It was, to the day, three years since Sherlock Holmes walked of the roof of St Bart's.
For John Watson; three years of pain and grief and misery; three years spent pushing everyone except Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade away. Even Mycroft checked in on him once in a while. Three years during which he had been the same person he was after returning from Afghanistan; the limp was back, he went to therapy, he tried to blog, but there was honestly nothing going on in his life that was worth blogging or writing about.
Honestly, who would want to read of the misery of an ex-Army doctor who still believed Sherlock Holmes when everyone apart from Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft and himself found him a freak; a fraud?
Still, there were signs out there that others believed Sherlock as well. Posters coming up all over London which said "Moriarty was real" and "Richard Brooke was a fraud", graffiti in the exact same paint that was used in their second case which stated "I believe in Sherlock."
He'd once seen a poster saying "Richard Brook was right" or something along those lines. But when he'd passed it the next day, it was gone, replaced with "Richard Brooke was a fraud."
He hadn't managed to keep his job for very long after it happened. He'd tried, but he was having severe moodswings which left him exhausted and unable to function properly.
The moment he'd turned away from Sherlock's grave after pleading with him not to be dead, he'd resumed his previous role of a solider; straight walk, seeming not to care about what had happened.
Except he did. Of course he did.
Sherlock was the man who'd rescued him. He had brought him into his wonderful life, full of exiting adventures. And John found he didn't care how much danger they were in. Okay, maybe that time where he'd had a bomb strapped to him; but at the same time he felt safe, safe because Sherlock was there, and he KNEW he wouldn't let him get hurt.
Then it was the time where they had been drugged and John was inside that cage during the Hounds of Baskerville case, when Sherlock had used him to experiment; he easily forgave him of that too. As soon as he'd heard Sherlock's voice on the phone, he one again felt safe; felt that Sherlock would arrive in time to save him from the hound.
He wasn't willing to admit it at first, but he needed the excitement and adventure Sherlock brought into his life.
And when he did admit it, he found he didn't care.
Because that was who he was; that was who Sherlock was; two pieces of a soul that needed to be together in order to thrive; to make it in this world.
His favorite memory of Sherlock was the time he'd said "I don't have friends. I only got one."
Of course John was mad at him at the time, but when he'd said those words; he'd be ready to forgive him that instant. But he didn't, not aloud anyways. Because this was Sherlock; he needed to know not everything could be forgiven at once; not even if he uttered words that meant so much.
His worst memory of Sherlock Holmes was "The Fall".
When he tried to lie to him; tried to convince him he was a fraud. He should have known John would know that was a lie; he'd always believed in Sherlock; he always would.
When he'd left him his note.
When he walked off the roof.
When John saw his best friend in the world fall.
When he was him dead on he ground, in a puddle of blood.
John Watson stood before Sherlock Holmes's grave.
He'd sworn to himself over and over that he wouldn't cry.
Sherlock wasn't one for emotions, and tears were the worst.
But the tears would not listen; John Watson broke down anyways.
He sat by the grave for hours.
He didn't speak. He didn't plead.
He'd stopped crying; he just sat there.
Rain started to fall; darkness fell.
A hand on his shoulder.
A familiar voice.
A voice that said "I'm sorry."
A pause "I'm not dead."
John Watson turned around and looked up into the pale eyes of Sherlock Holmes.