Impatient. Scratching his stubble way too much. Not an itch, a nervous tic. Leg bouncing up and down, upper lip twitching. Right hand grabbing at the armrest, left thumb rubbing his ring finger.

John stands up and shifts on his feet, throwing the paper on the coffee table.

- Do you want me to go with you?

The doctor turns and stares at Sherlock sitting on his armchair: he doesn't have to ask.

- Mary's grave. Six weeks now and you've never visited since the funeral. I'm not questioning your motives, I'm just asking. Do you need…help?
- Yeah, I'm…I don't know why, I want to but…
- You don't have to make excuses.
- I'm not, Sherlock, I just…

The younger man looks up at him and raises his eyebrows, waiting.

- Fine. Come. Do you mind?
- Not at all.

The ride in the cab is silent, giving them the time to realize how dangerous this territory is: Sherlock is tapping his fingers on his knees while John is absent-mindedly rubbing his thigh, both looking out of the window.

- I didn't think this through.

The doctor lets out a sigh and looks at him for a second, before focusing his eyes on his own reflection.

- No, Sherlock, you didn't.
- I'll take a cab home if you like.
- No, just…no. Stay.

The reason John never visited after the funeral lies in the graveyard itself: from Mary's tombstone you can see Sherlock's. Or at least the spot where a black piece of marble used to support John's weight every bloody Sunday. Of course, right? Having your best friend die before your eyes and your fiancé killed by a brand new shiny psychopath wasn't enough. No sir, the cemetery has to be the same, otherwise you're not suffering properly.

- Are you sure?
- Yes, it's fine. What's the worst that could happen?

They look at each other and smile.

- You do realize that we're all doomed now?
- Yes. And I don't have my gun.

The giggle fades away once the cab stops in front of the gates.

- You're sure you're fine with me being here? I won't let you punch me again.

John takes a deep breath and pats Sherlock on the shoulder before opening the door.
Next thing he knows, he's standing right in front of Mary's grave without having the faintest idea how he got there: he sighs and sits down on the ground, crossed legs and elbows pressing on his knees. After a couple of minutes, Sherlock looks around and rolls his eyes, taking place beside him.

- I feel like shit.
- Understandable.
- No, Sherlock, you don't…you don't get it.
- Then explain it to me.

John licks is lips and stares at the engraved letters before him.

- I can't cry.

The detective lets his friend's words sink in his mind for a second.

- You cried.
- Yes, when I…right after, when I came home to you. But I never…it didn't happen again. It's been more than a month, I found my future wife brutally killed on our bed and I…I can't cry.

Sherlock ponders what side of him to show, the cold, analytical sheet of ice that has a rational explanation to everything, or the sympathetic friend that uses fake words as a shock blanket.

Okay, the second one. At least try.

- You said it yourself. You will eventually. Now it's just…too much.
- I hate it.
- I can imagine, but-
- No, Sherlock, no, you can't imagine. It feels like…it feels like I can't have both.
- Both?
- Both. You and a wife.
- …what are you talking about?

John stands up and wipes his trousers.

- I'm talking about us.
- What's the problem with us? We work perfectly fine, well-oiled machine.
- Yes, exactly and that's why I couldn't find a woman who put up with us before…before you fucking died!

Sherlock grits his teeth and breathes through his nose.

- Please tell me I don't have to recite the speech again.
- No, no, don't bother. I got it, you did it for me, thank you, it's just…I really don't know who to explain it to you.
- I'm not that emotionally disabled John, give me some credit.
- I never said that.
- It was implied.

John growls and sighs and huffs and then growls again; he's pacing up and down, circling Sherlock and fidgeting nervously.

- Calm down. Talk to me as if I'm a five-year old.

John stops and looks at him with a small smile on his face.

- Yes, skip the obvious joke. Talk.
- Remember Sarah?
- Vaguely.
- Don't lie to me Sherlock, you liked her.

The detective waves a hand in a dismissive way and rolls his eyes again.

- Well, when we broke up…
- Please don't tell me she thought we were together.
- No, nothing like that, would you let me talk?! Christ, Sherlock…
- Sorry, sorry. Do go on.
- She told me she couldn't put up with us. That she didn't want to spend the rest of her life worrying about me, fearing that I'd get shot in some remote, dirty alley with you running after some criminal and leaving me, bleeding to death.

Nostrils flaring and face red with outrage, Sherlock whisper through his teeth.

- I would never, you know that John.
- Yes, I do. She didn't, no matter how hard I tried to explain how we…function together. After our first date she realized what my life was like but she thought it was a one-time accident and she was happy to accept you in the "package deal", as she said.
- Package-what?
- She knew that…she could never ask me to choose between you and her. And she accepted your presence in my life.
- I'm not a presence to accept! I'm not the nosy aunt from Sussex!

