Hello, hello, hello! So this story came into my head right after The Reichenbach Fall. Ya know, after I uncurled myself from the fetal position and crawled to my computer. If we have to wait another year for season 3... that sentence doesn't even need to be completed. *Shakes fist* MOFFAT!

Special thanks to Vesper's Lullaby, my fantastic beta!

Disclaimer: Yeah... I own nothing. All rights to Sherlock Holmes belong the Doyle Estate, Stephen Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. I don't own the song Tears of an Angel either. All rights belong to RyanDan. I just own my tears that were shed while watching the premiere.

The Grave

"Cover my eyes

Cover my ears

Tell me these words are a lie.

It can't be true

That I'm losing you

The sun cannot fall from the sky."

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" John could hear a protective edge come over Sherlock's voice as he tried to go towards the hospital.

The doctor put the hand that was not grasping his mobile in defense. "All right," he surrendered. From where he was standing, John saw Sherlock's outstretched hand reaching towards him, as if he would be able to stop John from moving any closer.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!" Sherlock almost sounded hysterical as he pleaded with his friend. "Please will you do this for me?" he pleaded again, his voice cracking mid sentence.

"Do what?"

"This phone call; it's um… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?" It was John's voice that cracked this time. Very slowly, the sickening feeling of realization attached itself to him. Panic began to set in. Sherlock wouldn't… no… Oh God please no... he couldn't… please…no!

"Goodbye, John," Sherlock whispered into the phone.

"No… don't…" But John couldn't finish his sentence. He could only stare helplessly as Sherlock hung up his phone and tossed it to the side.

"SHERLOCK!"

The detective put his arms out to the side and did the one thing John prayed his wouldn't.

He fell.

"Sher..."

"SHERLOCK!" John awoke screaming. His breathing was frantic and his heart was hammering against his chest. He was barely even awake and the tears were pouring from his eyes. He sat up in his bed for several seconds before burying his head in his hands and just letting the sobs take over his body.

2 months, 3 weeks, and 4 days. That's how much time had passed since Sherlock Holmes had fallen off the roof of St. Bart's hospital. It had been 2 months, 3 weeks, 4 days since John had gotten that phone call from his best friend. That phone call was his note.

His bloody suicide note.

Yet, even after that length of time, John had the same dream every night. And the same nightmare brought the same reaction. It was all so vivid, so real. In fact, it was as real as the day it happened.

Sherlock's pleading voice, the fall, the impact…

John's grief for the loss of his best friend.

All was very much real.

John took his head from his hands and wiped his eyes. He looked around the room he was in. Instead of seeing the achingly familiar walls of 221B Baker Street, he saw terribly bland tan walls. After Sherlock's burial, John stayed at the old flat for a month. In that time period, he helped Mrs. Hudson pack up all of Sherlock's old equipment into boxes. All the talk of giving Sherlock's old things to the schools was just that: talk and nothing more. Neither John nor the landlady could bear getting rid of the consulting detective's belongings, even if they were never to be used again. They couldn't even get rid of that bloody skull. In fact, they left it in the same spot.

The violin was probably the hardest thing to see again. It was just sitting on the stand like it was waiting to be picked up and played again. John remembered too vividly how Sherlock was able to make the instrument talk. With shaking hands, John had picked it up, along with a stack of unfinished sheet music. Instead of putting the instrument with all of Sherlock's other things, he placed it upright on the mantle beside the skull. Just because the detective was dead didn't mean he should be forgotten.

He couldn't go back there. At least, not yet. His grief was much too fresh to live in that flat for a while. There were too many ghosts still holding on. John honestly wondered if he could ever go back and not feel like something was missing. He wondered if he could even set foot there again at all. John had hoped that if he left 221B and lived some where else for a while, that it would help his grieving process. Maybe if he left the flat he could leave behind some the grief and the sorrow that weighed his heart down like an anchor.

But nothing was ever that simple. John Watson was a prisoner to his emotions and his grief was his cage.

