A/N: As soon as I finished Sherlock, I already had ideas forming for stories. And without further ado, (Is that how they say it?) on with the show.

John's POV:

I didn't hate many people. But Jim Moriarty has an exception in my book.

My therapist wants me to say the things unsaid. And that is why I am standing in front of this headstone. Damn shrink…

Mrs. Hudson tapped my arm and she turned around. I heard the old lady sniffle behind me and I was left alone with the chill of the graveyard and my best friend underneath my feet.

Sherlock Holmes.

The letters were pressed into the stone and another wave of grief hit me like a wall. Goddamn it. I thought to myself as I walked closer to his grave.

"You told me once, that you weren't a hero." I felt myself exhale. I closed my eyes and tried to gather my thoughts. "Um, and there were times I didn't even think you were human." I remembered all the moments when I had to remind Sherlock about his manners. The looks we got when he spouted off his usual quirks were priceless.

"But let me tell you this. You were the best man er," I was stammering again. It was hard to talk when no one was here to listen. "The most human, human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."

My fingers were aching to touch the headstone. My hand trembled as I reached out and laid my fingertips on the top of the stone. It was cold to the touch which didn't surprise me.

"I was so alone and I owe you so much." I thought back to that time when I spent my days padding around my flat with no meaning to my limping journey from my bed to my desk.

I started to turn around and make my way back to the taxi when I knew that there was something that was begging to be said.

"One more thing-one more miracle Sherlock for me. Don't. Be. Dead." That last word came out as a peep and I gasped for more air. "Would you do that just for me? Just stop it" I gestured with an open hand to the overturned dirt. "Stop this."

I saw my reflection in his headstone and shook my head. Turning on my heel, I started walking past many other dead souls trapped underneath the ground.

I kept walking and a cold breeze made me wrap my jacket around my middle a bit tighter. I couldn't resist but look at where Sherlock lay now.

I saw a tall figure standing where I stood just minutes ago. I cocked my head and the man reached to his face. I could only see his back but when a puff of smoke billowed upwards, I could tell he had just lit a cigarette.

The man flipped the collar of his long jacket up against the wind and hid the curly black hair from my sight. He touched Sherlock's gravestone and then strode past quickly.

I never saw his face and I didn't want to guess to quickly that it was the one person I wish were here. I ignored the man and got back into the taxi.

"Are you okay dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, I just want a cup of tea." Or a bottle of scotch. I thought. The ride back was silent and I ended up laying on the couch, staring up at the yellow smiley face painted on the wall. I smiled back and was glad not to have bullet points in my teeth or eyes.

I settled on thinking the way Sherlock did. My palms touched each other underneath my chin and I stared up at the ceiling.

I thought about the man at the graveyard. I couldn't have been Sherlock I had seen him fall. I had seen the look in his empty blue eyes. I had seen the blood that matted his hair and

I suddenly wished he were playing a sweet song on the violin that leaned untouched against the wall by the window. Examining weird specimens under his microscope that smelled faintly of road kill. Shooting the wall and spray painting it simply because it had the beating coming. Maybe even if he were blurting insults at the game show on the television, it would break the silence.

I couldn't live with silence. I could live with Sherlock, but I couldn't live with bloody silence.

A/N: Alright. There ya go! Have a wonderful day everybody. Please read and review and enjoy Sherlock!