AN: Don't get used to updates this quickly.

Six months earlier

Sherlock gazed out of his window and observed John, who was busy making funeral plans. He had fallen apart after the apparent suicide and delayed the burial for nearly a month. Molly had also needed that time for some facial reconstruction so it worked out nicely. Even though Sherlock could not hear him he was sure that John was struggling to make every detail perfect. Currently, he was on the phone with Gainsborough Flowers ordering a bouquet of red and white tulips, acacia, arbutus, wormwood, and phlox. It was an interesting combination to say the least. Planning the funeral was keeping his mind busy and away from replaying the fall.

The door bell rang and John popped up to retrieve the package. It contained a new coat and scarf identical to Sherlock's. John had decided to keep the other set for himself. The coat was atrociously too large for him, but he did not mind. John set the package down on the coffee table and finished his phone call. He plopped down on the couch and began to breathe heavily as he choked back yet another wave of tears. He still could not understand why Mycroft asked him to do it. Maybe it was supposed to help him cope, or maybe Mycroft was not allowed to be too involved because that would look like the government was taking sides. Either way, John needed to take the package to the funeral home. He also grabbed Sherlock's purple shirt and violin.

Once John left with the package Sherlock went to lay on his couch. Mycroft had purchased 223C Baker St. the day Sherlock began sharing the flat with John. Mycroft and Mr. Hudson had been sworn to secrecy. He pulled up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal four nicotine patches. Staying away from John was taking a lot out of Sherlock. He could not stand to see his only friend like this. He was broken. Some nights he would storm around their flat and just scream at Sherlock. John would call him useless, psychotic, brilliant, and then break down. Sherlock had secretly delivered ear-plugs to all of the neighbours for nights like these.

One night had been worse than any other. It was about a week after the fall. John had come home from his first therapy appointment with his cane. He silently took out his prescribed anti-depression pills and took half the bottle before Sherlock could notify Mrs. Hudson. Then he just laid on the couch and waited in silence with a blank expression. He did not break down like the other times, he just sat. Sherlock had panicked and reached for his mobile, immediately dialling John's number only to have Mycroft intercept it. Sherlock ignored the pre-recorded lecture his brother began to give him. Sherlock stumbled to dial Mrs. Hudson having to re-try several times. Once he finally got it right he pressed the call button.

"Hello?" she said mindlessly.

"MRS. HUDSON," he howled, "it's John! Upstairs- he's-go! SUICIDE!" She dropped the phone and scurried up the stairs and burst open the door- as much as a woman like Mrs. Hudson could burst open a door. She was stunned to find John sitting there in plain sight like it was an average day. He had begun sweating heavily and was shaking.

"Hello Missss Hudsson." His speech was so slurred she couldn't understand a word of it. Sherlock had already called the hospital and an ambulance was on its way to pick John up. Sherlock paced around 223C screaming John's name.

"You idiot! Why would you do this? I'm not worth this. John. Just-why?" It broke his heart so see his John like this. He was also the reason for it and there was nothing he could do to alleviate the problem. After two hours Mrs. Hudson still had not returned from having left with the ambulance. Unable to wait any longer Sherlock hailed a taxi to Saint Bart's.

"You don't understand- he's my friend. My only friend. I have to see him- even if it's from a distance." Sherlock pleaded.

"I'm sorry- no visitors at this time. Come back once his stomach has been pumped." Her eyes seemed to suggest she sympathized with Sherlock but she had crossed her arms sternly- clearly a defensive position.

"When will that be?"

"We're not quite sure- have you considered contacting his relatives?"

"You placed an extra emphasis on that last word. Is that because you think they are more important to him than me? Or is because you want me to leave so you can have a nice shag with her?" Sherlock nodded his head toward the supply closet behind her, "Can you at least tell me if he'll live." Once the shock left her face she informed him, with no guarantee, that John may live. With that she stood up to go the supply closet, "Have a nice one," he called out after her.

