Hey everyone! Thank you for the interest again! I know some are hesitant about Sherlock being... dead... but just stay tuned!

Also i'm sorry for the gap in between updates. Its christmas time and i'm pretty into it haha! So every day has been a crazy day!

The next chapter should be up soon! Possibly sunday. Happy Holidays and i hope you enjoy!

Steph

The next day was a bit of a blur. After pulling himself out of bed about midday, John busied himself with picking up around the flat. He numbly placed things back in their true spots and ignored the ownership of each item. Right now it didn't matter which things were Sherlock's. He certainly wouldn't be packing his stuff up. That would make things final and John would put his foot down in that area. Mycroft could get his people over when he wasn't around.

John, ate, showered and even went into the clinic for work for a couple hours. He'd called Sarah later on the night before when he had emerged from his dark bedroom to explain what happened and why he'd been MIA for the last 24 hours. Sarah had been truly shocked when John told her the news. She couldn't believe it either. Sherlock Holmes being dead was just… so… wrong.

That seemed to be the only word John Watson could come up with first when he thought of it all. Everything just seemed wrong, backwards… dreamlike. Life was rapidly backsliding to the recent days after he returned from Afghanistan. He hated the feeling it gave him. The sense of uselessness… that he was defective without a purpose. Sherlock had given him a purpose and the exhilarating mix of danger and spontaneity. A sure reason to go on.

Now he found himself numbly walking down Baker St. to his empty flat, a bowl of cereal and bed. Sarah refused to let him stay longer then a few hours and he felt it was just as well. He didn't feel he was helping anyone. He'd barely heard the last patient as she tried to describe how she'd burned her finger. Something about cookies and the holidays and he couldn't wait to give her some cream for it and send her on her way.

The Holidays… great. He certainly didn't feel up to the madness of the Christmas season. It had snuck up quickly. Maybe it was because he hadn't thought of such things wrapped up in Moriarty's game and running the streets of London. The last thing he wanted to think about was Christmas.

He supposed he'd go visit his sister and try to get away from things for a while. Harry wouldn't understand what was going on though and her persistent questioning may prove a problem. He'd have to see. Christmas was still two weeks away.

John made it back to the flat at a snails pace, his slight limp had returned without his acknowledgment. He didn't care. It didn't matter now did it? He wasn't doing any chasing or getting chased. So what if he limped. Screw everyone.

A bright lamplight caught his eyes as he pulled himself up to the doorway and searched in his coat for the key.

Mrs. Hudson had kept her distance the last couple of days. He knew she was dealing with the loss in her own way and John didn't have a clue what to say to try and help. So he said nothing.

It didn't stop the older lady however from delivering a cup of Tea while John was in the shower, its warm steam waiting for him as he relaxed in the arm chair and read till he fell asleep.

But tonight was different. John could already tell as the light from the lamp filtered through the stairway as he pulled open the door.

Mrs. Hudson had sat waiting on a step for John to come home.

"John…" She greeted him with a gentle nod and watched as the doctor closed the door and did the locks before turning back around with confusion written all over his face.

Mrs. Hudson's… are you…. Alright?"

It was an odd sort of thing… coming in the door and having someone sitting there staring back at him. But it was even more odd that it was a serious looking and fidgeting Mrs. Hudson who normally was as bubbly and bouncy as any teenager. Now her brief but lingering and eerie silence started to make him feel like he'd stepped into a physiological thriller and he was about to be tested.

It was almost kind of laughable at how close to the truth he was.

Mrs. Hudson sighed deeply and ruffled a handkerchief in between her thin fingers. She didn't look up at John. She kept her gaze on her nervous hands as she spoke. "He didn't have to stay here you know."

The silence returned for a moment and now was the time for the older lady to slowly look up at the doctor. She was hoping she wouldn't have to repeat herself. Approaching the subject had been hard enough on her nerves as it was. But as she locked eyes with John Watson, he clearly heard her… he clearly understood. It didn't stop him though from cocking his head slightly to the left in mock confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

The old woman ran a cool hand over tired eyes. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Sherlock had money. He didn't have to stay here in this old flat. But he'd found out I was a little over my cup in bills and I just couldn't rent this place out. He came to stay here to help me. But he'd never admit it John… never. He'd always say it was because he needed to get away from his brother or that he liked this side of town. No one likes this side of town."

John was a bit surprised. He had no doubt that what Mrs. Hudson said was truth. Sherlock didn't need to stay there. He could have stayed anywhere. It was a humane act… a kind act. And in his typical 'Sherlock' way he chalked it up to the neighborhood or other reasons as to why he needed the flat. John blinked a long blink, almost not wanting to open his eyes and continue on with this topic. It was clear neither of them has been interested in having this conversation. But what hurt the most was the small realizations at every step of how human Sherlock actually was. In his own way. It just seemed you had to squint real hard to see it.

"I never understood why he needed a flat mate." Mrs. Hudson continued on and John opened his eyes only in respect for the woman. "He didn't need help paying the rent."

