Say, Billy Budd?
So, you think should?
Everyone's laughing
Since I took up with you

John

The way is familiar now. The first few times, John had nearly gotten lost. Taken a wrong turn at Joseph Hargreaves and ended up at Henrietta Eldridge. But now he knows exactly the way to Sherlock Holmes.

He never brings flowers. Sherlock had no appreciation for them in life, so why would that change in death? But then again, if John were honest with himself, which he rarely is these days, he would admit that he doesn't bring them because the he hates to see them shrivelled and dead upon his next visit. Too much of a direct visual reminder of what this place is. A place for the dead.

"Hiya, mate," he says quietly. There are some stray leaves and twigs at the base of the polished, black headstone and John stoops to brush them away before he sits down. It feels a bit silly, but more comfortable somehow. Standing seems too formal. He and Sherlock always appreciated a good sit-down when they weren't running themselves ragged chasing criminals all over the ruddy place.

"Sorry I haven't been by in a little while," he continues, clearing his throat slightly. "I just … well, sometimes it's hard. Still hard to do all the normal things." He pursed his lips and looked around. "Well, not that hanging out in a graveyard and talking to air is exactly a normal thing to do, I suppose, but you know what I mean. Getting up and about and carrying on and all that."

He's brought a carry-out cup of tea with him. The hot beverage braces him, acts as a counterbalance against the innate coldness of this place. He takes a sip and smiles a little. "Would have brought you a cuppa, but people think I'm mad enough as it is."

Sometimes he can hear Sherlock's answers in his mind. Mad? Why would they think you're mad, John?

"Ohh, you have no idea," John chuckles, shaking his head. "Well, I mean, people have thought I was mad from the moment I took up with you. I remember the look on Donovan's face at that first crime scene I turned up at. She didn't know what the hell to make of me. No one did." He smirks briefly. "Hell, I didn't know what to make of me. What I'd gotten myself into. All I knew was that it was absolutely what I had to do. What I wanted to do." He swallows, feeling the familiar tug of grief around his heart.

"See, I'm doing better," he says, voice a little thicker. "Don't think I could have gotten that out without falling to bits even just a few weeks ago. But what I meant to tell you, Sherlock, is that yes, people think I'm utterly mad. They laugh at me. Not to my face, mind you, but I can feel it. Sometimes hear it. They think I'm mad because I believed in you. And even loonier because I still do. I always will."

He takes another sip of tea and reaches down to smooth the grass down over the sod. He tries not to think about the coffin buried deep below. Containing what was left of Sherlock Holmes. The transport. Utterly useless without the great mind to power it.

"I lost my job at the surgery," he says, quieter. "It's all right, though. They gave me as much time off as they could. They really were very understanding. Especially Sarah. But … I just couldn't. Even seeing her felt painful, which is more than a bit ridiculous considering you did all you could to mess up any chance I had with her."

Wasn't my fault you let yourselves be kidnapped …

"Oh shut it," John chuckles. "I can still bloody hear you. Maybe I am mad." He rests his chin in his hand. "I'm ready to work now, I think. I'm trying, but it seems my reputation precedes me. John Watson accomplice of the great swindler Sherlock Holmes. Can't seem to land an interview anywhere. Mycroft has been more than generous where money is concerned to an embarrassing point but this can't go on, Sherlock. I need to stand on my own two feet again. I know you'd want me to, as well. Maybe it will mean having to leave London, but it's strange … I never cared much about the city before. It was a place to live and work, but I guess spending so much time with you it's in my blood now. I don't want to leave."

He stretches out his bad leg and sets down the cup on the grass, leaning back on his palms. "I don't see the others as much. Lestrade calls around still. I try to get a pint with him every so often. I already told you about the new flat. Baker Street … I just couldn't, Sherlock. I can't. I hated to leave Mrs. Hudson, but I'll have you know I go for tea at her flat once a week and she is very well. She misses you. Dreadfully. Says the new tenants are too quiet and don't like it when she pops around. Says they're right snobs."

John chuckles softly at the memory, but the next thought turns the corners of his mouth down again. "I bloody well miss you, too. As always. But, Sherlock … there is just one thing …" he holds up his finger, shaking his head "… I still can't shake the bloody feeling that there is something going on that I don't know about."

He picks up the cup again and traces his forefinger around the edge. "I don't even say it aloud to anyone else because they all think I'm barmy enough as it is. Even the few who still believe in you. But I can't get it out of my head. Something about the tone of Mycroft's voice and Molly …" John stares at the stone because it seems to be the only place to look. Like he's carving out the letters of Sherlock's name with his mind "… Molly can't seem to quite look me in the eye since the funeral. And she was the last person with your body before the mortuary people took over. Now what do you make of that, detective?"

He pauses, waiting, but the voice is silent.

"I know. I know it's insane. And sometimes I think it's written all over my face and people look at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. I know it. I can feel it. But I swear, Sherlock," says John. "If there was some way … any way … any remote chance that you are still … if there was anything at all I could do to help …"

John shudders, feeling his control slip and the old hysteria building. He needs to slow down. To stop. He clambers slowly to his feet, picking up the teacup. He reaches out and touches the stone briefly, as he always does.

"All I'm saying is that I'd give both my legs if it meant you could come back. I'd give anything. And if you are out there somewhere … somehow … tell me …" He swallows and looks up at the sky for a moment before whispering, "Don't leave us in the dark."