Ok, so a few people are following this story which i am truly greatful for. Can someone please comment, just because i am not sure how to see my comments and if i actually have any. Hope you like this chapter. Again, any critique is appreciated.

So John is feeling rubbish still, there is slight-man love, but its just extreme friendship - not really romantic (not yet anyway, might develop it, any thoughts anyone?)

Enjoy :)

Chapter 2 – Tears and Defeat.

'Why do you blame yourself John? You didn't push him.' His therapist spoke deliberately, slowly, as though she feared his reaction, which, as she had learnt, was wise. John tightened his hands on the arms of the uncomfortable wooden chair and he could feel her flinch. It would be the third chair he'd have thrown across the room, if he didn't keep his temper. John couldn't meet her eyes as he spoke, 'I didn't stop him either. I just watched and listened. I didn't act; I didn't even make much of an effort to stop him. I could have got on my knees and begged, threatened to follow him, but I just stood there and watched him.' He looks up at her, his face haggard and tortured, the wrinkles on his forehead seemed etched into him like carvings in hard rock. 'I've seen bad things before, horrible. But for some reason, every night when I sleep I see him falling and falling and falling and I still do NOTHING!' he shouted the last word and stood up. He could see the panic in her eyes and he didn't care, he was glad she was scared. It was a small tear out of the corner of her eye that made rethink the continuation of his yelling. He had been coming to the office every week for so long, probably repeating himself over and over again and never once had she been moved to tears. John sat back down, starting to feel ashamed of himself, she always tried to help and he never really thanked her for it, she just existed to him, no emotion attached. He coughed, embarrassed once again, 'Sorry, 'he didn't meet her eyes. She leant forwards forcing him to look up at her face, 'John. This is our last session, I'm not helping you, I can't help you. I will refer you to another psychologist but I will no longer council you, there's nothing I can do.' John frowned at her, wondering if she had ever been defeated before. She looked older suddenly and John felt bad because he knew who was to blame. He didn't question her, or feel annoyed or disappointed; he just took the slip of paper bearing a name and an office number and left. He heard her sniff and let out a wavering sigh as he closed the door behind him.

John decided to stop off at the morgue on the way home to see Molly, she had taken Sherlock's death almost as badly as he had, snapping at anyone who asked how she felt about it, she seemed twitchy and jumpier than she had done previous to the whole thing. John supposed that she too felt guilty, she had after all dated the man that had caused Sherlock's death, and although it wasn't anything to do with it, her naivety had stopped her poisoning moriarty each time they had gone for a drink to the local pub together. Even so, John didn't blame her; she was one of the few people who he still spoke to.
He thought about all the things that had changed since Sherlock's untimely demise. Lestrade was now a name that still caused him clench his fists, if he hadn't believed the jealous stupidity of Donavan and Anderson, he and Sherlock would not have been made outcasts, criminals, and they wouldn't have had to flee for their freedom. Sherlock would not have jumped. Then again, John never truly believed he had jumped, or rather by his own free will. Moriarty's body was found with a bullet hole in the top of his head, which had meant the gun was in his mouth as the trigger was pulled. The tabloids claimed that Sherlock had murdered Moriarty, or Richard Brook before killing himself. John had managed to bully lestrade into sneaking him the police report, what struck him as odd was that Moriartys death appeared to be suicide. John has suspected that after messing with Sherlock's head he had forced him to jump off the ledge at gunpoint; the evil man would then have realised that his purpose in life was over, he only ever lived to torment and play games with Sherlock; he would never have an equal. This would have caused this extremely disturbed man to kill himself. At least, that's what John thought. He considered posting it on his blog, to share his suspicions to the public but he could only bring himself to write 'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.' It was possible that no-one except him even cared anymore; even Mycroft had stopped popping in for a little chat.

