The flowers look almost worse than he remembered.

Though, he is - or rather was - the only one replacing them. There's all sorts clumped at the headstone; peonies, roses, yellow daisies, tulips, and a few pink begonias.

Of course they'd all been dried up from the sun; brown and shriveled, falling apart, practically unrecognisable. But even months later, John still remembers what these flowers were. He even remembers the exact time and dates of when he'd brought the bunches - sometimes he carried a picnic basket filled with all sorts of goodies along with it and had just simply sat and talked to the headstone, as if it could respond back. Other times it had been hot tea in a flask and a good book, with the stone used as some temporary company before he grew tired and fell asleep beside it. At the beginning, however, he'd had his phone in hand and had read out cases that he thought Sherlock would have been interested in, laughing through his tears until his battery had died and he'd had to walk home in the dark. But that had become too much and he'd switched to the picnic basket 2 and a half weeks later.

No one's around. Not that anyone would be here in the late afternoon. Or maybe they would. It wasn't uncommon for people to show in the cemetery at this time of day. And visiting hours didn't exist, unlike in a prison or a hospital…

John sighs.

He's doing it again.

John stares at the headstone, shoving his hands in his pockets as the suns rays set behind him. It makes the stone look somewhat beautiful. A sad beauty if you could call it that.

That's what Sherlock had been.

He clenches his jaw when a deep ache suddenly makes it's place in his chest and he quickly looks away from the headstone when his vision begins to become glassy. His fingers curl into his palms and it takes every inch of him to stop from kicking the damn stone down.

There is a reason he had stopped coming here, and only allowed himself to do so when he felt his mind spiralling down - it had just gotten too hard. He had worn himself to exhaustion just from staring at the stone and letting his mind wander - to what ifs he had seen through this, to alternate universes where Sherlock hadn't done this, to a made up future where him and Sherlock lived happily in Baker Street. He had spun up all of them. And not one filled the ever growing wound in his heart. None of them ever could; he'd realised that after waking beside the headstone, swallowed up by Sherlocks coat which he had used as a makeshift blanket, and his eyes had been burning from a break down in the previous evening.

That had been on the third month.

But that was alright in itself. Because he had to have stopped kidding himself sooner or later. Sherlock wasn't coming back.

Well. That was after he had been seeing him on the streets. And the break down had really just been a culmination of all his false sightings.

As far as John was concerned, Sherlock had been a homeless man, a pushy customer, even a father taking his kids to school.

Of course Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen them. She never had. They'd always vanished as soon as she'd looked in the direction John had been pointing.

His therapist had said he was simply going through the motions of grief, and it would pass in time. And thankfully she had been right. But it had been like wading through very thick mud to get through this stage. A few times he had sworn up and down that their mailman had changed because "he didn't have black curly hair before" and Mrs. Hudson had just stared at him with owl like eyes. Once he had even tried to attack somebody who had Sherlocks distinct gravely voice but had insisted they had no idea what he was on about.

His appointments had become a lot more frequent after that day.

A part of him wanted to blame all those sleepless nights of tossing and turning from the playback in his mind of Sherlock jumping off the roof. Though, another part wanted to punch Mycroft for seeming to be incredibly indifferent to the lies the newspaper articles had been throwing in about his younger brother. Oh, god. Mycroft…

Johns nails dig into his palms at the mere thought of the older Holmes sibling.

Nope.

Not letting that come to the surface today. He has enough to deal with that doesn't involve Mycroft Holmes.

A cool breeze begins to pick up and it rustles the trees leaves above, before sweeping down on the fallen ones surrounding Johns feet. John clears his throat, finally bringing his gaze back to the headstone. The sun has almost hidden behind the hills and there's a bright orange glow on the black; it shines on Sherlocks name, and the sight has John swallowing the always present lump in his throat. His fingers unfurl from their palms and he brings one out to run through his hair, while taking a careful step closer to the headstone.

One of the flowers stems crunches underneath his shoe and he inwardly winces. He should have stopped off at the shop on his way here…

He swallows and fixes his eyes on the name. While everyone elses had been made out of stone, John had requested Sherlocks be made from black marble and his name be done in a thin gold lettering; bold yet simple. Sherlock would have liked it.