The blonde man turned to look at the alarm clock on his phone that was charging beside his bed. The numbers 7:15 blinked back at him. "Just one night," he sighed, looking to the ceiling. "Just one peaceful night of rest. Please, Sherlock let me sleep for one night." With the knowledge that no one was going to answer him back and he wasn't going to get anymore rest, John pulled the bed covers off and…

Reached for the cane resting on the side of the bed. He knew it was all in his head. There wasn't really a physical injury causing his limp. That didn't stop it from hurting, though. Using the cane for support, John got up from his bed. He turned his head so he was looking out the window. London was already buzzing with life; people were going on with their daily routines like nothing was wrong. And for them, nothing was wrong. It was only John's world that had overturned.

He watched a cab drive by the flat. The memories of the "Study in Pink" came into his head immediately. John hadn't failed to save Sherlock from danger then. Why did he fail this time?

There was no way he would get any more rest that day and he needed to get out anyways. He walked towards a wooden dresser that was across the room. A mirror was hanging directly above it. John stopped looked at his reflection in the mirror. He almost didn't recognize himself; His eyes were shrunken in with dark circles around them and his skin tone resembled a sickly pale colour. John prodded at his unshaven face with his fingertips as if to make sure he was, in fact, real. He placed both of his hands on top of the dresser and leaned against it, hanging his head. He stayed in that same position for what seemed like hours, but when he lifted his head to look at the wall clock, only two minutes had passed.

His eyes drifted to the mirror again… and his breath caught in his throat. His clouded eyes suddenly met a pair of hauntingly grey ones. "Oh, come on! This isn't even fair!" he whispered angrily as the Sherlock apparition smirked at him. "It's not even possible."

"Come on, John. When you have eliminated the impossible, what ever remains, however improbable, must be possible. I thought I told you that?"

"Well, I must not remember that," John whispered as he felt emotion swell in his throat.

"It was at Baskerville, when I saw the illusion of the hound. You tried to reason with me but of course I wouldn't listen."

"An illusion talking about another illusion; doesn't seem too appropriate, don't you think?" The Sherlock apparition faintly smiled, causing John's lips to slightly curve upwards as well. He suddenly realized, that was first time he had smiled in the time that Sherlock was… gone.

A different emotion suddenly blindsided John. He'd felt anger before but this was different. This was an anger that spawned from hurt and pain. "Why did you lie to me? Why the bloody hell would you lie? Why, when you knew I wouldn't believe you? Why did you try to make me think like everyone else? For God's sake, Sherlock, I was-" But John wasn't able to finish his sentence. He had swiftly turned around, half expecting to be met with the detective himself. John should have known better than to get his hopes up, for when he turned around, there was no Sherlock Holmes for the doctor to plead with. There was no evidence to prove that he had even been there.

"I was on your side."

John stood at the entrance to the cemetery, staring at the gates. He officially decided that he despised this place. He hated it when he first saw the iron gates and he would hate it until the day he died. All the graves and the overwhelming sense of death made the realization hit even harder.

Sherlock Holmes was dead. He was never coming back.

John's feet were moving on their own accord. He weaved through the other graves, eyes staring straight ahead. Sherlock's grave was farther back than most of the other graves, which John was actually thankful for. When newspaper reporters showed up at the funeral, it was all John could do to not kill them then and there. Even though he did get in a good punch, the satisfaction was very short lived. After all, a broken nose wasn't exactly permanent. He didn't want anyone else around his best friend's resting place except for himself, Mrs. Hudson, and-

Lestrade? John stopped in his tracks when he saw the figure of the DI standing over the tombstone with his head bowed. Greg must have sensed that he was no longer alone and he turned to meet the other man.

"John. Didn't expect to see you here this early," he said with his hand extended.

John placed his cane in his other hand and clasped Lestrade's hand "I could say the same to you," he said while allowing his soldier persona to blanket him. "How have you been, Lestrade?"

Greg gave John a sympathetic look. "I've seen better days," he said. The man studied John's face before he gently asked the next question. "What about you, John? Are you alright?" he asked motioning to the man's leg.

The doctor shook his head and stuck his hand in his coat pocket. He couldn't bring himself to answer to obvious. Of course he wasn't alright.

Greg cleared his throat and both the men turned to look at the tombstone. Their reflections shimmered against the black stone, reminding John of the little incident that happened in the flat a few hours prior. John felt stupid for even having the faintest hope that his best friend was still alive.

