Just a few bad words in this chapter, just to let you know in case you're sensitive to that sort of thing.

…

John had seen war, he'd seen men beg for their lives and be given the cold shoulder by any higher power that was out there. He'd seen much death and suffering. He was under no illusion that life was fair. But it didn't stop the feeling of anger, as he couldn't shake the thought of just how unfair this all was.

The greatest mind of all time taken away, and the world kept spinning. Of course he didn't expect an earthquake or flood or the end of all days but something. For the wind that rustled the trees like whispers to one another silent their chatter for just a moment, for someone somewhere in the world pause for half a second, sensing, somehow sensing the great loss that was suffered. A traffic light to turn red, a pause in breath, a ripple in a pound, something out of place. Some shift no matter how small.

He looked out the window angry at the people that walked by unfazed and ignorant, when one should weep for humanity. For something, someone, irreplaceable in every sense of the word, was gone. John looked up begrudgingly at the sun as it hung like a glowing ornament in the clear vibrant sky. He wasn't asking for a storm or hurricane but did it really have to be so bright. So fucking bright! Someone out there must have a really twisted sense of humor; John laughed to himself no trace of humor in it. The pompous ass would have loved to hear him go on like that.

He got out of the taxi paid the cabbie and walked up to the church doors, he shifted uncomfortable as he scanned the small gathering. John knew Sherlock wasn't the most popular person with the people that knew him, but he had helped the same people that claimed to hate him. There should have been a line at the door with all the people he had helped. There wasn't. He thought grudging to himself how he had tried to convince Sherlock in his finale hours how much he meant to people, he knew Sherlock would probably be lecturing him on how he now had sufficient evidence to the contrary of John's claims and that one should never twist facts just because the reality is less appealing than what we want to see. He smiled a bitter sweet smile at the thought of his friend, damn him. John shut his eyes tight immersed in his thoughts. A hand startled him out from his troubled mind.

"Hello John."

"Oh hello Greg"

"How are you holding up" The inspector detective asked sympathetically. John shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, you know."

"I know. The yard is certainly suffering" Lestrade tried to laugh lightning the mood but it somehow made John even angrier.

"That's all he was too you guys, a case solver wasn't he. You never even liked him did you, never respected him" Lestrade looked down for a moment then looked John right in the eye.

"I respected him more than anyone else I've ever known on the force."

After a tense moment John sighed, "I'm sorry it's just…"

"I know." Greg squeezed his shoulder sympathetically.

"So where are the rest of them, Anderson and Donavon?" John couldn't help keep the bitterness out of his voice when he said their names already knowing the answer. Lestrade looked down almost seeming ashamed.

"They couldn't make it"

"Of course they couldn't" John rolled on his heels and looked around the small chapel awkwardly, "Well it's probably for the best…I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't want them here anyway" They allowed themselves a small forced chuckle at that. John personally didn't want them there either; Donavon was a cow and Anderson a proper dick.

"Excuse me" Greg cleared his throat and walked away. John barely noticed looking over at the few faces. There was Mycroft looking very staunch and emotionless in the corner his hands clasped in from of him. John had half a mind to walk over there and deck him right in the jaw for even having the audacity to show up. But he took a deep breath and flexed his fists, trying to get himself under control, he was in a church and at a funeral it wasn't decent, although he was sure Sherlock would probably have enjoyed it. He felt a brief flash of sympathy, he knew despite everything Sherlock was his brother. Then there was Miss Hudson, one of the few land ladies' that would have ever put up with Sherlock, for that she was a saint. Not to mention Sherlock adored her even if he wouldn't admit it. Her eyes were already red and puffy and she had a crumpled tissue in her hand. There was more press outside than actual people that cared about him in the service. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But then again nothing was.

The service went by, and John sat in the pew thinking of how Sherlock would be making fun of the whole thing and telling him random facts about the people sitting in adjoining seats, like what they had for lunch and their biggest fears. Then he was startled out of his distant thoughts like waking from a dream by the sound of his name being called. It was his turn to speak.