He stopped outside the familiar door of 221b Baker Street. No matter how hard he tried, and how often people told him it would do him good, he could not move out. He told people it was because he couldn't be bothered with the hassle and that the rent everywhere else seemed extortionate, the truth was though, that John Watson could feel Sherlock in the flat, there were so many memories; each scratch on the kitchen counter, dent in the table, stain on the carpet from some viscous liquid was like a little piece of Sherlock, a jigsaw of memories. Of course, the place looked a little different since Mary had been allowed to make changes. There was a large candle on the fireplace, in place of the skull, an ornate rug has been placed on the floor to hide the worn carpet, the cushions on the sofa and in the plush armchair matched the rug, and the new curtains. It didn't matter what she changed really, John merely saw the old furnishings and objects imprinted over the new ones, like shadows. He wasn't sure how long he'd stood outside the door, but he realised that it must be raining as his face was wet. There were no puddles on the street, and no clouds in the sky.

Mary was singing when he entered the sitting room, (it wasn't really a living room anymore). Some song about love and eternity and all such nonsense. John listened to her voice, it was high and breathy, not unpleasant, just not professionally trained, he liked to hear music in the flat, it wasn't quite Bach's Violin Concerto in G Minor, but it wasn't the eerie and soul swallowing silence that had dominated his life for nearly two years after Sherlock had died. John shuddered at the thought, despite his continuing weight loss; he had come on leaps and bounds. It had been hit and miss whether he was committed to some sort of clinic. John had frightened people, at the start. He didn't eat, he didn't speak, he barely spoke, he just refused to believe that his friend was dead. He kept checking his phone, looking at the door expecting Sherlock to breeze through, his eyes a whirl of fire and excitement as per usual. He had even been escorted by two police officers away from the morgue after he had tried to break in and see Sherlock's body again. That was only the things that people knew about. Mrs Hudson hadn't seen him cocooning himself in Sherlock's duvet the first month; Mycroft hadn't seen him clawing at the mud of the graveside with his bare hands, telling himself there couldn't be the body of his partner rotting away beneath him. Or at least, he didn't think Mycroft had seen. He didn't know that Sherlock had.
'John?', Mary had spotted him staring into space, eyes glacial, lingering unconsciously on the floor where he had once found Sherlock lying face down, apparently dead (the reality had been merely a test to see how much a man could see lying in that position). 'Sorry, just, ya know' John forced a strained smile. It was one of those days where he couldn't focus on ordinary things, his mind was on Sherlock. Mary knew this, and every time she saw the same look in his eye, It broke her heart; she always knew she would be second to this man she had never met. 'Did you bring the milk?' she tried to make light of the already odd atmosphere, instantly she knew she'd said the wrong thing. John didn't have to say it; he'd said it before 'Sherlock always asked that'. Mary felt tired all of a sudden, she knew John was wearing her out, but he'd had enough pain to last him a lifetime, and she wouldn't leave him. She was going to marry John Watson, she had meant it when she said yes, and now she would see it through to the end. Whatever end.

Mary Morston had first met John Watson one year and two days after Sherlock had died. She only knew this because John had told her. She volunteered as a grief counsellor , not having lost anyone herself, save a grandmother when she was three and a grandfather at 9 she had always felt foolish, but it was John that made her feel like a total fraud. His pain at the loss of his friend brought her to reality; she didn't know what she was doing. It was at that moment that she made him her personal project; she would learn what true grief was and heal it. The first of her goals were fulfilled almost immediately, the second was still on-going and seemed impossible. She hadn't meant it to become a romantic attachment, but on a good day John was charming, funny, generous and a brilliant listener. She was a nursery school teacher and John loved to hear about her day, the finger paintings, the sandbox antics, he relished the thought of her inspiring young minds. At least that's what he told her.
The truth was far less romantic. John liked to be with Mary because she talked endlessly and was convinced the occasional nod. What really went on in Johns head was the repetitive reliving of Sherlock's fall, or their chases together through the streets of London, or sometimes just taste of coffee the way Sherlock made it. Occasionally she would interest him, it was more physical than emotional, something to distract him from a monotony of life. As time passed, she became a fixture, a comfort blanket, the one that made his dinner, walked him home from the pub when he had to many drinks, rocked him back and forth when he woke up in the middle of the night weeping and choking on his own breath. He hadn't even noticed her affections dwindling and her eye wandering, it had been Harry that had noticed it; 'You'll lose her John, I don't want you alone again, you need someone in your life' the look on John's face had said it all, 'I need Sherlock in my life. But I can't have him'.