"I haven't seen you use that cane in ages. I forgot you even had it."

"I've been using it again for two months now. Well, ever since…" His voice trailed off. He didn't even need to say it. He'd been using the cane ever since Sherlock's funeral. He tried not to use it when he first visited the grave with Mrs. Hudson. God knew he tried to be strong.

But trying and doing are two separate things entirely.

The DI and the doctor stood in silence for a while before one of them started to talk again.

"I don't believe it, just so you know," Lestrade said. He turned to look at John who was still looking at the grave.

"Don't believe what?" John whispered.

"That Sherlock was a fraud… There was no way, John. No possible way, no matter what those bloody papers said. I don't care what evidence they think they have, it's not true." Lestrade grasped John's arm. "He wasn't a fake, John. And no one will ever convince me otherwise."

John felt his soldier persona begin to slip as he turned to look at Lestrade. The DI, like John, had dark circles under his eyes. They weren't as prominent as the doctor's but they were still there. He wondered if Greg had actually lost sleep over his death. By his appearance, John guessed that maybe he did.

"We may be the only people who believe that anymore. That's not the popular opinion right now," John murmured.

"Well damn the popular opinion; we know the truth," Lestrade insisted. "I knew him for six years, John. In those six years, I could never understand the way his mind worked, but I never questioned him, either. I never needed to, because he was always right. He could point out the smallest detail in a crime scene; every scratch in the wood, every bloodspot on a shirt. I don't regret ever asking him for help, and I doubt I ever will." He finally let go of John's arm.

John let out a shaky breath that he didn't realize he was holding. "Then why did he kill himself, Greg?" he begged. "Sher-… Sher-… he never cared what other people thought of him. Why. Did. He. Jump?"

"I don't think we're ever going to know, John. Sherlock Holmes was a man who didn't like to be figured out. But, considering all the grief he's caused, it better have been one hell of a good reason."

John looked back at the onyx tombstone. He didn't want to shed any tears in front of Lestrade, but he didn't think he could prevent them from coming. "We could've solved this, you know. Me and Sher-," He couldn't even say his name. "We could've stopped all of this. None of this had to happen. He didn't… he shouldn't… dead."

Lestrade looked at the tomb and then back at the broken man at his side. "John, all I know is that when Sherlock set his mind on something, it was hard to convince him otherwise. He didn't think it was important to know that the earth moved around the Sun."

John felt a tear move down his cheek when he noticed Lestrade speaking about him in the past tense. No more words were exchanged between the two men for a long while. Honestly, they didn't think they needed to.

Lestrade looked down at his wristwatch. "Oh God, I'd better go. I need to be at the Yard soon. We've got a pretty bad case right now. That's why I was here; I needed to talk to Sherlock. I need his help."

John turned to Lestrade one last time. "And I'm sure he'd be more than happy to help," he whispered.

Greg nodded. "I know." He turned to walk away but stopped. "I said something to you once, and I mean it to this day. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one," he quoted. "Well that day came, John… but I wish it would've ended differently."

John heard Lestrade's footsteps fade away and he was once again, utterly alone in the world.

He sank to his knees and bitterly wept into his hands, letting all the emotions he had bottled up explode out. He wept for Sherlock and he wept for himself. But mostly, he wept for the fact that he felt he could have saved his best friend from meeting his death.

John couldn't see the figure standing in the distance. He didn't notice the dark coat and the blue scarf moving with the breeze. He didn't notice the dark curls or the piercing eyes staring holes into him. He didn't see the tears stream down the pale face of a walking dead man. He didn't hear the apology that followed the tears.

"I'm so sorry, John. I will be back and I swear I will make this up to you," Sherlock whispered. "Hang on. I will be back."

"Can you hear heaven cry,

The tears of an angel."

Thank you so much for reading! This episode really made me sad and I needed someplace to vent my feelings. I'm thinking about writing another one-shot from Mycroft's POV, but I'm not sure yet. Leave your opinion in a review please! I love reading what you guys think of my writing! Check me out on Tumblr too! The link is on my profile.

xSerethielx