He had expected Mycroft to turn his nose up at that, to argue that he knew his brother best, but to Johns surprise, he had simply nodded and let John do as he wished. Something else that John had wanted was for the headstone to be placed far off from the cemetery, to have it's own enclosure, but that, he had to admit, was pushing it. Mycroft chose the coffin; though, how he chose it, with just a gesture at a simple birch, as if he had not put a drop of thought into his own brothers funeral, made Johns blood boil.

He sighs. No. Let it go.

The suns rays finally vanish and like that, the temperature suddenly drops. The wind has died down after having carried the leaves far off from where John's stood and there are only a few left near the base of the headstone. He stoops down to gather the dead flowers, and his fingers enclose around the petal of what once had been a bright red rose - without a moments hesitation, he crushes it in his palm then lets it drop onto the grass, his eyes following the pieces as they touch down one by one. His gaze roams up and lands on Sherlocks name, and he finds himself stilling, with the remaining flowers clutched in his right hand. Slowly, he reaches out to trace his fingers over the lettering and his heart squeezes; a lump comes into his throat and he draws back, looking away as he finally stands. It's been so damn long, and he still can't do it. He just. Can't.

Without looking back, he tosses the flowers behind him and raises a hand to cover his eyes as he lets the tears finally fall. A sob crawls at his throat, but he doesn't do a thing to stop it coming through.

God, why was this so difficult?

Why was everything so bloody difficult?

Gradually, his cries begin to subside and he wipes his eyes and nose, swallowing the remaining tears down. He'd done so much crying through these months over him, and though he needed one every now and again, right now just wasn't the time.

He can already feel the tears dry on his cheeks, but he doesn't clear them off and instead steps up to the headstone and lowers himself on to the grass, where his palms brush over the pieces of the dried rose petals. Crossing his legs, he stretches back for the dead flowers and gathers them in his hands, with his gaze roaming over the headstone. As much as he wants to look away, as much as he wants to let the sadness take him over, he pushes it all down and forces himself to look at the lettering; to take it all in in one go.

Jesus, it's so much. All of this.

The crick in his neck almost worsens, and his eyes are burning, and his muscles just utterly ache, but he needs to do this. He has to. He did this all those months ago, why can't he do it now?

Because of the dead flowers.

It was the realisation that he'd been the putting them there. No one else. Not Mycroft. Not his parents. Not even Mrs. Hudson. Not even a bloody stranger out of respect. He had been the very last one to visit his grave. And that makes his stomach lurch.

Oh..Oh god…

Sherlock…

To his surprise, tears well up in his eyes, but he immediately wipes them off with his sleeve and takes a shuddering breath. He can do this. Even if it bloody kills him, he can do this.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The flowers're being shredded in his hands and the petals are floating to mold with the grass. He ignores it. Gives all his attention to the headstone. He zips his jacket up to his chin but the cold still somehow manages to seep through and he can feel the leaves above him slow to a gentle rustle; dropping the stems on the ground, he folds his hands on his lap and lets a watery smile come onto his face. His eyes hold no warmth whatsoever. He can't force anything but a smile. He knows this is as far as he can let himself go without another break down coming on, but it's good enough. It has to be.

"I've got some news, Sherlock." His voice is hollow, like it's not his own. It's husked from crying and he clears his throat. Gotta do it. "Mrs. Hudson, she - she um…" He sniffs, wipes his nose with his right sleeve, "She wants me to move out." The words are out. Finally. He finds himself chuckling. Jesus, "Can you believe it? Me, move out of Baker Street?" He shakes his head, easing himself into the absurdity of it all; Mrs. Hudsons funny idea and...him talking to a bloody headstone as the stars come out. He goes quiet for a moment. Glances down at his hands as he begins to twiddle his thumbs and lets out a breath when he feels his chest tighten.

Look at the headstone.

"I thought we would stay there forever."

God.

His voice is so..broken.

He carries on. He has to or he won't make it through the night.

