Hi, this was a bit later than expected. I want comments on how i described John's emotions - also there are slight homo erotic notions, but don't read too much into that just yet :P

Chapter 3

Graveside Revelations

It could have been minutes or several moonlight nights that John sat alone in the flat which he and Sherlock had once shared. For all John knew, Mary wouldn't be coming back this time, but he believed she would. She always came back, no matter how angry he got or how horrible he was to her, ever faithful Mary returned with milk and biscuits for a resolution. John hated her for it.

He bit his lips till they bled, going over and over the last three years in his mind, flashes, blurry images like watching a film on fast-forward. At some point he had gone mad, totally lost his mind and he was retracing his life to figure out exactly when. Had it been when he had seen Sherlock fall? Or when he had seen the coffin lowered into the ground? Perhaps it had been when he had followed a man on three different tubes because he wore a similar coat to Sherlock. Either way John Watson was almost certain that he was crazy; he had to be because everyone else had moved on and he still awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of his own yells and screams. In a moment of perfect clarity John realised that the only reason he felt like this is because he didn't believe Sherlock was dead, he never had and never would unless he had evidential proof, proof that was lying buried in a cemetery just a cab ride away. In the future John would look back and remember what happened in the next few hours as the lowest, most ridiculous and yet most brilliant of his life. At that moment in time however, digging up Sherlock Holmes' half rotten corpse seemed like the greatest idea anyone had ever had.

John was of course rational in his thinking, it was cold and dark and therefore he required a heavy coat, a woollen hat and the thick pair of leather gloves that Mrs Hudson at bought him the previous Christmas. His brain also told him that digging with his bare hands would be nigh on impossible and that he needed a spade of some sort. However, John did not have an appropriate grave digging spade and found himself annoyed at this. In reality, it was precisely this moment that John Watson had finally gone a little bit mad. Nevertheless what would have to do was a snow shovel bought years ago, in fear that if heavy snow did settle, he would be trapped with a restless and increasingly frustrated detective. So, snow shovel in hand and reckless determination firmly in his hear, John left 221B Baker Street and promptly hailed a cab. The driver looked questioningly at the man in the back of his car, but having heard some of the tales told by other cabbies that had picked up from Baker Street he thought twice about enquiring as to the use of the snow shovel on a night where there was a misty rain, but definitely no snow. John ignored the drivers look of agitation on divulging his destination and drifted into a dreamlike state where exhuming dead bodies of former best friends was an everyday occurrence. This in fact worked so well that without realising it John found himself standing in front of the cold black slab without remembering if he'd paid the taxi man.

His throat became tight as he stared at the name emblazoned in gold upon the black marble. By moonlight especially the headstone was elegant and beautiful, almost, but not quite striking enough for the person who lay several feet beneath it. No, thought John, He's not down there, that's why I'm here, to prove that there's no body. And if there is one… His mind through up a wall, it hit him hard, his breathing became shallower. What if there is a body down there? What if I dig up my best friend? The image of unearthing a decomposing body was foul enough but to gaze upon his best friend, putrid and hellish, with holes for eyes and pieces of flesh dissolving from his face… Bile rose in throat at the mere thought. NO! There is no-one down there. Sherlock is not dead. John held in a roar of frustration, he had come so close to finding out if his religion was false and yet he couldn't steel himself to seek the truth, to know once and for all. He realised he had to. He had rake up the soil, smash and tear open the coffin, he had to look upon the decaying face of Sherlock Holmes to once and finally move on with his life, or small voice in the back of his mind said to end it.