He had popped the question on Valentine's Day, they had been living together in Baker Street for a few months and it seemed the appropriate social convention. He had been surprised and also slightly devastated when she had said yes. Since then she had attempted to get him to help her plan the wedding. John didn't care about the colour scheme, or the cake. He wasn't interested in seating plans and chair covers, his mind wandered when she spoke of flowers and invitations and matching waistcoats. He didn't want a Best Man.
It had been the bridesmaid's dresses that Mary had been rambling on about this time. John realised that once again he had been chasing ghosts as she had sat there planning what should be the happiest day of her life. They both knew it was more like a life sentence; a hearse should be in place of vintage soft top.
Mary placed the bridal magazines and fabric samples on the new Ikea coffee table, which John despised and ran her hand through her auburn hair. For some reason John only noticed her beauty when she was miserable. He supposed it was the closest they got to being connected. Hey green eyes begged him to speak; her lips were full and pleading. 'John, do you still want to get married to me?' The question didn't faze him, he robotically said yes as he had trained himself too, this time she did not accept this. 'John' she said more forcefully, 'I don't mean we have to break up, it just seems pointless organising all of this, spending money if you're happy… if you're alright as you are. As we are.' His silence did nothing to reassure her, but he honestly didn't care. Cruelty was just part of him, as was anger, pain. Mary stood up, tears in her eyes, like the psychologist, she felt defeated, whatever she did, however she acted, it was never enough, and it never would be. She knew that now and yet she still couldn't leave him. Her heart could love enough for both of them.

'Mary. I wish I could give you the things you deserve. Not flowers or veils or wedding rings, other things. Kindness, happiness-'

'You do John!'

'-Love.' He sensed her tense up. He had told her that he loved her, when they lay together; when she had said it, he had said it back.

'You love me as much as you can and it's all I ask'

'NO, Mary.' John didn't mean to sound harsh but he needed her to understand. 'I'm broken, my heart doesn't work properly anymore, I don't know why. I never loved him, but now I can't love anyone else because they're not him. I don't understand. Don't you see? I don't understand why I can't let go and it's killing me. I'm not better, you can't fix me.' By the look in her eyes he could tell she wasn't grasping what he was saying, or if she was she was dismissing it. He often said hurtful things, but begged forgiveness later. 'I'm going to the shops to get milk. I won't be long John.' As soon as she had left John stood up. He felt angry, Why was she so stupid? Why wouldn't she just get the hint and leave? He didn't deserve her love, he was pathetic and useless and wasting away. He was ruining her, day by day, leaving her hollow and empty like him and yet she wouldn't shout at him, tell him she hated him and walk out. He swore loudly and reached for the magazines, tearing at them, throwing them across the room. He picked up the coffee table and hurled it at the mirror above the fireplace; he kicked at the spindly stand in the corner of the room that held a pot of pouperi. John didn't want these things here, he didn't want scented candles or rugs or curtains. He realised now that it they weren't memories in the flat, they were nightmares. Woven into the patterns of the wallpaper were codes and images of a former life – a life that no matter what John did he could forget. He couldn't leave, he couldn't move on because no matter what anyone said he could not accept, no, believe, that his friend, his partner, the one human being that gave him a real life was dead. Every fibre in Johns being screamed at him that every day that passed was a lie. Sherlock couldn't be dead because if he was, John would be forced to follow him.

So it's looking pretty grim at the moment, it's gonna be an angsty one! Hope to get the next chapter up soon ( i need to write it first!) Please comment, just to check i can actually get them, i am a newby :P