"I thought - um - that we would be solving cases together - forever - but now...well, you know. You've gone and done...this, so that's - um - that's off the table. And now," He pauses to chuckle, but it's so incredibly fake. "Now Mrs. H wants me out." Something comes to him and his mouth forms an 'O' shape as he holds his hands out, "Oh, but don't get the wrong idea, Sherlock, she just thinks it would be better for me. You know?" He puts his hands together again. "She thinks me being surrounded by all your stuff is - um - well, a bad thing." His brows knit together. It sounded incredulous coming from his own mouth, "Bad for my health," He clarifies, as if the headstone's staring at him with a lost expression. His fingers find the end of the scarf and he begins to stroke it as he continues, "I don't know if I will." He confesses, "I love Baker Street. Even if I don't have you keeping me up half the night with your bloody violin." Another chuckle, real this time. As real as it can be. "If I did move out...I think I would take some of your things…? - Yeah, yeah I would. That'd be okay, right? I mean, what would Mrs. H do with them? Toss them into storage most likely. Mycroft would probably sell them. Who knows with him. Holmes boys, always been unpredictable…"

He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. But sometimes, he just needs to hear his own voice to know he's there. Touching the grass isn't always enough.

"But - um - yeah, I don't know what I'll do. About moving out, I mean. I don't want to, no. Baker Street's my home." He smiles. The hand that isn't touching the scarf grabs at the pieces of petals, "Used to be our home." He swallows. Change the subject. "I haven't dated anyone since...well, since what happened. That's the easiest way to put it. Don't really know what that says about me." He smiles, amused and shakes his head, directs a question onto the headstone, "What would you say about that? I mean, you never did say anything when everyone assumed, did you? I always wondered why." He'd never spoken this aloud, and...for some very odd reason, he feels this deeply buried weight lift from his shoulders, as if it had always resided there and had only now been given permission to leave. He tilts his head, confused, "Maybe you didn't hear them, but of course you did, because you were always with me when they asked." The hand holding the petals drops them to gather tufts of grass and he pulls them as he carries on, now lost in thought, and his voice takes on a gradual edge. He's suddenly furious over the idea. "Maybe you did hear them, but you didn't say anything because you were embarrassed. But why would you be? You'd told me on the first day that girlfriends weren't your area, so you would feel comfortable over being assumed that you had a boyfriend. But were you uncomfortable because they thought Iwas your boyfriend? Was that...was that a bad thing, Sherlock? People thinking we were together?"

He stops.

He's breathing heavily, and his eyes are filled with tears, which he lets run down his cheeks. Hot. Stinging on his skin. His finger nails are covered in dirt and there are grass stains on his finger tips.

Swallowing, he lets the clump of grass spill back onto the ground, and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until he can see stars. In one quick move, he unwraps the scarf from his neck and leans forward to place it on top of the headstone, before he really loses it.

Dammit. Where was he?

Rambling again. Of course.

A breath. He opens his mouth to speak some more, but one more look at the stone tells him that he's said enough for tonight. He's utterly worn out, both mentally and emotionally. Physically too in a roundabout way; the pain in his legs becomes too much and he stretches them out in front of him, now feeling the cold on his neck, but he can't take the scarf back. It doesn't belong to him anymore. Should have realised that months ago.

Before he lays down for the night, he feels more words come to the front of his mind, and he almost whispers his next set of sentences, "I've been telling myself for months that you're not dead." He hesitates, "And - and I know I should've accepted it along with everyone else. But I never have been everyone, have I?" He smiles, "I saw you everywhere for a while. And in a way, that was nice. That...helped, somehow." He stops. He really has nothing else to say; nothing that's already been said those months ago, anyway. Except...for one thing…

Sherlocks headstone shines so brightly in the moonlight. Black marble coupled with gold lettering really was the best idea. And it's so perfectly him.

John shuts his mouth. He knows he can ramble as much as he wants. Speak until his voice grows hoarse. Stay out past midnight simply talking to air. But he can't say the words. Not what he knows he really needs to say. He isn't ready. And he doesn't know if he will be.

He shifts to lie beside the headstone, putting his hands up behind his head so he's flat on his back to face the sky. His clothes will be drenched with dew in the morning, and he'll be stiff from sleeping in an odd position, and maybe he will awake by a kid laughing at the drool coming from his mouth, but he doesn't care. He never has. As long as he's near Sherlock, he's okay.

He sighs and places a hand on his stomach, watching the clouds pass over the moon. The burning in his eyes seem to intensify and as the seconds go by, he can feel the heaviness creep into his body and pull him down. He doesn't have the strength to fight it and lets sleep consume him, his head tilted towards the headstone, while his hand shifts to the grass again.

For just a split second, the wind picks up, and blows Sherlocks scarf on to Johns outstretched hand.

He doesn't feel it.

Chapter Management