John walked across the manicured lawn of the graveyard, leaning heavily on his cane. He absolutely hated that he had need of it, but shortly after Sherlock's death the pain and stiffness in his leg had returned with a vengeance. At first he went on out of sheer stubbornness; his limp had left him in almost an instant that night that he and Sherlock had chased the cab through the streets. Why shouldn't it disappear once more? Only it didn't this time; it only got worse as time went on. John hated himself for this weakness; Sherlock had proved to him in the beginning that his limp was psychosomatic and yet no matter how he tried he could not now convince himself to get past it.

The dark clouds were gathering very ugly in the sky now, dark and heavy with the promise of rain. The wind cut through his coat and jumper and made him shiver. He was much skinnier than he had been three years ago, due to his poor eating habits and stress, and his clothes hung loosely on him.

John clumped heavily across the lawn as the pain in his leg began to get heavier and heavier the closer that he got to Sherlock's grave. When the black headstone became visible John felt his stomach clench and his mouth become dry. He pushed on nevertheless, until he was directly in front of the headstone. The wind blew hard again and the chill became almost unbearable when added to his own inner chill. John didn't come to Sherlock's grave very often. After all, what good did it really do? There was nothing here, nothing to actually connect him to his late friend. He could grieve at home just as easily as he could here, only at home no one was there to see how damaged he really was.

John coughed, trying to loosen the knot that seemed to have formed in his throat. Even so, when he began to speak his voice was thick, betraying emotion.

"I'll admit that I really have no idea why I'm here Sherlock" John began. " I know that I'm talking to myself, that you're not here...you're not anywhere. But..." John coughed again as the lump got thicker in his throat. " Three years Sherlock, it's been bloody three years since you...since you...since you've been gone. I know that you told me you were a fake, a fraud. I don't believe that for a second. You never lied to me, except for telling me you were a fake. I know you...knew you...too well for that. I've thought it over a million times in my head, why you really said that, why you jumped. I still don't know why but I know that I'm missing something. I know with certainty that you didn't lie to me Sherlock and I know..."

John could feel his eyes burning, his throat tightening but he refused to give in. " I know that the Sherlock I knew would not kill himself unless he had a good reason. Sherlock, all the time we knew each other you confused me and even in death I'm confused. But I know that I'm not wrong. You did this...this horrible thing for a reason. I just wish I knew why"

The desire to cry was almost overwhelming but, John breathed deeply and closed his eyes. He refused to cry in such a public place. He could lose it later at the flat but not now. The more that he fought the urge to cry the more his hand trembled; another after effect of Sherlock's passing.

"Sherlock" John began again, his hand trembling uncontrollably but his tears controlled. " I wish I could say I was doing okay. I really do, but I can't...not in the least. Three years later and I'm still a mess. I hate to admit it, but I've lost it. I don't even know what to do with myself anymore. I go to work, I see people, but I'm not really existing. If you were here...you could tell. I was lost when I came back from the war, and you saved me Sherlock. I had a purpose...now you're gone and I..." John stopped for a long while lest he lose composure. " I miss you so Sherlock"