I couldn't wait any longer for Season 3 of Sherlock BBC so I decided to do my own version.

This is my first fanfiction so please be merciful. Comments and ratings appreciated. Thank you!

I do not own Sherlock in any way. To my everlasting despair.

Chapter 1: A More Permanent Destination

"Please, would you do this for me?"

That voice. His voice wafted into John Watson's dreams, his nightmares, time and time again without mercy, and this occasion was no different. That voice that had become as familiar to him as his own but far more dear because he came to love him as his best friend, as a brother, even when it grated with annoyance, boredom, and oh, yes, the smart-aleck criticism.

Of course, John answered as he only could in a dream, now that his flat mate, the world's only and best consulting detective was cold in the ground and could no longer speak, no longer hear. Of course, Sherlock, I'll do anything for you, anything you want, just please don't do this, don't jump.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

No, no…Sherlock!

Like a fallen angel, Sherlock descended through the air, his long coat and blue scarf billowing like a flying bird's wings and then…nothing.

"Sherlock, don't!" John screamed as he bolted upright, awakened from that living Hell that most called memory. Finding himself still in the twin motel bed with the scratchy sheets and unbecoming duvet, realizing in the dark of late night that he was having a bad dream, a recurring one, reliving the worst moment of his life over and over again whilst he slept. He rubbed his unshaven face with both hands. Fighting a war was nothing to this aching agony of loss, this horror of realizing one's most treasured companion, one's entire life, was suddenly vanished without warning or reason.

The former army doctor could still see him; still see his friend taking that final step toward his death, falling to the pavement before he could reach him, before he could save him. Everything had turned to fog about him as he turned that fated corner and spotted Sherlock lying there across the street, the shock of his dark curly head smeared with red, his ice-blue eyes unblinking, lifeless, and empty. How could that have ever happened with one so curious, so intelligent, so ready to unpeel every detail about his surroundings like an onion in a matter of seconds, just to know how it ticks, just to show off? It seemed impossible, even now weeks later that such a man's life could come to an end. And he was even denied having a proper look at him before the medics wheeled him away, just one moment touching his wrist, desperately hoping he would find a pulse there. He didn't even have that much in the end, just to see him one more time.

If only John had known Sherlock would do this, commit suicide by plunging off of the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, maybe there was some way he could have stopped him, convinced him to rethink his choice.

Sherlock, why did you do this to me? What did I do wrong?

But it was too late now, far too late and there was nothing he could do to change it, no matter how much he wanted to or how much he begged the empty air.

Also, he remembered, more clearly than he wished to, Sherlock's funeral, the very sort that he would have hated, the sort he would have scoffed at with people surrounding a body that could no longer hear his friends as they mourned him pointlessly.

"People don't go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned."

John had laughed a little as Sherlock's words floated unbidden through his head, as was usual nowadays, but had quickly become choked with restrained tears when he stepped dazedly into the small church that stood conveniently near the graveyard in which he would be buried. His friend would have preferred not to have a funeral at all, considering how few people would have attended it without a bitter sense of sardonic humor and an endless string of scornful comments—Anderson and Donovan to name a few— but John took pains to make sure none of those people would attend, keeping it quiet so not even the media circus could get wind of it. Not only did he keep Sherlock's final farewell secret for them, but also to evade his former clients who, before his good name was slandered and ripped apart, would have and often did bestow him with favors and might have shown their respects, yet now would resent the lies, the manipulation, the deceptions he never actually committed against them; they might have wanted to kick up a fuss, thus the need for furtive isolation. If any of them showed their unpleasant faces within a hundred yards he would certainly unleash his military training on them, female or not. At least John made the arrangements as practical and reasonable as he could. It was the only way he knew how to honor him without finding a way to stroke his long-gone ego in neon lights as he would have wanted most. Only he could have performed the latter properly so John didn't even try.

Short, cutting, and to the point. That was Sherlock all over. So John didn't bother much with a vicar except to conduct the congregation and to perform the necessaries.

Inside the Old-World Baroque styled cloister with its flying buttresses, pointy spires, and dark corners that almost screamed a likeness to his former flat mate: severe and harsh on the outside but deeply heartfelt and meaningful hidden in the walls, not many were in attendance, as was predicted, therefore the doctor should not have been afraid to stand up in front of them all, just colleagues and friends, but that was how he felt because he was forced to put into words what the consulting detective had meant to him. And he could never do that. Not fully, not what was so completely coated and filled in his heart like a tattoo, impermeable, and like his lifeblood, essential for living. But he could never say that aloud. Not yet. Instead, John read from some of Sherlock's more favorite texts, mostly philosophical ones concerning the need for rational observation in the world.

Then, after much clearing of his throat to rid his voice of any trace of emotion, he proceeded to utter what the modest crowd were all thinking but couldn't quite say it in such a setting: "Sherlock Holmes was a callous, conceited, selfish prick of a bastard."

Every eye blinked up at him, their mouths wide in shock. They couldn't believe he would say such a thing about a man they knew he was so close to, and at his funeral no less.

"And Sherlock would have been the first to admit it, if he wasn't downright proud of it."

Everyone burst out into sudden laughter, nodding their heads knowingly and whispering agreement amongst themselves. And just like that, the tension broke and dissipated. Who knew that Sherlock could have inspired so much humor and high spirits?