"Sher—"

"Shhh. Mrs. Hudson, we must be careful." He hissed back.

"Precisely- he might see you."

"That's why I was getting ready to leave."

"The doctors say we're lucky I phoned when I did. But the funny thing is I never did. I thought he was going to die at any second. Right there. In my arms. Thank you. I couldn't have dealt with two deaths."

"He would have been the only one." Mrs. Hudson shot him a glance as though to say how can someone so smart be so dumb. Sherlock's eyes widened with understanding. "I wouldn't have."

"But John would have. What does that say about you?"

Now, only three weeks later, John looked perfectly healthy, quite unlike someone who almost over-dosed.

Granted, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, and Lestrade had raided the apartment discarding of all of the knives, pills, and rope- the two men were never there at the same time- they had taken extra precautions with the harpoon and noose.

His phone buzzed with a text from Mycroft. I like your new hair but who imagined a ginger Holmes?

Sherlock quickly replied. Do you know when my funeral is?

Buzz. Tomorrow.

Thanks.

Can we talk about your attempts to contact John?

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance with his older brother and sent back No. I was not thinking clearly. He was attempting suicide. It won't happen again.

The final buzz. Precisely, you were not capable of thinking clearly. Maybe you should consider moving.

Sherlock put on his suit with a silver-cream shirt. He had replaced his wardrobe with that of a university student. Wrinkled, faded, cheap t-shirts, skinny jeans, and converse. It drove him mad. But this was only a small portion of the price he was willing to pay in order to still be close to John. Sherlock arrived nearly two hours before his own funeral was supposed to begin. He felt nervous leaving John for so long but Mrs. Hudson was helping him get ready. He took a taxi to the burial grounds but had to walk in once they hit the front gate. The walk uphill was nice. Normally Sherlock was not one for fresh air but sometimes it helped him clear his head.

Since Sherlock faked his own death he had felt more emotion toward John. Or, at least, he was more able to recognize how strongly he felt for John. When he was in their old flat there was nothing Sherlock wanted more than to hold him and strip away the fear. He had tried to tell John though. It's a trick. It's just a magic trick. He had said. But John did not understand, or maybe he did. Some of those nights when John broke down he would howl for Sherlock to come out of hiding so they could solve crimes and almost get blown up. It really did not matter as long as they were together.

Sherlock was now sitting against a tree a good distance from his tombstone. Soon enough people began to arrive.

John walked up to the funeral party and saw the friendly face of Lestrade. "Hey, thanks for everything you've done the past few weeks."

"It's no problem; consider it repayment for all those times you saved my job." He cracked a smile but saw the pain that developed in John's eyes. "I'm sorry, I should have known better."

"It's fine, Greg. John's a big boy, he'll survive." Mycroft avowed.

"You two know each other?"

"Do you think a brother like Mycroft would have let Sherlock work alongside me for years without making sure to check up on me regularly?" Lestrade continued to talk but John became distracted by a plain looking woman a bit off in the distance. She had dark brown hair that was in natural but very tight curls. Her face was also kept clean and she was in a modest black dress and flats. However, there was no fooling John. This woman was Irene Adler. Sherlock had re-positioned himself to stay out of Irene's sight.

The rest of the burial process continued as normal. Mrs. Hudson was the only one he could be certain shed tears but he could have sworn Irene wiped something away from her eye. Mycroft had a smug grin the entire time and Sherlock's mother, who was beside Mycroft, kept herself very well composed. John stood apart from the rest, not as obvious about it as Irene but he clearly did not want to talk. He stood firmly and straight, a soldier's stance. There was the same blank expression as that night. Once it was over Mrs. Hudson told John to meet her at the car.

Seeing John say his last goodbyes made Sherlock want to run out and scream "I'm here! It's me!" Even though that was what would make John the happiest, it was also what would get him killed. With that John made a sharp turn, the turn of a lower ranked soldier leaving a higher ranked one and left Sherlock alone at his grave once more.