He began slowly, gently moving the soil aside, barely disturbing the grass that had sprouted, but after about five minutes curiosity took over and he raised the makeshift spade above his head before driving it into the sodden earth with a satisfyingly wet thump. The first small mound was easier to shift, but after three or four heaps of soil had gone cascading into the darkness over his shoulder John became weary, his hair stuck to his head with sweat, the hat has long been discarded and he decided that his jumper should follow. Taking hold of the knitted material John began to pull the heavy jumper over his head. At the precise moment when his head disappeared inside a mass of brown wool he heard a cracking of a twig, the rustle of leaves and the unmistakable sound of footsteps coming closer and closer. Ordinarily John ignored any other signs of life in the cemetery, not much caring if anyone heard his drawn out grief stricken speeches but it was late at night and he was digging up a body, there were laws against that sort of thing. His heart stopped but he yanked the jumper of his head and peered into the gloom. He could make out a long slender figure, watching him in the distance. Recognition flooded him, of course Mycroft. He must be angry, coming out himself to reproach John rather than sending an unidentified henchman. John stood there, waiting for whatever sly remark or dangerously soft scolding he was to receive, but Mycroft didn't move. The more John looked, the more he doubted his eyes; the silhouette of the man didn't bear a familiar lean on an umbrella. The shape of the head was distorted somewhat, not the smooth, rounded outline that John would have expected. He was also a little too short. Fear gripped John quite suddenly, this person was not Mycroft. Not only that, but whoever it was had seen him, and had not moved. Not the police then either, not a security guard or elderly night watchman. John also got the unnerving feeling that eyes were needling him, he could almost make out a glint caused by the moonlight, but as it was behind the trees it cast him into an even darker shadow. This man, figure, whoever, would be able to see John clearly in the silvery glow that cascaded from the sky, as the trees broke where he stood. The sweat on Johns head was now no longer from heat, but pure terror, terror of the unknown, why hadn't this man moved? Or said anything? He just stood and presumably stared. Feigning confidence John attempted to shout, 'Yeah? What are you looking at? This is none of your business so bugger off!' He knew that swearing wasn't necessary, his face would be dirt covered, as was the rest of him, he would be red and glistening with beads of sweat, not only that but he was ankle deep in a grave, none of this screamed sane, so why wasn't this person afraid? John raised the snow shovel high above his head in an effort to elicit some response from the dark stranger, 'Want some of this do ya? You've been warned!' John licked his lips, and tasted the salt, his hands were sweaty, he tried to prepare himself for any attack, or movement or verbal abuse that could possibly come his way, but nothing could have prepared him for the deep, mellifluous and oh so cruelly familiar voice that came from the stranger. 'Intimidation never was your strong point, John. Put your jumper back on, it's freezing.' The voice of Sherlock Holmes hit John like a punch to the chest, all the air screamed out of his lungs and his throat constricted; he was insane; he knew it now. And yet… 'John?' the baritone voice sounded concerned and serious. Johns breathing became shallow and difficult, he realised he had fallen backwards and was leaning dependently on the tombstone of the ghost that was now haunting him. This could not be happening.

The figure stepped closer and closer, slowly, cautiously as though approaching a dangerous or panicked animal. The silver moonlight crept through the trees and finally a beam of light sliced through the darkness and hit the man square in the face, a face, sharper than the beam, that John Watson knew so well. John stared, horrified and disbelieving at the man who was a mere feet away from him and Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, stared back.

'No, No, NO this isn't real' John Gasped, spots of white were blotting out his eyesight and he was gasping in sharp breaths of bitterly cold air, gulping it down as it burned his throat, his eyes stung, tears refused to come out, they just built up and up. Sherlock moved closer, stretching out a gloved hand, as he drew nearer John could see he looked different, his hair was much shorter, the curls had been tamed somewhat, which is why he hadn't immediately recognised his outline. His coat, which had been long and black had been replaced by a navy blue military style one with silver buttons which glinted in the moonlight. John didn't know why he was noticing these things, but he knew that if he didn't focus on something he'd be sick or faint. Sherlock closed the small space between them and placed a hand on each of John's shoulders, the world swayed, span and then started to grow dark. He felt himself falling, but didn't have the sense to try and land properly, he just toppled forwards. Luckily for him, Sherlock had been ready to catch him. He took and supported his weight and lowered him gently to the damp ground. Clinging onto the tall man, John was on his knees panting, his face buried into a chest, he refused to believe what was happening. After a few moments Sherlock drew him back by the shoulders. He was squatting down propping both himself and John up, John wondered absent mindedly if his calf muscles were hurting. Then again, figments of a broken mind couldn't feel pain.

'John?' Sherlock's voice was breathy, it sounded emotional, not unlike those few moments before he had jumped. John squeezed his eyes shut so that a fresh burst of bright dots erupted in front of him; he put his hands over his ears and shook his head side to side. 'No, go away, go away.'

'John.' The voice was harsher this time, like it was annoyed at John's rather reasonable reaction. A familiar wave of anger seized John, his veins flooded with fire and he reached up slowly to the man's face. Sherlock looked started at first, but then he relaxed, John seemed to have stopped denying it, he just needed proof, to physically touch him, and as much as Sherlock usually loathed physical contact John's hands on either side of his face was not entirely uncomfortable.
A small shiver ran down the detective's spine as Johns hands slid from his cheek, brushed over his ears and down to his neck. It was an odd sensation, it felt like a warning. Unfortunately, Sherlock ignored it.
John's hands spread around the entire circumference of the detective's neck and he squeezed down. Sherlock's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to try and shout at john to stop but no voice would come out, John was making sure of that. He raised himself higher on his knees as he forced Sherlock onto his back, John looked down at his former best friend watching panic become fear and fear become heart break, Sherlock's heart was breaking because his best friend was trying to kill him. And that's when John let go. Of everything.

