"Just please...please don't be," John took a shuddery breath and blinked away some tears threatening to fall, "dead." He took a second, allowing himself to stare at his best friend's grave and wonders how this could have happened. How Sherlock Holmes could have possibly done this. He had to be alive, had to be. John just couldn't imagine his world without him anymore. Four days ago, he had his best friend. Four days ago, John Watson was a happy man and now he didn't know what to do, didn't know where to go. All he knew is that this couldn't be happening, not now, not after everything. He let his eyes sweep over the grave once more before nodding shortly and turning to follow Mrs. Hudson back to the car.
"I'll have to get my cane back out of the flat," he muttered as he turned and felt the pain start to return. He winced and limped his way out of the graveyard.
"Oh John," Sherlock breathed as he watched his friend, the person who up until four days ago was the only friend Sherlock Holmes had ever acquired, limp his way away from a grave whom John Watson believed he lie in. Sherlock of course had two friends now, if you didn't count Mrs. Hudson (which Sherlock tended not to because she had always been more of a mother figure to him.) But now, now he had John and he had Molly, and he had hurt them both in irreversible ways.
He longed to be able to go back to their flat and have John make him a delectable cup of tea, as he always did, but he knew that 1, John would not go back to 221B Baker Street. Not for a while at least, not until reporters stopped hanging around outside the front door, waiting with invading questions. Not until most of the world forgot about Sherlock Holmes, the fraud. And 2, because he had a new job-not a job solving murders, no that was over...for a while at least. Moriarty's men were now his priority. Of course, Moriarty was dead but he had hundreds of men just waiting for someone to give the signal. And it was Sherlock's job to get rid of them all-a simple enough task, but it might take a while.
Sherlock didn't quite understand the feelings going on inside his body, he generally felt that feeling much of anything was useless and just a waste of time but as he watched his best friend stare at his, supposedly, broken body and continued to watch him fall apart every day until the funeral he felt an odd pang in his chest. His heart felt like it was literally tearing, and as he turned away from London, turned away from 221B Baker Street, turned away from Molly, and turned away from John it continued to tear even further.
John had said that friends protect you, and that's what Sherlock had done, he had protected his friend. So why on earth did he feel this horrible? Wasn't helping people supposed to make you feel good, make you feel accomplished? Then again, he had always only helped Lestrade because otherwise he was impeccably bored and John and Mrs. Hudson tended to get unreasonably angry when he shot holes in the apartment.
A/N- These are going to be relatively short chapters for now just because I feel like it but I have about 4 written now, so keep with me and let me know if I should just delete this story or keep going.
