All rights for Sherlock reserved to the BBC. I don't own anything (unfortunately).
"Sherlock…"
John was standing by the grave. It was another English morning, a typical it-is-going-to-rain weather. The clouds above his head were still as grey as the day his friend died after jumping down from one of London's buildings. The winds were strong, but John did not mind. He remained standing in front of the grave as he held his coat tighter around him, and continued looking down at the white stone as a slow rain started. It was not serious, but it did seem to him that ever since Sherlock died the sky never stopped crying.
To be honest, he wanted to cry, too. Despite the way he felt about Sherlock at the beginning, despite the annoyance his comments caused him, Holmes turned into a good friend to him, even though the man himself would never admit that it was true the other way around. But those were his actions that spoke, the way he ripped the bomb off John's chest and the way he tried to protect him even in his last hours, which showed John just how much Sherlock really cared about him. And unlike Sherlock, he openly admitted that Sherlock was a close friend to him, even if in times he seemed like he was not a human. The truth was that he was.
Another truth was that John cared for him. A third truth was that even though it has been three days since he watched his friend die, he still could not believe it was true.
It was the second time he arrived to the graveyard. Despite his reluctance to listen to his therapist, he found the idea of talking to an imaginary Sherlock and telling him how he really feels, telling him everything he wanted to say to him, interesting. The only reason he did not want to do this was that he could not really believe that Sherlock was dead. And he knew that if he does that, if he goes through with it, he might actually believe it.
However, that morning when he drove to the graveyard, he realized that this was another thing that he had to do. And so he was, standing in front of Sherlock's grave, alone in the cold, windy street, ready to talk. Hopefully ready to tell "Sherlock" all the things he wanted to tell him.
"I don't believe you." He did not know what made him start with that. "I don't believe you, not for one moment. I know you're not a fake. I know you're not dead. I don't know where you're hiding or why you would do that, but I know you're not dead.
"You see, Sherlock, I know you. I know you wouldn't do something like this to us without a reason. You should see Mrs Hudson. She wouldn't admit it, but she misses you. But she… she and Molly, they believe all that they've heard about you. Or at least, that's what they say to me. I don't know how much they really believe in it, but they say they do. Everyone else, even Lestrade, they all believe that you're a fake. I don't. And nothing you can say would change that. I know you're neither a fake nor dead.
"You've been a great friend to me," His voice was slightly softer, "Really. I was so alone when we've met, I didn't think I have anything left out there. What you gave me… It's more than our friendship. It's… I owe you more than I could ever imagine. So please… Just… Just come back, alright? For me."
He remained there in the rain for a long moment, just standing in front of the grave silently and looking at it. He thought about bringing flowers to the grave, but had only now remembered it. But the truth was that he did not really care. All he wanted was his friend to be back. He still did not know whether or not it was possible… but he wanted it to be. And he wished he was right.
"Just come back and show them how wrong they are," He muttered. Then he turned around and left, leaving Sherlock's grave behind his body, even though he knew it would never leave his mind.