Author's Note: this was inspired by a piece of fan art I saw and I just had to write about it. :) Tell me what you think.

The morning is unearthly quiet except for the soft crunch of grass beneath feet. The cold air is still and the breeze absent; the leaves on the trees do not dance here and rightly so. John Watson is back at the graveyard.

He knows the shape of the land, notices all the decorative headstones in the shapes of crosses and angels. He passes them without a second look; his object is a simple one made of black marble.

John also knows the location of several small holes, and in fact he looks out for them, concealed by the small blades of grass. He has had the misfortune of poking his cane into one of them, causing him to trip. "Damn my leg," he whispers to the air as the memory replayed itself in his mind. John hates that he started limping again, the day they buried his best friend.

He reaches the shade of a large tree, and in the shadow, he can make out the marble headstone with "SHERLOCK HOLMES" inscribed on the surface. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the same ritual every time he visits. There is a silent wish, a hope, a prayer, that when he opens his eyes, the stone would be gone or rather it wouldn't be Sherlock's name emblazoned on the front. Always the same ritual and always the same twisting in his chest when he opens his eyes and is met with disappointment. He squares his shoulders and moves forward to touch the top of the marble in greeting.

"Hey, Sherlock. It's me again."

With a bit of difficulty, John kneels using his cane for support. Then he repositions himself, leaning with his back to the stone, his legs stretched out before him and his cane lying on the grass beside him. There is a subtle dip where John sits as if the land remembers him and all the times he's sat there. His fingers play with the blades of grass to his left, occasionally ripping them out. He is transfixed by the process. There is something he wants to say, but he doesn't know how to say it. The grass is getting the brunt of his frustration and hesitation. He stops when the patch of soil he has inadvertently revealed has grown to the size of his fist.

"Sorry," he says to no one in particular.

He leans into the stone and opts to look at the sky instead. He takes another deep breath and the words storming inside him just seemed to line up in the proper order.

"Remember the first day we met?" John asks, a tentative smile playing on his lips.

"I thought you were mad. Brilliant, but a nutter nonetheless. God, I was so taken with you. The adventure, the deductions, the thrill and the insane amount of running," he laughs and looks over his shoulder, seeing the letters, "OCK" and "ES". Then he looks at the sky again, willing the rest of the words to come to him.

"Everyone seemed to think we were a couple. And at some point, I just couldn't be bothered to correct them anymore. Let them think what they think."

John's breath catches on the last word and he can feel the tears brimming in his eyes and the lump forming in his throat as he draws near to what he really wants to say. He tilts his head up to try and hold them back, and he swallows. Not now, he begs. And his body obliges after a few agonizing minutes.

"Fact is, Sherlock, I'm starting to think they were right."

John reorients himself once more, sideways, until his shoulder is leaning against the marble and he can see his best friend's name in full. He looks at the golden letters and continues.

"I did love you. I still do. Maybe I would have noticed it sooner if people didn't keep pointing it out, because my first instinct was always to deny it. I think it was slowly dawning on me though, in the months before you… jumped." A sob escapes from his lips and John claps his hand on his mouth to stop the rest from following. In the diversion, a few tears manage to touch his cheeks. He wipes them off with the back of his other hand.

It takes John a little longer this time to regain control.

"I don't know if I would have acted on it. You said you were married to your work, after all. And you'd probably be bored of me or any romantic relationship we might have. I don't know. Maybe I would have. I don't know. I keep saying that a lot, don't I? You're probably rolling your eyes right now." John laughs, but it is forced and leaves a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"I love you, Sherlock. I hope you could have deduced that without me saying it, without me realizing it for myself. But if you didn't, then I'm sorry for it's come so late. I just… I thought… I just thought there'd be time." The tears are breaking through the dam of John's eyes and he can't stop them. The words are taking all of his strength to say. "I thought I'd have enough time to sort it out in my head. I thought we'd have enough time together. I thought there'd be time for all that later."

John places a shaking hand on top of the headstone and presses his face against the cool marble, feeling the planes and edges of the letters on his skin.

"But you had to go and ruin everything for me, didn't you? Like you do with all my relationships. I guess this one, ours, wouldn't have been any different."

"Why did you jump Sherlock? Just tell me why. I can't stand not knowing; I can't stand thinking it's all my fault. I made you a celebrity. It was my blog and my writing. And then everyone turned against you and it's all my fault," he sobs.

