John Watson stood alone in their – his kitchen, it was completely still and quiet apart from the general bustle from the London streets outside. He had been on his own for a few months now, not that John was keeping track of how much time had gone by. He looked around his home at 221B. After Sher- after the incident John was planning to move out, he couldn't afford the rent on an army pension and between cases he didn't make much at the surgery. But Mrs Hudson bless her, she wouldn't hear a word of it she insisted that he stayed put and paid her what he could. This was a huge relief to John even though there were times he couldn't bear to be in the flat he was happy with the knowledge that no new tenant was erasing the evidence of all the memories he had obtained in this place.
John looked back on those times he could clearly see etched onto the walls, they made him smile, but also filled him with regret, if only he just stopped and appreciated what he had before it fell. All those times he felt frustration and annoyance he should have just laughed. The yellow smiley face crudely spray painted onto the wall grinned stupidly at him, he smiled back at it then turned his attention towards his tea.
It was Saturday so he had the day off from work, he hated not being at work, not being busy meant thinking, thinking meant remembering and remembering meant –
"DAMN IT!" He yelled as he spilt hot tea over his hand, he threw the cup onto the counter with such force it chipped slightly.
"Shit" he sighed again, it was getting difficult to cope. He knew where he had to go, he had been putting it off for a long time but there was no excuse now, he had nothing else on. He assessed the damage to his hand and ran it under cold water just to be sure. Within twenty minutes he was out of his pyjamas and dressed in his favourite jumper, one he got from his closet friend on his birthday last year, but he didn't dwell on it long before he was calling a quick farewell to Mrs. Hudson and throwing himself into the nearest taxi. He picked up some supplies on his way and then resumed his journey towards where his best friend lay.
It was cold out, the clouds was dark and clumped together, they were threatening to rain, but I didn't bother John he had an umbrella on him just in case it did. He trudged on silently as rows upon rows of stone passed him by, John thought for a moment about who could be buried under them, who were they? What did they accomplish in life? He wondered if any of them was anything like his friend, most likely not, no one was quite like him. The atmosphere around him was eerie; he hated graveyards, never a good memory at a graveyard. John wasn't afraid of dead bodies, he seen enough in the war and on cases to last a normal person a lifetime; no he was afraid of what those dead bodies left behind. Their ghostly apparitions were just memories for devastated family and friends to dwell on, what those people must have felt after their loss was too much for John to think about. He felt those emotions close in around him at these places and they suffocated him.
Those emotions evaporated when he saw the tall black headstone in the corner of his eye, detached from all the others just like his friend. John gathered himself together and began to tread slowly over towards the stone. That's when he saw a figure standing by the grave. His heart did a tiny backflip, a tall strong figure, with black hair stood looking at the stone. For a split second John though he had seen a ghost. Until he realised the figure was more feminine and had longer hair, also only about John's height now he looked closer. The girl suddenly realised she was being watched and turned to look at John. John almost gasped when he saw her, she had the same grey eyes and same face structure as his dear friend, she looked exactly like him!
Panic spread across the girls face and she ran off towards the trees behind her.
"Wait!" John cried after her, and for a second forgot his limp which had come back with a vengeance and chased after her. He sped round the corner but she was gone, *she must have been bloody quick to get away so quickly* he thought. He pouted in frustration and marched back to the grave of his best friend. *Who was she? A family member?* John thought, he had never heard of Mycroft mention a girl in their family, *maybe it was a cousin? But then again Sherlock never struck me as much of a family man*. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective, John closed his eyes and thought of all the time he had spent with Sherlock, he had loved every bit of it. But now John was alone again and it made him angry. He put down the flowers he had picked up earlier and looked down at the skull. John has put the skull there last time he was here so Sherlock would have someone to talk too, it was stupid he knew that but it made him smile all the same, the idea of Sherlock rambling on and on to the skull about this and that. He put all thoughts of the girl out of his mind, sat down in front of the grave and began asking himself the questions that he had been dwelling on a lot recently.
"Why'd he do it?" He asked the skull, he paused not expecting a reply, so when he got no response he continued talking.
"Why he – why'd he leave me? There must have been a reason! I mean I know his reputation meant a lot but that surely wouldn't have made him… he couldn't be that selfish could he? No of course not, there had to of been a reason, one of Moriarty's sick games, but - but I don't want to accept that either that means I failed him, I could have helped him, there must have been a way I - I failed you Sherlock, I'm sorry" Tears were falling down his cheeks now he couldn't help it, he felt like a fool talking to the skull but I was easier than talking to the grave.
"I'm sorry Sherlock" he whimpered. This is the first time he had cried in a while, it felt good to get it off his shoulders. That's when he noticed the white mark on the edge of the black stone.
"Oh not again" John narrowed his eyes and tried to contain his anger, about a month ago some kids vandalised the stone and painted the word "FAKE" onto the grave, John had never been so angry, he swore if he ever found who did it he would batter them to death. His fists were shaking with rage now as he stood up to assess the damage. What he saw though almost brought him to his knees. In white paint and a fancy font someone had wrote:
"I believe in Sherlock Holmes"
John pressed his hands against the grave, tears were threatening to fall again he didn't care he smiled and began to laugh, *what fantastic bugger has done this? Was it that girl? Oh who cares? Someone else believes he wasn't a fake!*
"You hear that Sherlock, you're not alone!"
*But you are John*, his mind cruelly reminded him, the smile faded from Johns lips.
Ophelia would have kicked herself if she wasn't crouching in a tree looking down on a rather sad and confused looking doctor. How could she have been so careless? He had seen her! She was getting slack. She came to Sherlock's grave to inspect Raz's latest piece of work and see if she could pick up any more clues. She had also retrieved the camera she had hidden in the skull a while back, the final piece. Mycroft wasn't the only who could play that game. She now believed she had all the necessary evidence she just needed to piece it all together.
*Then we will see Mycroft, we will see if you deserve to hang*.
She watched the doctor for a few seconds more and then disappeared into the shadows.