He hadn't really planed anything to say. What could there be said, Sherlock was far greater and complex than mere words could describe, it would almost be insulting. He was one of the greatest mysteries too illustrious to be pegged down by such things as words, trivial and ambiguous adjectives. Sherlock Holmes was something you experienced not described. And to have actually know the man and been his friend had been one of the greatest honors and happiest times in his life. After realizing his mouth was merely hanging open like a fish and not forming words he quickly shut it. He looked down at the ugly carpet took a deep breath and tried again.

"Sherlock Holmes was a grea…"John suddenly thought back to a conversation he had had with the inspector and shook his head

"Was a good man."

/

After the service John stood out in the infuriatingly god damned sunny day, at the grave stone. It was made from shiny black marble. Cold and hard and ordinary, stuck in the dirt. It made John sick knowing it was a name tag for the person underneath it. So many planted bones beneath his feet, but nothing living, no flowers rose around it. His stomach churned with the idea of his friend beneath the mud and dirt that people stepped on, he wanted to get to his knees and pull up the ruble because it couldn't be Sherlock under there! He couldn't be dead! And if it were him under there he couldn't breathe, he needed air! John could hear the blood pounding in his ears and tried to take deep breathes to calm his breathing before he threw up or passed out. He paced nervously, his hand dropping to his side then going up to his mouth a few times.

"Sherlock…" He began then had to stop, he already felt exaughsted and put his hands on his knees.

"Sherlock you infuriating dick you" He scrubbed his shaking hand over his face and slowly growing stubble. "You can't be dead. London will fall; I don't know what we'll do without you. There are still mysteries to be solved bad guys to be caught, or villains probably as you'd call them. Lord knows the Scotland Yard can't catch them" He laughed despite the moisture growing in his eyes. "Lestrade needs you, Miss Hudson needs you. I need you!"

"You know I'd give up my sleep to hear you play on that blasted violin of yours at all ungodly hours, I'd give up my fridge space just to see another of your creepy body parts, I'd give up my dates, they never work out any way. I'd give up everything, because all those things are better than what I was ever stupid enough to want or thought I wanted. Just…just don't be dead." The salty tears slipped down his dry cheeks and to the ground, but still now flowers came, Sherlock was still gone. The world was still unfair.

/

When John finally got back to the flat he must have stood in the door way a good five minutes.

Fearing he would defile something sacred by walking in, decimate the last remainders of something lost.

There was a stagnate chill as he walked in the room, the kind that seeps into your bones, and makes you feel empty. The idea, the feeling of loss wouldn't give him peace, like a weed it stretched itself throughout him and wrapped itself tightly around his brain and heart. He sat down heavily in his chair feeling every ach and creek in his muscles. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, when his gaze set on the beautiful long grey jacket, with the infuriating collar, and single red stich, with the large double breasted buttons. It lacked a certain character sitting all alone, when it had once seemed larger than life when attached to its owner. And siting neatly on top was the dark blue scarf. Miraculously they hadn't gotten blood on them and were salvageable.

John knew he would have to start getting rid of things eventually, (which just the thought of made him feel even more tired) but he couldn't get rid of those. He walked over to them cautiously at an angle as if they would jump away if he got to close. Hesitant fingers reached out a few time before snatching up the blue material.

He walked back over to his chair and sat it on the arm. Ah Sherlock. He ran his fingers gingerly over the familiar material; finding it soothing. The doctor looked up to see rain sliding down his window. Like liquid morphine it distorted and numbed the outside world, and he found it strangely addicting and entrancing. London must have finally gotten the message. John fell into a fit full sleep. With the empty chair across from him in and empty flat with a seemingly empty life filled with to the brim with anything but what was fair.

Sherlock stood on the other side drenched in the falling rain, staring in at 221B.

…

Ok I promise next chapter will be happier. Tell me what you think. This is my first Sherlock fic and it doesn't even have a lot of Sherlock in it yet so I'm not sure how it's going haha. Please review and let me know