John sighed and looked gently at the old lady. She reached to her side and picked up a cup from the stair she sat on. She slowly sipped her tea quietly, staring at nothing as she thought. As the information sunk in, the questions began. Why indeed? Why did Sherlock need a flat mate? Certainly something he'd never find out now. He could make guesses all he wanted. Had Sherlock really been that lonely? Or bored? Was it a cover so Mrs. Hudson didn't realize he didn't actually need the flat?

"John… I know we haven't been talking. I know neither of us know the right thing to say… or anything at all…. But it means a lot to me that you are here. I hope you stay."

"Mrs. Hudson… Have you been worrying about that?"

The small woman on the step in front of him just gave him a quick sad smile and looked back down to her tea. John knew then that he had his answer.

"I'm not certain I'll be able to handle the rent by myself ma'am… but I don't want to be any where else. For now I'm staying."

The woman finally let her shoulders slump as an invisible weight had been lifted free of them and a genuine smile returned to her lips.

"Ok… I can accept that. We'll work something out eh?"

John couldn't help but smile as well from the returning energy in Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Of course"

"Wonderful John… Simply wonderful. Thank you." She gathered up her tea and handkerchief, ready to pull herself from the step when the smile suddenly left her face and she looked back at John again.

"Oh…. And I also wanted to tell you… my sister has been ill for some time…"

"I'm so sorry…"

"Thank you dear… but its nothing new. I haven't been able to see her recently. Been busy you know… and… well she's been pretty weary as of late. I've made plans to go see her. I am set to leave the day after tomorrow." She paused for a moment, hesitant that her next sentence was even required. "I didn't want to miss the funeral after all."

"Of course." John's body had shivered inwardly at the word but he didn't want Mrs. Hudson to see.

"Will you accompany me to the service?"

"I wouldn't have it any other way." He smiled warmly at her as a comfort when inside he knew he was turning into a pretty swell actor.

"Good…" The older lady finally showed her age as she pulled herself to her feet and started up the stairs. "Good night John… I left you some Tea… you know where."

"Thank you…"

"Tut… no thanks needed."

And then she was gone in a flash behind her door, eager to escape the awkwardness of their conversation but glad nonetheless that it was over.

John waited till her heard the last lock latch on the old wood before proceeding slowly up to his empty flat, cooling tea and a restless nights sleep.

John stood alone in the bitter cold. The wind had died down but the ex-solider could feel the oncoming moisture in the air. He felt it right down to the marrow of his bones. But he didn't move. His place was right here.

He'd escorted Mrs. Hudson to the nearest folding chair set out encircling the casket but stayed standing, looking much like he had when he first enlisted. His body was stiff with nerves and the uncomfortable atmosphere but he'd stayed still as stone through the small service. Sherlock had not been a religious man. He was a man of science and saw no reason or need of faith. So Mycroft had settled on a small gathering at the gravesite, a few words said and a solemn send off.

It had ended quickly and now he stood, chilled and uncomfortable. His fingers were in his dress coat pockets, clenching and un clenching to keep warm as he watched the casket in front of him. It slid slowly down into the cold earth, taking any hope John Watson had left in him with it.

He had realized that he did not stand completely alone. As he stood watch, another did as well. But not for Sherlock Holmes. Not for the most brilliant and unique person John had ever met to be lowered into the ground. Not the person who seemed to know him better then anyone else. Not for the man who helped him overcome his psychosomatic limp, bringing him back on life's track. No… this man was keeping watch for John. And even though he felt he should do this alone it did help a bit that there was still someone who cared enough about him to make sure he got home ok.

Mycroft and his family had long since left. They had been the first to walk away and with good reason. John didn't know that Sherlock was an uncle. He honestly couldn't picture him interacting with children of any age. But he must have, for the young boy and girl that stood with their father had cried openly at the loss of their uncle. And as soon as things were complete, Mycroft has ushered the youngsters into that large black car and pulled away slowly.

There really were a lot of things he hadn't known about his flat mate.

He didn't know how Mycroft did it. His brother was dead. One of the few things the man fought to protect. He certainly had his own way of showing caring and love. His way was to bribe John into keeping watch over his brother.

Such a strange family.

But today he saw the human side as tears fell from Mycroft's eyes and soaked the suit coat he wore. He watched him place gentle hands on the young children standing before him and lower his head to whisper comforting words.

Well… maybe not as strange as he'd thought.

A 'thunk' sound shook John from his thoughts. The Casket was now in and the grounds men of the graveyard were now starting the final stages of the burial. John took a shuddering breath and released it slowly as he brought his head down to his chest in defeat.

He was no longer needed now. It was over.

He supposed it was time to acknowledge the man standing behind him.

"You didn't have to stay here."

"I know…"

John paused to collect himself before turning around to look at DI Lestrade.

"Mrs. Hudson…?"

"I had Donovan bring her back home."

