John was sitting on a plane, cursing Mycroft in every way he could think. Japan! He was being sent to Japan, and he didn't know a single word of Japanese! This was more ridiculous then all of those nights he ran across London with Sherlock. He was supposed to meet his team, a very much English speaking team Mycroft had assured. Now he was alone with his thoughts, and he really hated it. All he saw was Sherlock, running away from the funeral, his funeral. Sherlock had ruffled his hair violently, and stormed off, glaring at the world, hating it. John's dog tags were clutched in his fist, and his jacket was hung in his arm, the corner dragging over the soil. His eyes were red rimmed, and his lip quivered. He was practically running to that cab, ripping of his tie and suit jacket on the way. He looked so disheveled, so hurt, so broken. That was the word Mycroft had whispered to Aimee, the word that hung in the air and the word that Mrs. Hudson had muttered to Lestrade during the service. John had broken Sherlock Holmes, and now a deep fear crawled up his spine. It ran its dark claws into his blood, soaking into his thoughts and tearing apart his soul: He couldn't fix it this time. He straightened his posture as the seat belts sign flashed, snapping the safety belt into place he made a decision. This team had no business in his emotions, so they simply wouldn't know. He plastered on his war face and was tight lipped as the hard resolve the army taught him was spread over his features. There it would stay.

Sherlock paced the length of the flat, careful to avoid the chair. He was nervous, which was infuriating, but it was the emotion stuck in his gut. Lestrade would be here in minutes, ready to take him to a case. He'd told the DI that he could take a cab, but Lestrade insisted he take him. Going on about this being his first case in a while, and wanting to keep an eye on him. He didn't need that! He was tired of being treated like glass, like any move could break him-even if it was slightly true. Yes, he did shake a little every time he smelled making herself a cup of tea. Perhaps he forced himself to watch horrible telly and re-runs of just to feel close to John again. Maybe, whenever he walked out of his room he still felt his throat grow dry, and the heavy lump form when John wasn't padding around the flat. All of those things might-probably-maybe-kind of-definitely be true, but that doesn't mean he'd break down at a crime scene. He was a professional for crying out loud! He could ignore the emotions, fake like they weren't there. He'd accepted the deep longing and whole-hearted pain that filled his every day, and he knew how to function with it now. He ate only when he absolutely had to, and slept when he fell. It wasn't much unlike his life before John, and with him, but this was different. It had a heavy sense of grief in it. He wasn't doing this because he didn't care, he was doing it because he did, and it hurt. Mycroft said he was slowly killing himself, he said maybe that was his goal. Mycroft had left. Sherlock stopped moving, looking down at his watch. 2 minutes, and Lestrade should be here if traffic was being predictable-and it always was- so Sherlock began gathering his coat and scarf. He put his things on and turned to John's laptop, he needed to Google the victim. They had a name when they contacted Sherlock, apparently she was some famous singer, 'Annie Westbound'. He walked to the device and froze, his hands floating over it. He couldn't do this, he'd barely disturbed anything of John's since the 'incident'. He had to, his phone was to slow right now, updating or something boring. Taking a long deep breath, he finally pulled it open to find an envelope inside. Another one, just like the one from his room, but instead of his name it read 'Final Testament (My will is already on file with the Hospital)' Sherlock felt himself smile involuntarily, everything about John made him smile, even after death the man brought a grin to his face. It wasn't licked shut, just like the other, and Sherlock decided to open it.

'I really hope you found this Sherlock, because I want you to read it first. It's unlikely tried to use the laptop, she says it scares her, so it's probably you. I'm going to go on like this is Sherlock, so if you aren't kindly piss off and give this to him.- Listen, or read or whatever, I need you to make sure everyone isn't too upset. I don't want to screw everyone's life up with what I'm going to do. I love you all(uh, loved?) and you all need to know that. Sherlock, you really need to remember that. Don't go off and do something dumb to prove your clever without Greg(Lestrade.) I'm not going to be there to help you, and you have to remember that. You really have to. Tell Harry this isn't her fault, and I love her(again,loved?) so much. Also tell her to stop the damn drinking. Clara will take care of her, but please make sure she doesn't run herself ragged trying. Clara would do that, turn away from what she needs to protect Harry. Love's funny, isn't Sherlock? Keep working, and make sure Greg remembers to sleep, and you damn well better be driving Anderson crazy. Call Sally out on something for me, would you? I always hated when she called you 'freak'. I did this not because I wanted to hurt you all, God no. I did it because I couldn't stand myself anymore. The nightmares, the guilt, the uselessness that I am (was?). I wasn't much help to anyone after the war, hardly before it either. I might have helped you somewhat Sherlock, but let's face it: I needed you more then you needed me. I love (Loved? You know what, fuck it.) you all. It hurts me just to think about how this might hurt you all. Be good, be careful, and don't forget each other. That happens when people die, everyone drifts slowly apart with their grief. Don't do that.

Yours,

John H. Watson

Sherlock read it over, and over, and over, 10 times. He didn't hear Lestrade walk in, or close the door. He barely noticed when the DI cleared his throat, and then the world came back like a punch in the gut. his hands were shaking, and his eyes were glazed by tears again. Dammit, he was letting the pain win! "What's that, then?" Lestrade asked, stepping towards Sherlock.

