Author's Note: I bet you guys are super shocked I'm not writing a The Reichenbach Fall fix-it. I might be later. I just honestly think it's because I watched The Empty Hearse (AKA basically a fix-it for Sherlock's death because it's the next episode) the night after. So not only did I not really have time to write a fix-it but it also got resolved super quick.

That being said I might still write one if you guys want me to.

This is written in a world where Mary doesn't exist. From what I've seen of her so far I actually really like Mary but it just works better if John isn't proposing, ya know?

Alone in a rundown pub isn't where John Watson expected himself to be on the two year anniversary of Sherlock's death.

He would have expected that he would have moved on. Maybe visited Sherlock's grave and switched out the flowers, said a few words. He would have thought that he would have a girlfriend, have restarted his life, maybe even be gone from London entirely.

It hadn't worked out like that. He still lived in 221b. He had tea with Mrs. Hudson nearly every other afternoon and he hadn't gone on a single date in two years. That morning he had brought fresh flowers to Sherlock's grave at sat there with his hand on the tombstone, eyes closed, for nearly an hour. It had only been the chill wind and the sound of soft voices from another part of the graveyard that had pulled him out of his own head and back into the land of the living.

After Sherlock's death, John hadn't slept for a week. Every time he shut his eyes he experienced the same moment, looping over and over behind his eyes.

Sherlock, perched on the ledge of St. Bards. His voice in John's ear, saying goodbye. Arms windmilling as he tumbled from the roof, body soaring like in slow motion until he landed on the pavement.

John was glad he hadn't heard the sound of his friend's body hitting the ground. He was sure that it was something he would never be able to get out of his head.

He had run towards Sherlock's prone form, had been hit by a bicycle. Everything was blurred and fuzzy after that. Struggling to his feet. Pushing through the throng of people surrounding Sherlock's. His head spinning at the sight of the blood across Sherlock's white face.

"Let me through," he had gasped, straining to get at Sherlock's side, "I'm a doctor. Please, let me through. Please! He's my friend- please. He's my friend."

After Sherlock's body had been taken away, things got even fuzzier. He had been in shock, shaking all over as he stumbled back to 221b and told Mrs. Hudson, "He's... dead."

She had burst into tears, burying her face into his jumper. John hadn't cried. He was unable to cry for days.

He wanted to cry. He wanted the physical feeling of grief; the tangibility of tears and his entire body jerking from sobs. He wanted to release the terrible weight pressing down on his chest, making him feel sick.

It had taken Mrs. Hudson nearly eight days to get him to eat something. He was wasting away inside 221b. He had lost 9 pounds and could barely stand on his own.

Mrs. Hudson had found him on the couch, half conscious. She regarded him sternly but gently, placing her hand on his cheek, "John Watson. Look at yourself. Do you really think this is what Sherlock would have wanted? For you to wallow in misery on the couch, wasting away?"

She nursed him back to health in time for the funeral. It was a closed casket funeral, thank God. There were only a few people there- Sherlock's parents, for one, were nowhere to be found. Mycroft shed a few obviously fake tears and left as soon as the casket was in the grave.

Lestrade and Molly stayed to pay their respects. Molly left with a hug to John and a kiss on Mrs. Hudson's cheek, making them both promise to call her if they needed anything at all.

John was the last one at the grave. The memory of the things he had said still rang in his ears.

"Give me a miracle, Sherlock. One last miracle- just for me. Don't be- don't be dead. Just please, don't be dead."

Two years later he was still wishing for that one miracle to come true.

And that's where he found himself now, sitting with a beer in a nearly empty pub. There was the bartender behind the counter and a few enormous, already drunk men. The rest of the pub was completely empty.

The door creaked open, blowing icy air into the pub. A figure in a dark cloaked coat swept inside and swirled to the bar. John barely glanced at him. The person's flair for dramatics reminded him painfully of Sherlock. He could almost see him now: dark curls flying, coat billowing, demanding a drink and then somehow finding an excuse to to smash on the ground.

The thought was bittersweet. John smothered it with another large gulp of beer.

He thought back to the first time he had cried after Sherlock's death. It had been a few days after the funeral, and John had been fixing things up around the flat. He couldn't bare to leave. There were too many memories imbedded everywhere, but at the same time leaving would be like he was moving on, and he wasn't. Not yet.