He pushed himself onto his feet and stood up, back straight and strolled away, leaving Sherlock coughing and gasping, eyes streaming, head thumping and chest hurting. He had almost managed to get to the gate which lead opened out onto the main road when he heard a whoosh of air and something heavy collided with him in the dark and shoved him against a tree; two clenched fists forced him still against his chest. He could see Sherlock's eyes, read and puffy but with a piercing look in them that made him gulp. 'You nearly killed me.' Sherlock hissed at him, the voice was monotone but the face screamed emotion, all emotions dancing and fighting upon one porcelain surface. John looked back at him, ready for any reaction. 'Now you know how I felt.'

Sherlock took a deep breath, a crease forming in between his eyebrows; John had never seen that expression before, which is why he didn't recognise it as sorrow. 'I cannot begin to tell you… I can't apologise enough-'
'No, you can't' John interrupted Sherlock with a voice so sharp and so filled with anger he barely recognised it as his own.
'But…' Sherlock was reluctant to continue but the hard glare told him if he didn't he might evoke another violent outburst from John. 'You never believed I was dead, apparently, so my reappearance shouldn't come as much of a shock for you.' It wasn't the words, it was the smirk, the oh so familiar raise of the eyebrow that said, it's not my fault I'm cleverer than you. John let out a roar of fury, like a wounded bear he stumbled forwards, blind with rage. Sherlock jogged backwards, keeping his eye on John, but also keeping his distance. 'You're right, that was a stupid, stupid thing to say. John I am very sorry, very sorry indeed and I never really left you, I was always here, always around to make sure you were… keeping yourself alive.' Again Sherlock kicked himself as he realised he had said completely the wrong thing, how did one reveal oneself to be alive again? There wasn't exactly a Wikipedia page or an instruction manual.

'You mean you knew? All this time you knew how my life was falling apart and you did NOTHING?'John's voice was cracking and he still pounded forward, but he was tired and his pace began to slow.

'I couldn't John, not until I knew you were safe, I didn't just jump for no reason, I didn't want to kill myself! Well I didn't kill myself; I just made it look like it by-

'SHUT UP!' John howled, Sherlock did, he nodded but carried on backing away, it would have looked comical really, both men travelling around the cemetery, one stumbling backwards, one stomping forwards, breathing heavily.
'You think you've seen me at my worst? Inside I've been aching, like there's some sort of saw spinning in my chest, carving away at my insides, I was scared to go to sleep because I knew I'd dream of you! It wasn't the dreams where you were dead, or dying that were the worst either Sherlock, oh no! It was the ones where you were alive and we were solving a case or watching telly and then I had to wake up and realise that it wasn't real! I forgot how to breathe Sherlock I only knew I wasn't when I had to gasp and then I had to keep sighing to stop the pain that was building up in my chest from making me sick! I didn't want to be alive but I didn't know what to do, I was a ghost, a half person, if I ate I vomited, if I didn't , I passed out! No one understood, I didn't understand, I denied it, denied that you were gone but everyone kept telling me over and over and I knew I was going mad but I didn't care because I just wanted to stop hurting, I wanted to wake up and have it as some sort of horrific nightmare. Everyday I felt hollow, my face just ached from trying to fake a smile, I didn't want to smile but people kept asking how I was and hugging me and I hated it. I was so angry. I'm still so angry Sherlock and it's your fault. I hate you, I want you dead now! At least I remember how to feel agony, I can't remember happiness anymore.'

They had stopped pacing by now, John having got tired. He sank to the ground and put his head in hands and started to cry, great wracking sobs that felt like they had been storing up, the tears left streaks of pink, clean skin where it washed away the gave dirt. He guessed that Sherlock would walk away, hurt and frightened at Johns intensity. Instead, warmth enveloped him and his face was shoved into a neck and he inhaled an unfamiliar but still appreciated smell. He was rocked backwards and forwards for hours, eventually though they just sat, crumpled in a heap, a mass of fabric and pent up angst. Sherlock continued to do as he was told and remained silent while they held each other, brothers in arms. Tears slid down his hollowed, washed out cheeks as he enfolded John with his long limbs; they remained silent and conjoined until the sky grew pale and birds began to sing them out of their stupor. A new day dawned as they sat there, and when the sun rose it shone brighter than any sun either of them had seen in three years.