Elizabeth Kubler-Ross - philosopher, psychologist and, accroding to Sherlock, quite the nymphomaniac (although how he knew that and why that made Mycroft turn a deep shade of burgundy was beyond John) - had come up with something that Sherlock was annoyingly fond of quoting and scoffing at whenever they had to deal with another grief-stricken housewife or seemingly disbelieving son (who, incientally, had been hiding the murder weapon under his pillow the whole time): the five stages of grief.

First, Sherlock would say, glancing pointedly at the nearest blank looking wife/husband/mistress/personal whistler (now there was a case John never, ever wanted to even so much as think about again), comes denial.

I don't believe he's dead.

Next, anger (put down that knife, Mrs Axford, I'm a detective, not a police constable. What's the difference? Well for starters, I'm not expendable. Oh and by the way, if you really want to hurt a man you aim here, not here).

I'm going to kill him if he carries on being dead, you mark my words.

Bargaining.

Maybe he's just pretending to be dead so that he can test out this stupid stages of grief theory.

Depression.

Where are you, Sherlock? ...I miss you.

Acceptance.

Fine, Sherlock. If this is your game, I'm just going to go ahead and wait it out, and I will beat you. ...this time.

John's therapist thinks he's still in stage one. Not content with hearing him aknowledge (her word, not his) Sherlock's death, she has him recite over and over the conversation with Sherlock before he jumped (or didn't jump, John adds defiantly - in his head, now, after the first time he let that theory slip resulted in four hours of meetings with people who were "in the same boat" willing to share their tears - every last one, it seemed, and by god these people could produce tears - with him). Now, he spends their sessions nodding and going "mm" while she prattles on about moving on and moving out and moving upwards (a phrase John suspected she invented and was highly proud of, for she took any opportunity to repeat it at him). He just listens and he nods but that doesn't mean he agrees. Because she's wrong. He's not in denial. Denial - he looked it up - means "the refusal to acknowledge certain truths". This is where her theory falls down; John's not in denial, because Sherlock isn't dead. It isn't true. Mrs Hudson's flowers, Lestrade's black tie, the Minister's false words of sympathy - they're the ones in denial.

In John's mind, he has skipped ahead to the only stage of grief he will be dealing with - acceptance.

I believe in you, Sherlock.

I will wait for you.

AN - hey guys, thank you all so much for the review (wish I could add an s onto that) and the story alerts (there it is)! Means a lot to know that someone's actually reading/enjoying/passing the time with this as I haven't written in aaaages and it's exactly what I needed to get back into the swing of updating regularly. Reviews help. A lot. (Hint hint).

Hope you enjoyed, and again any ideas about whose perspective I should write from should be left in a review. Or if you can't think of any, just tell me how awesome I am. (DXRULES103, you made my day).

Ciao!