"Please," he whispers in a shaking breath. "Please. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that just for me? One more miracle, Sherlock. One more, for me. Just come home. It'll be just like you were never gone, I promise. I still make coffee for two anyway. Black, two sugars, just the way you like it." John smiles at the headstone and sits in silence for a while. Oh God, I'm bribing a dead man with coffee, he thinks to himself and he shakes his head at the utter nonsense he's been reduced to. With his hand still on top of the stone, he pushes himself up. He stands for quite some time, his hand never leaving the stone. He pats it, ghosts his fingers over the surface and then he turns. Walking away, he puts his hands in his jacket pockets; he walks slumped, defeated, like a soldier who has lost his cause.

Sherlock moves from behind the shadow of the tree and watches John's back grow smaller and smaller into the distance. Sherlock's heart hitches in his throat as he sees the unmistakable prominence of John's limp.

He waits until he can't see John anymore. He waits until he's sure he can't be seen before stepping from his hiding place, toward his gravestone. His fingers trace its surface, trying to find the spot that is slightly warmer than the rest, where John had laid his hand. Sherlock finds it and he presses his hand into the warmth, drinking it in through his skin. He adds more pressure in an effort to bridge the gap between his hand and John's, a gap in time and space. John is too far, much too far. Sherlock kneels just so he can be closer, his head resting on the smooth edge of the marble. He closes his eyes and tries to picture John's hand underneath his own. He pictures cells and tissues, blood vessels and nerves. He pictures fingerprints, the ridges, whorls and loops. He pictures it perfectly, knows its exact shape and size, but it is not enough. He adds all the other details – steady – he remembers John's hand around a gun, forefinger on the trigger and the words "Let him go or I will kill you." – warm – he remembers John's hand in his, the cold metal around his wrist and the words "Now people will definitely talk." – and gentle – he remembers a slight pressure, the words "Why would I need you?" and the soft click of a door being closed. Sherlock tries to add all these intangible details, the things that make John John, the things that make an ordinary hand his hand.

Sherlock's eyes are closed and oh God he can almost feel it on the pads of his fingers – John's hand, John's warmth. He presses his forehead into the cold stone, the contrast sending his skin tingling.

He notices it when John's warmth has gone, when there wasn't any left, when his own skin had consumed it all. He knows when John's warmth has been replaced with his own. It is an entirely different sensation and Sherlock just grips the stone in response, tears now threatening to spill over his lashes.

Sherlock is suddenly aware there is a hand upon his own. He can recognize the skin, the fingerprints, the feeling without even looking. John.

Sherlock knows at once why John had come back, deduces it from memory, although he had missed it then. He curses himself for being careless.

His cane. John left his cane.

He looks up at him and he sees that John's eyes are fixed on the spot where their hands are touching. With steady fingers, John takes Sherlock's hand into his own, his thumb caressing one of his knuckles. He notices the tiny cuts and bruises, the burst capillaries. Sherlock stands and that's when John looks at the rest of him, taking in every wound, every scar, even the smallness of his frame.

With his other hand, John traces the bruises on his neck, on his left cheek. Sherlock leans into John's open palm and John's thumb grazes he cut on his lip.

"Look at the state of you," John said softly. "I honestly don't know how you get on without me."

At these words, Sherlock pulls John in for a hug, burying his face in his neck. "It's been horrible, John. I missed you, terribly."

"I bet."

Sherlock pulls away, but his hands grip John's shoulders, and he angles his head to get a better look at John's face.

"I had to do it, you must understand. Moriarty-"

"I believe you."

Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off of John and he can't hide his surprise. He doesn't know if he should feel relieved or suspicious. John is taking it better than he had expected. Under his steady gaze, John falters and looks down, his left hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"You heard all that, did you?" he asks.

Sherlock looks at him and John knows without a doubt that the answer is yes.

"John, I-"

"I know. I know. You're married to your work. You don't have to tell me again."

"But, John-"

"It's fine. It's all fine. Delete it if you will, it doesn't really change anything."

"Never," Sherlock manages to say, resorting to a single word to fully convey his meaning. John stops rambling and looks at him.

Without another word, Sherlock reaches for John's hand and he holds it firmly in his own. The rest of the conversation takes place silently, a wordless exchange between their palms. Then, John smiles at him, his face positively beaming with unrestrained joy and Sherlock responds in kind. In that one moment, the two of them are thinking the same thing.

He knows.

He knows.

They leave the place together, hand in hand, the forgotten cane still lying on the grass and the leaves now dancing in the wind.