"But," John continued, "He was also the best detective in the world. No matter what anyone says, no matter the rumors or the lies, he could catch any killer, any thief or criminal by only his mental prowess, which he would be the first to say was substantial." The audience, which had stilled, awkward and disbelieving, at the mention of Sherlock's skills as a genuine detective, which were put into question by his greatest enemy Moriarty, now began to snicker once again. "He would catch them not just because he could, as he would have you believe, but because he wanted people to be safer. It even destroyed him in the end. But most of all, he was my best friend. The best man I have ever known. A true hero, not a fake! Perhaps, he was cold on the outside, but inside his heart was warm and caring, even though he would have rather been right than kind."

Finally, John could feel himself breaking up inside again, the grief threatening to overwhelm him and he knew he had to end it or risk falling apart in front of the few friends he had left, not to mention ruining the kind of atmosphere that Sherlock would have welcomed and not mocked. "I don't know why he did what he did to end his own life. But all I know is that I will always miss him, so much. And, damn it, the world will never be the same without him."

Afterwards, he sat clumsily in the front pew and tried to listen whilst the others—Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson—stood and recounted their favorite moments of Sherlock, eliciting even more laughter. Finally, it had come to a close and John thanked everyone for coming, one by one, face to face, smiling sadly to himself as Lestrade took out his phone and showed everyone the recording he made of Sherlock, mumbling nonsense and jerking convulsively, after "The Woman," Irene Adler had drugged Sherlock after their first encounter.

Strangely enough, Molly didn't seem as distraught as John would have thought. The pathologist had adored Sherlock, would have done anything for him, followed him like a puppy and looked at him like he was her whole existence. She was absolutely star-struck and he would have thought she would crumble into a teary mess during the entirety of the funeral, but no. True, she seemed relatively sad but more full of pity than anything else. Perhaps, she didn't love him as much as John feared she might.

But something happened that was even stranger. John felt someone looking at him from afar, and so he turned his head toward the entrance and found a man leaning against the back wall of the chapel, his face shadowed by the hood of his rugby sweatshirt, his legs long and lank in jeans that were too big for him. Right then, the mysterious man ducked his head, pulling the material even lower over his face and exited.

Ordinarily, John wouldn't have thought much of it but everyone of importance was already in attendance. And the media had a tendency to creep everywhere like rodents and he wouldn't bear them disturbing him here of all places, now of all times. Moreover, there was something else, something that was niggling at him about that unnamed character. Something was out of place but he couldn't quite place it. If only Sherlock were here…no. Not here. He shook his head to free those wishful thoughts.

Molly appeared at John's shoulder.

"Who was that?" John asked her, sharper than he intended.

"Huh? Who?" Molly answered, her brow creasing with worry.

Please, don't let me be going mad. "That man, with the sports sweatshirt." John pointed toward the door where the man was standing only a moment before.

"Uh..." she hesitated, biting her lip that was uncharacteristically covered in dark gloss and eyes swiveling around the back of the room. "Oh," she gave a nervous, forced giggle then told him. "That er…that was my n-new boyfriend, yeah. Met him on the…Tube not long ago."

Maybe that was why she wasn't very torn up at Sherlock's death. She had already moved on. His envy and offense for Sherlock's sake was as sudden and surprising as it was strong but he shielded his feelings. Just because Molly wasn't as loyal as he had once thought didn't mean that she didn't care about his friend or deserved happiness. John desperately wished that he could do the same as she, forget and seize the day, but knew that wouldn't be possible anytime soon. He would be betraying the man's memory if he mirrored Molly's flippant attitude. No, it was better this way. Better to suffer in silence than forget and lose all that he had left of his best friend.

"Wow, Molly, that's just…wonderful, really," John remarked with a half-hearted smile.

"Well, you know how it is. I better go then." She flipped her recently-styled reddish-brown hair over her shoulder, giving him a sad smile.

After sharing a tight hug that was more expressive than their words, they parted, Molly heading quickly for the door in shoes more stylish than was common for her.

Looking behind himself to see the others still talking quietly and dreading to return to the condolences and final goodbyes, he followed Molly out of the church into the cloudy day with the scent of rain on the growing breeze. Just as he passed the threshold, he caught sight of Molly and her new "other half," strolling quickly down the curving path that led to the main road.

Abruptly, John came to a stop, his heart doing the same before speeding up. That man, Molly's so-called boyfriend was walking with a staggeringly familiar stride. He moved just like Sherlock Holmes. That over-confidence and those sure steps were unmistakable. John began to run toward the couple but halted short once more. It wasn't possible. Not at all. Sherlock was dead, he felt his wrist, there was nothing there, no heartbeat, and even Sherlock Holmes couldn't come back from death. His mangled body was decaying in a cold, dark place, not there, ready for another case to solve or rude quip to throw to any within hearing shot. And most definitely, he would never go out in public arm-in-arm with Molly Hooper. No, it was just his hopeful imagination trying to mend his broken soul. Well, it was too late for that.

John watched Molly and the man leave. Just as he was about to turn away to visit Sherlock's gravesite to make sure everything was perfect and as it should be for so great a human being, he finally realized something, figured out what had been bothering him for so long.

Why would a man who would wear a rugby sweatshirt and jeans wear highly-buffed black dress shoes?