A/N The song for this is "High Hopes" by Pink Floyd. I suggest you start reading after the bells stop chiming. Pleease read slowly, because I realize that the song itself is longer than the chapter takes to read. Enjoy! C:

John Watson's best friend was dead. And he had seen it happen. Now he was in front of his tombstone watching his coffin being lowered into the earth. His coffin, Sherlock Holmes' coffin. John still couldn't believe it. He'd never talk to Sherlock again, he'd never argue with him over who'd get the milk, never be able to admire his amazing deductions again. John hated to think that Sherlock would be buried there, motionless, his beautiful features left to rot. He remembered the first time he'd met that amazing, ridiculous madman. He also remembered the countless times they'd saved each other. And he refused to believe that he was a fake. No matter what the papers, or Kitty Riley, or even Sherlock himself had said, John would never for a minute doubt his late friend.

He'd seen so many people die during his time as an army doctor, and some had been his friends, but no death had affected him as deeply as this one. Maybe it was because he had fallen in... In love... With Sherlock Holmes, of all people. And now he was dead. And he'd never be with him. John choked back a sob as each of them (Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft and him) threw a fistful of soil on top of the coffin. He wanted to say something, tell them all that Sherlock wasn't a fake, tell them he believed in the detective. The man had brought light and excitement to his life, and now he was gone, and he'd never come back. But the words wouldn't come, and he stayed quiet, staring at the black marble tombstone.

John had talked to his psychologist about it, told her he didn't truly think Sherlock was dead, and he believed in him. She had patted his arm and told him he was just in denial because of the shock. She had tried to put it kindly, comfortingly, but he had just felt stupid. He then told her of his feelings for the man, and she hadn't said anything for a minute. When she did, it had been to prescribe pills to help him with his depression. She had told him he'd have to get used to Sherlock's death. He remembered it well, he had dismissively nodded and walked out, angry that she had stated the worry that was occupying and haunting his every thought, the worry that Sherlock would never come back to him.

He realised everyone was looking at him. Oh. They wanted him to speak. "Sorry, can... Can you repeat that, please?" He said to Mycroft. "John, as Sherlock's best friend and one of the few people that truly knew him, would you like to share something with us?" Mycroft looked tired, and worried. "I... Yes, of course," John said hurriedly. He inhaled sharply. "Sherlock Holmes was... A great man, and my best friend. I have him to thank for, uh, bringing me out of the depression that followed after I returned from Afghanistan. He might not have shown as much caring as the rest of us, but it was there, it was always there, and I am honoured to have met him, to have lived and worked with him. Um, there are many things that Sherlock Holmes was, a fake isn't one of them. As Mycroft said, I knew him, properly, and I know that he was a true wonder. I... I really miss him, and there are things I didn't say to him that I really should've said, but... I'd just like to say, to you, that he was a brilliant man and... And I loved him." He finished, feeling a knot in his throat. Mrs. Hudson started sobbing and hugged him. Lestrade rubbed his hand across his face, discreetly wiping a tear from his right eye. Molly looked at him sadly, a little surprised at his confession. Even Mycroft had lost his usual attitude. But now the service had ended. John bowed his head and walked back to the cab with Mrs. Hudson. His limp was coming back.

He paid no attention to what Mrs. Hudson said the whole way home, and when they climbed out of the cab he mumbled something about having work and ran up the stairs. He sat on the sofa he and Sherlock usually shared when watching telly. Used to share, John thought. Alone in the confinement of his flat, he let all his feelings out. He cried for about an hour, and the presence of Sherlock around the flat didn't help. His skull, his laptop, his messy experiments... It was all there, as if Sherlock had just popped out to solve a case. It was heartbreaking for the doctor, but he just couldn't leave. He had nowhere to go, and he felt leaving would be giving up, accepting that his companion was all they had called him.

The press bothered him through week, but Mycroft had put them all in place. Occasionally there would be crappy articles on tabloids, but no one really cared anymore, and John went back to working at a clinic. Nobody seemed to recognise the "confirmed bachelor" from a few months back, but he was grateful for it. He visited Sherlock's grave every weekend, sometimes with Mrs. Hudson, usually alone. He didn't talk much to anyone but his patients and co-workers. But even in the midst of his pain and mourning, he somehow still had high hopes.