping noises he knew Sherlock would hate and taunt him for. Watson acknowledged in that moment that he would never, ever be over Sherlock's death.
Instead he lifts up his head, eyes red and filled with tears he just wouldn't allow to fall. He holds his head up high because - you know what - he had been the best friend of the smartest man to ever walk this earth. A man so smart, he could fool Death if he was bored enough.
"Well of course I could," that smooth, arrogant voice again.
Watson's head snapped up painfully, a glance to the right, left, full hundred-eighty. No one. "Sherlock?" He took pride in the fact that his voice did not crack or stumble.
"You idiot, if I had wanted to fool Death, would I let you see me?Watson's mouth opened, "Yes."
"Fair enough."
A dry laugh. Watson's. It sounded so hollow and bitter.
"Nothing can kill me, so just you wait, John Watson. I'll be back, and when I turn up on Baker Street again, oh, the games we will play."
Watson shook his head, "Then, stop all this. For me. Preform a miracle, okay Sherlock? One miracle just for me, show yourself right now."
But only the whisper of the wind in the leaves met his silence.