John nodded. "Thanks."

"John you don't have to thank anyone. That's what friends do."

"Friends." John whispered. He was starting to hate the word. It seemed his biggest mistake in life was making friends. He'd lost so many of them at war and any that he'd had before he left for Afghanistan couldn't seem to understand him anymore. And now… he'd just lost another one. One that seemed to get him more then anyone else in the world… even himself.

"Things are just… wrong."

"I know… but they get right again."

John actually laughed. "That's a load of bullshit. Nothing ever gets right again. You just try to move on from that and wait for that next thing to go wrong too."

"John…"

"Never mind… I… I don't want to talk anymore." John's shoulders slumped and he took one last look over his shoulder. The men were now going for the shovels and he looked away as quickly as he could.

"Ok… I understand. " Lestrade stepped aside and gestured his hand gently towards the last car waiting on the gravel road. "Home?"

"Thanks."

John didn't look back over at the grave again as Lestrade put the car in drive and drove them slowly away from Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade drove in silence and John appreciated it more then he could ever say. His mind was buzzing but he couldn't stick to one thought. All he knew was that he wasn't ready to go back to the flat and the anxiousness of that strong feeling had John grumble a "Pull Over" two blocks from Baker St.

"We're almost there John…"

"Yea… well I want to walk."

"But its freezing and the dress coat you have isn't warm enough…."

"I have to go to the store."

"Well please… let me drop you off there. I can wait. Its no prob…"

"No no…." John interrupted. It's fine its just down the block. I want to walk."

John turned his head finally to look at the DI, hoping the emotions would hide out for a moment.

"Ok…. Ok… yea..." Lestrade pulled the car to the curb and threw it in park. "I suppose you should anyways. That whole superstition about stopping somewhere else after a funeral…"

"Yea whatever… Thanks." John knew the man was trying to ease the moment but all the doctor could concentrate on was getting out of the car. His hand grasped the door handle and whipped it open in one smooth swift motion, throwing his legs out and pulling himself up onto the curb.

"John… If you need anything ple…."

"I will… I'll call… Thanks"

And with that, he turned on his heels and limped himself down the side street in the direction of the small family owned grocery store down the block. It wasn't a major escape but one his body was beginning to appreciate as the anxiety started to lift and the walking movement helped his panic.

John had lingered in the store for a good solid hour, going up and down the isles more then a few times and picking up random things he didn't need just to look normal. Really all he wanted was for his body to relax and for the fear of loneliness and uselessness to subside.

He'd eventually drifted up to the counter with only 12 items and tried to ignore the curious stare of the older fellow behind the counter.

He limped slowly down the two blocks to Baker St. and cursed out loud when he found Lestrade parked in front of his building, leaning on the door with his arms crossed waiting for John.

"Need help?"

"I can manage well enough."

"Ok…" Lestrade watched John put the key in the door, hands in his pockets waiting for his words to come to his lips. He was never good at this part of the job. "H… how are you doing?"

John shoved the key back in his pants pocket and leaned down stiffly to gather up a few parcels. "Just dandy. Thanks for asking."

"I'm serious John. I am concerned and I just want to make sure you are going to be ok…"

John turned his head to the detective inspector and let out a deep exhale of air that cut through the cold night. "Like I said, I'm managing."

"John… I'm so sorry. I know you two were friends…"

"Colleagues", but he knew, as the word left his mouth, that it wasn't true. They'd become more then that. His thoughts briefly filtered back to the look on Sherlock's face after he'd ripped the bomb jacked off his shoulders. It was concern. He'd known right there that he'd also felt the same. They were friends… they understood one another. Sherlock Holmes had shown his hand… his secret of a beating caring heart in his final moments.

"Right… well you were close. So… my condolences. He was an amazing talent. We will all miss him."

"I'm sure Donovan and Anderson are lighting a candle as we speak"

Lestrade tried hard not to roll his eyes at the childish reaction. "Its true they didn't like him much… but it was most likely because he called them out on themselves. They'll miss him… later."

"Sure…"

"Well I guess I'll let you get back to your groceries. If there's anything you need I'm just a phone call away."

"Thanks."

John shuffled into the hallway and kicked the door shut behind him with his foot. He stood there for a few minutes clearly fuming. He had to take some deep breaths to try and think clearly. Lestrade showing up unannounced didn't bother him but the way he looked at him did. Was it pity he saw in the man's eyes? Why would anyone pity John Watson? Who was he?

Sherlock had a family he left behind. Why didn't the detective inspector show up on Mycroft's front stoop and deliver his condolences?

Oh right… To him… John was Sherlock's family.

A cold shudder rippled through his aching bones and the doctor huffed as his final thought on the matter… for now.

He gripped his grocery bags tighter and hoofed it up to his flat.

John made it 4 steps from the doorway when a glimpse of something on the floor ahead stopped him cold.

A leg.

A well-dressed leg with an expensive looking pair of dress shoes attached…