A/N I just want to say that from now on I will make a stronger effort to respond to reviews. I am still getting used to this communicating-with-strangers-online-thing, so please be patient with me! It's the least I can do for everyone who has been so kind!

Summary: This one is a bit different. Instead of describing something I believe to already be true, this chapter describes a situation I can see happening in series 3. Takes place a little less than 1 year after Sherlock's return, almost 3 years total after the Fall.

Rating: T

Warnings: Descriptions of violence. Also sadness. And, of course...hold on a sec...(checks vowel usage)...*sigh* Still not British.

Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock is laughable.

In Which There is a Sad Bereavement

For the second time, Sherlock Holmes watched from a distance as John Watson stood at the grave of someone he loved.

Two times too many, he thought to himself. He hated to see John this way. The collapse of his shoulders, the defeated bow of his head. Defeated. That word was wrong. John Watson, the man who was so many things, was never supposed to look defeated.

When he saw John sink to his knees in front of the smooth grey stone that read Mary Watson, Sherlock remembered this was not about him. As he started across the lawn of the cemetery, he struggled to keep his thoughts in check, but as nearly always, he could not. Because this entire twisted, horrible mess boiled down to one name.

Moriarty.

The man had died. Sherlock had watched him die. Then he had given two years of his life to destroying his criminal network until finally he could return. Back to Baker Street, to the Yard, to the Work, and of course, to John.

But things were different after so much time, because John was with Mary. While Sherlock would never begrudge his friend that happiness, and while he would stubbornly insist to himself that his ability to master cases was no different, a small, annoying corner of his brain called him a liar. He was off, and he knew it. Oh, John still helped as often as he could, and of course the cases got solved, but something was off. And for a while, Sherlock believed he was the only one who noticed.

He was wrong.

At 3:45pm, exactly 247 days after his return, the psychologist had been climbing the courthouse steps, on her way to support one of her clients through a hearing, as she often did. There had been two shots. The first through the head. The second, almost as an afterthought, through the stomach; a sickeningly symbolic way of ending the life of the child Mary and John had learned existed that very morning.

3:45pm. Sherlock had not needed to see the report to know this was the time of death. In that instant, he had received a text that froze everything. Every muscle, every breath, every thought.

I've missed the Game, haven't you sweetheart?

Moriarty needed Sherlock back in the Game, completly. For Sherlock to be in the Game, John needed to be in the Game. And for John to be in, Mary needed to be out. It was that simple.

Dammit, how had this happened? How? What had he seen that day, on the roof at Bart's? What had he seen, but not observed?

He stopped the furious train of thought when he found himself standing at John's back. The other man's grief was inescapable. Until now, Sherlock had thought he understood grief. He understood it was a singular experience, unique to each individual. He was certain, therefore, that as an observer it should not seem a tangible thing to him. He should not be able to feel it quivering through his arms and down to his fingertips as if he could grasp it. He should not be able to detect it in his own stomach. He should certainly not be able to taste it.

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to explain, to ask forgiveness for, to try and justify. But he knew John well enough to know he would not be listening to any of it. Besides, Sherlock had not yet mourned Mary, the bright, compassionate woman with the mischievous smile who had held John together for two years and beyond. At least, he had not mourned her as his friend did now, bent over, hands pressed to his face, gasping in air. No, the mourning of Mary Watson would begin as soon as he left this cemetery. Ideally, it would be short, and would end when his true archenemy had a permanent resting place. So, he said the only thing that mattered.

"I will find him, John."

I will kill him, John was what he almost said, but when John turned to look at him, (and John was the only one, besides Mycroft, who had ever been able to stand looking him in the eye) Sherlock was relieved to find he had said very much the right thing.

John had never been difficult to read, but now Sherlock was shocked at how easy it was for him to identify every emotion on his face. He saw pain, rage, and the resignation of a soldier waiting for his next mission. Over it all was deep, unshakable love. Sherlock understood that the kindest thing he could do for his friend, when the time came, would be to not hold him back.

"We will." Had John's voice not come out so hoarse and strained, it would have sounded as simple and straightforward as he said everything. He turned back to the headstone, and Sherlock knew there was nothing more to be said. He reached out and lightly brushed his fingers against the back of John's head in parting, then turned to go. As he strode across the lawn, hands in his pockets and eyes straight ahead, his mind was surprisingly quiet. The only path he could see was plain for once, and he was satisfied with that. There would be time enough later for puzzles, for dramatic reveals and for showing off at the Yard. This would not have anything to do with relieving his boredom or stimulating his mind. This time, they would be as efficient and methodical as John's hands when he reassembled his gun after cleaning it.

The Game was over.

Sherlock did not need to turn around to know the moment when John stood up and started to follow him.

A/N So...the next chapter should make you laugh! Thanks for reading!