He had made himself some tea, and was reaching into the fridge for something to cool down the boiling water in his mug.

There was no milk.

John had turned away from the fridge, eyes already rolling in amused annoyance the the remark of, "Sherlock, it was your turn to buy milk 20 turns ago," starting out of his mouth.

His voice had caught on the word Sherlock, and the mug thunked to the table. John fell into a chair, shaking all over as waves of grief flooded him, smashing into his brain over and over again.

He couldn't breath.

It was Molly Hooper that found him that way; hunched over in a chair, sobbing so hard no sound was even coming out. She had dropped the bag of groceries she had bought to help out and rushed over to his side.

"John! Oh, John, it's going to be alright," Molly pulled him into her arms, rubbing his back soothingly with her small, soft hands.

She had stayed overnight that night, making him dinner and dusting, making sure he was okay even as he insisted that she should go home. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock's death was exactly easy on her- she was so head over heels for him that it must hurt like a knife to the stomach.

That's a bit how John felt. Except it was twenty knifes, not just one.

John remembered the raw grief he had felt, sitting there in the nearly empty bar. It was still there, just not as harsh. More of an ache then a sting now, on most days.

This wasn't most days. This marked the two years since John had last seen Sherlock alive. It marked two years since he had heard his voice and seen his grin. It marked two years since John's world came tumbling down.

John tried to smother the emotions in anther chug of beer but it wasn't any use. He set down his mug and buried his face in his hands, gasping for air. No one would be there to see him cry. The bartended was absorbed with his phone, and the large majority of the big-male group in the corner was passed out on the table. That left only the man who had reminded him of Sherlock to-

"Alright, mate?"

John looked up, eyes red rimmed.

He shot up, out of his chair, his heart skipping an entire beat. Then his legs gave out and he quickly sat back down.

"How is this- no," John choked on his words, choked on the air in his lungs, choked on the emotion spilling out of him and filling his mind with a jumble of words, "No. No, you're dead. I saw you die. Two years ago I saw you die!"

The bartender glanced up from his phone, shrugged, and lost interest in the conversation.

Sherlock Holmes slowly nodded, "Yes, that's right. You saw exactly what you were supposed to see."

"No," John repeated, his voice stretching the like string of an over-tuned guitar chord, "No, that's impossible. I was there. You jumped- you- you-"

The string snapped.

For a moment, everything turned to white noise and blurred colors.

Then John Watson crumpled back from his stool in a dead faint.

linebreaker

When John woke up, he was back at 221b. There was a cup of water to his left, along with a slumped form in a chair beside the bed. He blinked, sight still blurry and head fuzzy.

Then everything came crashing back and John let out a gasp. He jolted upright, startling the person in the chair so badly they nearly fell out.

"Sherlock," John choked out, reaching blindly foreword, "That was real- that was- you're alive-"

"Don't pass out again!" Sherlock squeaked quickly as John's head spun, "Yes, yes, I'm alive. Surprise!"

John punched him in the face.

"You stupid git!" he bellowed, struggling to get out of bed, "How could you do that to me? How could you just leave and expect me to move on? I nearly killed myself over you, Sherlock. You're death destroyed me."

Sherlock caught his wrists before John could hit him again, his head bowed and blood dripping from his nose, "I am... I am so sorry-"

"Don't," John shuddered, "Don't say sorry. Just- Just let me-"

He reached foreword, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. Sherlock tensed and shut his eyes, expecting another blow.

Instead, John hugged him so tightly he thought his ribs might crack. Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder, breathing him in after so long of not having this. Not having him.

John tightened his grip around Sherlock's back, fingers digging into his shirt. His entire body was trembling, face wet with tears. He wasn't sure when the last time was he had shown this much emotion. Probably that morning when Molly had found him in the kitchen, a few days after Sherlock's funeral.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, John leaned back. His eyes were heavy, thick with dried tears, and he felt exhausted. Sherlock's eyes were red and he quickly swiped at his cheeks before speaking, "You probably- you probably want an explanation-"

"No," John whispered hoarsely, "Just... just don't leave."

Sherlock didn't.

Author's Note: I actually pre-wrote that in my head but then I ended up going in a completely different direction with it. Let me know what you thought! (I mean you always do but still :)