"His note. It's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note." Sherlock replied softly, holding the flimsy paper out to Lestrade. The older man took it gently, and began reading. Sherlock watched as his eyes began to fill with tears. He watched as Lestrade's hands started to shake, and he covered his mouth. A noise escaped the DI, and he covered it with a pathetic fake cough.

Lestrade read the note twice, then looked up at Sherlock, asking silently for his reaction.
"I didn't know it could hurt more." Was all he said. Silently the two walked out, and Sherlock left the note at 's door. Lestrade had taken a picture, and decided he was going to read it out to the people of Scotland Yard who knew John. John would have liked it, Sherlock knew, he liked all those people. He'd want them to get closure, he saw it on Lestrade's face. That's what the note was giving him, and probably everyone who read it: closure. Not him, not Sherlock. All it did was make him hurt more. God how wrong could John be? Sherlock needed him more then oxygen.

When they pulled up to the scene, everyone stared at Sherlock. Openly pitying him, their sorrowful glances falling over him as he stood beside Lestrade as he ordered them to gather around. He heard the whispers, Lestrade had said they'd taken up in calling him a widow now. Lestrade cleared his throat, and everyone fell into silence. They expected orders but Lestrade announced that this was a reading of John H. Watson's final testament. Everyone stilled, a few people looked positively stricken, and Sally's eyes grew wide. Lestrade read it off over his phone, pausing to clear his throat and push back his tears. When he read the part where John asked Sherlock to annoy Anderson he saw the man in question hang his hide and smile slightly, he'd liked John even though they barely talked. It wasn't a happy smile, but a grief filled one. When the comment of Sally came up he saw the woman cover her mouth with her hand, and watched as she let her tears pool on her fingers. When it was done, everyone turned to Sherlock and gave small nods. All of them had weak, sad grins at the jokes John had made. Only he could do that, make all these people so desperately sad but feel the need to smile at the same time.

They continued on, and into the building where the body lay. Sherlock almost asked John to come look at it, but he stopped himself just in time. It was easy, quickly solved: The husband's lover came and shot her to win the man. He was only using her as a distraction from work, and had still loved his wife. Jealousy, need, want, and love. Oh yes. Sherlock mused as he glared down at the body Love certainly is funny, John. Open and shut, the lover had left plenty of evidence. Sherlock swept out of the room, and hailed a cab. "221B Baker street." Sherlock said on reflex, then shook his head. "No, no. Go to East London Cemetery."

"Right." The cabby nodded, giving a sympathetic smile and began making his way through London.

Mycroft had said that if anyone visited his grave-bench he would text him the video from the hidden camera that was set up. It was an absolutely absurd thing to do, but John just waved him off. He didn't expect anyone to visit it, why would they? When his phone rang as he lay on the bed in a hotel somewhere in Tokyo, he expected another pointless update on the team's proceedings or assurance everyone was fine. Instead it was a video of Sherlock, at his grave.

Sherlock walked slowly up to the bench, and his face was pale, his eyes already bloodshot. "Am I meant to sit on your bench headstone, John?" He asked, and his voice sounded cracked. "Well I won't, it's impractical. It also seems a 'bit not good'." He gave a slow, pained smile that never reached his eyes as he quoted John's words. "I found your note. Lestrade read it to everyone at the yard, I e-mailed a copy to Harry and Clara, and left it for to read. It was meant to give closure, as those notes are. To assure us there was nothing we could do, that you loved us, and it was simply because of your own inner turmoil that you took your life. It helped all of them, but it didn't help me." Sherlock sucked in a breath, leveling his gaze to the ground. "Why John? Why did you leave me behind, isn't that my job? You know, you really are an idiot if you thought I didn't need you! I needed you, I still do! Everyday I try and delete that day, I try and delete you but I can't! You're imprinted in my every day life. God John, breathing hurts now! How could you do this? You left me with all these emotions, and I have no idea what any of them mean! You would know, you'd explain it all and it would make sense but you can't! You can't because you left." Sherlock kept his voice low, but he was angry. He pushed his palms into his eye sockets, taking slow, deep breaths. "I need you. You were the kindest, most amazing man. You were my conductor of light, but now the entire world is grey. I've never been this bored, John, and I've never hurt this badly. None of it is rational, but it's what my mind is doing. I just wish...you were here." Sherlock's voice cracked again, and he stepped closer, letting his gloved hand fall on the bench. "I want you to come home, John. I want you to stop this...just stop being dead." With that, Sherlock stopped talking because he knew if he continued, he'd break down then and there. He traced his fingers over John's name one last time, and turned to leave. He paused, his back to the camera and hung his head.

"It's been an honor, Captain." Sherlock whispered, and the rain began to fall as if on cue. Sherlock didn't even flinch, he just pulled up his coat collar and let the water soak his curls. They hung over his brow, and he shivered slightly. Giving one last longing glance back to the headstone, then he turned and walked away briskly.

"I'll come home Sherlock, I promise." John whispered to the empty air of his hotel room.