John groans and grabs Sherlock's arm.

- Up. We're walking. If you stay still I'm going to punch you again.
- Thanks John, you're so considerate. You were saying?
- She was okay with us, she wanted you in my life because you kept - keep me sane, for some reason, but when our flat almost blew up that was…that was the beginning of the end. She couldn't stand the thought of not knowing what would happen next. I couldn't blame her, she was right.

They're already out of the gates, walking side by side down the street; Sherlock turns and starts walking backwards, facing John.

- She was?
- Yes, of course she was, Sherlock. I can't impose my life on somebody else, not this kind of life anyway.
- Is your point in the near future?
- Yes, shut up.

John sighs and hides his hand in his pockets.

- At the time I put the problem aside. Because it was a problem, it was an issue that needed to be solved, but I wasn't…I just…didn't want to, okay?
- Don't look at me like I'm forcing you to say things you don't want to admit, John. You're doing this all on your own.

The doctor ignores him and quickens his pace.

- Then…Reichenbach happened.
- Reichenbach? Is that what you called it?
- Yes, shut up. After you died I was…homeless. Not in the literal meaning of the word, it was a feeling. Without you there was no home. I'm not expecting you to understand, you fail at grasping the most basic of human emotions, let alone something as complicated as this.

Sherlock winces and decides to let it go for the sake of the moment.

- The point, John.

John stops in the middle of the pavement and turns to face his friend.

- THE POINT, Sherlock, is that I found someone when you were gone. And she was beautiful, smart, kind and generous and I loved her so much, you have no idea, but every now and then I just stared at her thinking "is she here just because he's not"? Am I in a relationship because he's dead? Because his presence was so overwhelming that I didn't actually need a girlfriend? And now that he's gone I've got this huge emotional hole to fill and she's the first person willing to do so? Am I just…

John waves his hands in the air and then gives his friend a shove in his shoulder.

- …settling for a life I don't actually want just because I can't have the one I really want?

The doctor's panting is echoing in Sherlock's ears.

- After all this time, Sherlock, after all we've been through, I still can't understand how is it possible for you to deduce someone's job by a string on a shoe and at the same time be so bloody oblivious when it comes to me, your best friend.
- John, I-
- NO! I don't need to hear your veiled insults now. Yes, I'm an imbecile, yes, I'm tediously ordinary and boring. I don't care!
- You never told me this.

The detective's voice is so low that John has to stop breathing for a second to make sure he actually talked.

- Everybody knew Sherlock! Everyone knows! At the Yard, at Barth's, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Mycroft knows!
- Know what, exactly?
- Know that I'd gladly give up a normal life to be with you, you giant idiot! You're here I don't care about relationship, do you understand Sherlock? Do you get the gravity of the situation? If I get to spend the rest of my life on our couch, drinking tea and solving crimes then I don't care about anything else.
- And this bothers you?
- Yes, Sherlock, it does! Because it's irrational! I've always liked being in a relationship, I like being the great boyfriend, I like dates and sex and women. And then you came and all my priorities suddenly shifted. I didn't know I needed adrenaline rushes and action and danger and then a cup of tea on the couch watching crap telly before going to bed. This is my life now and I LOVE IT! And it drives me mad!
- Than what's the problem?
- Wh-…the problem? The problem, Sherlock, is that a wonderful human being is dead and I feel responsible. Because I felt lonely and she was there and, don't get me wrong, she was perfect for me, but she wasn't…you. She wasn't my best friend and now I fear I stayed with her just because you weren't around anymore and now she's dead. She's dead Sherlock, because of me. She chose me, I settled for her. Do you see the problem?
- Yes, but-
- No, don't. Don't argue. There's nothing to say. Can we please go home now?

Sherlock is grateful John doesn't let him talk because he doesn't have that much to say.

- You go, I'm…I need to…
- Fine. Dinner, later?
- Chinese.

###

Sherlock comes home in the dead of the night; John didn't text him, didn't call him, didn't phoned Lestrade and all the hospital in London to check if he was still alive. He wanted to, he needed to, especially after all he said, but he knew this was Sherlock's way to give him space; after an evening of maddening pacing around the flat and a cold dinner, John flopped down on his armchair around midnight and dozed off. It's three in the morning when the sound of the keys turning in the lock wakes him up with a start, but he stays still, holding his breath and hoping to blend in the dark.
The detective walks in and sighs: John can hear his steps coming closer to him and once he's standing right behind his chair, one of Sherlock's hands comes to rest on his head, tussling his hair a little.

- John?
- Yes?
- You know I love you, right?
- Yes, I know.
- Right. Good night.

Just like that.