Come Back

John would never think of bringing flowers to Sherlock's grave. It was not something he would ever have gifted his friend with while he was alive, and he felt that if he did lay some on the detective's grave, he would hear his voice in his ear, saying with disgust, "Flowers? John, flowers have no practical use. In fact, their pollen only upsets the validity of my petri dish experiments –"

He couldn't do anything that brought Sherlock's voice to mind. He wasn't ready for that.

It was a cold, oddly quiet January day in the graveyard – John wasn't certain whether there was no noise, or if his thoughts had simply blocked it out. Fresh frost crunched underfoot as he walked up to the place he had avoided for so long, he almost worried it didn't exist. Not that that would be a worry, John thought desperately – if the grave were not there, Sherlock would still be here; as alive and rude as ever. Oh, how he longed for his sulks and tantrums that lasted for days on end; the swish of his blue silk dressing gown when he rolled grumpily and yet gracefully over on the sofa; the legato notes of his violin floating up to John's room in the mornings…

Alas, the grave remained; John walked for what seemed like an eternity, finally making out the gold words on the headstone:

In Memory of Sherlock Holmes.

What was in memory? John wondered. A marble headstone with his name on – that was all that had been left in Sherlock's memory? That was the reality of death; no one was remembered as they should have been, John thought miserably. He noticed that the grave was bare; no flowers – no one else could have known him well enough to know he didn't particularly like the things, so that couldn't be the reason – no pictures, no cards, nothing. Of all Sherlock's admirers – 'friends' was not a word John would really have opted for – not one of them had left anything else 'in Sherlock's memory'.

Why had Lestrade made him do this? It had not been his idea directly, of course, but it was him who had made him see his old therapist – John still cringed at the look she gave him when she walked in; no one person should be in and out of a therapist's office this much, he was sure of it, as he was also sure that she was thinking the same. It was 'part of the healing process', he'd been told, to directly face that which he didn't want to. Not that he could ever be healed of this, John thought grimly. Of that much he was certain.

John felt his heart ache more than the usual dull pain, and felt it spreading through his body. In a way all he wanted, all he felt he could do was to sink to his knees and weep. But a soldier never does. A soldier stands to attention, John told himself firmly; they stand and pay their respects to the fallen.

John could hear crunching behind him. Slowly, he turned, and saw a woman walking towards another grave, flowers in hand. It was then that he really took in all the other graves around him, rather than just a mass of blurry shapes around Sherlock's grave. The vast majority were bare also – they had been long forgotten. The present few who were remembered by current members of the living, such as Sherlock and whoever that woman was paying a visit to, would age and fade; in time there would be no one to remember them, or indeed to remember those who currently mourned the deceased. And here John was, standing in front of Sherlock's grave. There was nothing to make it special – nothing, apart from the name that would lose meaning to people in time, to tell it apart from any others. And right now, John could think of no one who would come to his grave when his time came, however soon or far away that might come. Lestrade maybe, he conceded, and perhaps Mrs Hudson if his death were particularly untimely – as it nearly had been a few weeks ago – but only out of a sense of moral obligation, he was sure. The only person whom he had been sure he could count on in anything in life was here beneath his feet - where he would always be.

Sherlock was gone, and he would only ever get further away. He wasn't coming back.

He found himself on his knees before he could stop himself – apparently his military service didn't run so deeply within him after all – and was trembling uncontrollably, his body being wracked with violent, yet mercifully silent sobs. It was as if it was hitting him in waves all over again; He wasn't coming back. He wasn't coming back. He wasn't coming back.

"John."

John had to keep from crying out in pain – that's what he didn't want, what he was afraid of – Sherlock's voice entering his mind, like a sick game that, just for a moment, let him believe Sherlock was with him again, as if he had never left. The voice was so real, the tone of voice crystal clear in his memory, that it made him feel as though he could turn around and Sherlock would be right there, smiling smugly before beginning a rant about how Mrs Hudson had given away his most precious microscope and liver collection. All those stupid experiments –

"John."

John's heart stopped.

He wasn't there. John knew he wasn't there, because he was kneeling on his grave. Lestrade was right – he needed to go back to his therapist. He suddenly found he had feeling in his legs again, and sprang up onto them. He couldn't stay here. He had to leave, to go somewhere, anywhere, else. He turned quickly and –

...banged straight into soft, dark grey woollen overcoat.

The smug smile, and indeed the rant, probably would have followed – if John hadn't fallen backwards, smashed his head on Sherlock Holmes' grave stone – Sherlock Holmes' fake grave stone – and been knocked unconscious.