Safest Place in the World to Be

John, who's condition had curiously gotten better before it got worse, found himself doing this as of late. Coming to the cemetery, talking to Sherlock's grave. In general, torturing himself with the memories of what had been and what it could have been.

It had started out all right. He'd been disoriented, true. But, he'd been able to answer Lestrade's questions without blinking away tears. He hadn't needed to blink them away, because they weren't there. And he'd handled Mrs. Hudson fine; he'd managed to usher her back into 221B and get her off to bed through her panic and sadness. It had been all fine, except for how John couldn't feel any part of his body because he was so numb.

Then, he had walked into his flat and Sherlock wasn't there. Sherlock wasn't there, sometimes, when John came home. It should have been normal. It had way too much weight on it, though, and John sank into his armchair wearily. His legs were shaking and his limp was starting to come back. He had thought that he had ditched that thing for good. He had been wrong about so many things...

He stayed like that, for the longest time that night, just staring at the armchair that Sherlock usually inhabited. There was pain, such an ache, growing inside of John the longer he stared, and eventually the feeling had scared him so much that he'd just gone to bed. Even then, nightmares plagued his mind.

When he'd woken up, after three hours of sleep, he'd gone into work. Because what else was there to do?

He ended up losing his battle with his emotions after the first patient.

Sarah and he hadn't been on particularly good terms since they had broken up, but she was being especially nice to him today. They all were. So, no one bothered him after he'd slammed his door and slid, unable to hold himself up, to the floor.

John found that he had a lot more tears in him than he thought. John found that he loved Sherlock a lot more than he would have admitted. Although, even if no one seemed to actually care anymore, it wasn't romantic love, just brotherly love. A little part of him was still demanding that he made that clear.

And then he had started laughing at himself, when he thought that, because no one did care. It wasn't important anymore. It was just a reflex. Just like it was a reflex to look for Sherlock everywhere he went. But he couldn't even do that anymore.

The next day, John quit.

By the time Sherlock's funeral had rolled around, John had regressed into such a state that had even Lestrade trying to drag him out of the house. Mrs. Hudson was visibly worried. It was only on their insistance that he actually went to the funeral. If they hadn't been badgering him, he probably would have stayed in his armchair, staring at the spot where Sherlock should have been sitting, where Sherlock should have been playing his violin, where Sherlock should have been typing on his laptop.

Sherlock's website hadn't been updated. John's website hadn't been updated, either. Sherlock's website hadn't been updated because he was dead. John's website hadn't been updated because...

John never did realize it, but a little part of himself had died with Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson persuaded him to go visit the grave. And if it wasn't bad enough that John had shed so many tears over that black stone before, he found himself doing it every time. So, he had started visiting the grave by himself. He didn't take flowers or mementos or anything like that, because that made it worse. He only took himself and, after some conditioning, he got used to it.

He didn't know what to do at first. He'd just stared at Sherlock's name, so simple and yet, so bold, before his eyes started prickling and he looked away so his reflection didn't catch him crying.

By now, John was sitting against Sherlock's grave, coat laying across his lap, talking about how Lestrade had called to ask his advice on a case. John had tried to think like Sherlock would have. It made his head hurt. So, he had just given Lestrade his own deductions and he'd turned out to be exactly right. Due to this, John was bragging to Sherlock's tombstone, just a bit.

When he had run out of things to talk about, he'd rested his head back against the cool stone and imagined, as he always did, that it was Sherlock there with him. It wasn't a stone in remembrance of the consulting detective. This was the consulting detective. And as long as he didn't turn around, the perfect illusion couldn't be shattered. And John was happy with that false reality.

His eyes roved over the darkening sky. It was a beautiful night, just past sunset. He was tired. He was comfortable.

He let his eyes slip shut on the perfect illusion, letting himself relish in the moment for one more time.

When John opened his eyes again, it was to the bright of the morning sunrise. He blinked slowly, in confusion, a light shiver snaking its way up his back.

He was still sitting where he had been, against Sherlock's tombstone. His coat was draped over him, however; probably the reason John wasn't colder than he was. His trousers were wet from the morning dew and he blinked against the sunlight, raising an arm to block out the light.

He'd fallen asleep in the graveyard.

The only difference was that his coat was over him, and he didn't know how it had gotten there, but he was minutely grateful. He pulled it on correctly, pushing his arms through the sleeves clumsily. Sleep was still hanging on him as he looked back at Sherlock's grave.

I slept with Sherlock, was the first, irrational, thought that his mind conjured. It wasn't untrue, but again, the romance love factor would have made it awkward to say aloud. It was all so funny. All these stupid thoughts. It was just like it was a part of him now. It really, truly was.

"You bore me," he said aloud, shoving his hands in his pockets. "You make me fall asleep, Sherlock." John sighed heavily before carding his fingers through his hair, looking away from the tombstone. "Oh, my neck..." He rubbed the back of his neck before letting his fingers brush against the cold stone of Sherlock's tombstone. He turned away then, slumping into his jacket as he trudged away.

He never said goodbye to Sherlock. One month later, and John still hadn't said goodbye. Not once.

His cell phone rang, breaking through the still silence of the graveyard. John answered it quickly.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, thank goodness. You didn't come back to the flat, so I wondered..."

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson, no, I'm okay. I just, I fell asleep in the cemetery." He laughed out loud, a half second later, when he realized how absurd that sounded.

"The cemetery? But you went there last night!"

"And I fell asleep, so no worries."

"It's not healthy, John..."

"A cemetery's the safest place to be," John replied absently. "I'll be back to the flat soon," he added, shivering again as a breeze rekindled the idea that he had been collecting morning dew like a sponge.

"I'll have a hot cuppa ready for you."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

John ended the call at the entrance of the cemetery. He glanced back towards Sherlock's gravesite, smiling a bit to himself. What he had told Mrs. Hudson, it was true. A cemetery was not only the safest place to be, but, for some oddly morbid reason, John felt entirely protected when he was here.

Must be some guardian angel or something.

He turned and continued on, bundling his coat up against the morning chill.

Sherlock watched John leave the cemetery with a sense of melancholy pervading his mind. He didn't like this, this cloudy feeling over his brain. It happened at the same time, everyday, at the same place, everyday. It was terribly distracting, not that he had much he could be distracted from.

This melancholy feeling came every day when John went. Sherlock had made it a personal habit to watch for John because John was a man of habit; the routine of the soldier still lived strong in John and it seemed to prompt a visit to the cemetery at exactly half past closing time at the hospital. Even though John no longer worked as the doctor that he called himself, it was still half past closing time that he visited Sherlock's grave. Sherlock was uninterested in his own grave, but he was merely curious to see how the doctor was getting on and he had nothing better to do...

Boredom was tedious. Boredom came with faked deaths.

Exhaling heavily, the breath puffing into a small cloud once it hit the air, Sherlock turned away from his watchman's post. It was all so boring... but it made for a nice distraction when John decided to pass out in the middle of a cemetery when cold temperatures were coming and Sherlock had to be the one to make sure that the doctor didn't catch his death of cold by carefully draping the coat over him. Sherlock wasn't worried about what John would think when he woke up, because John was an average human being and John believed in such things like miracles and the unexplainable and he held onto the fact that not all things could be explained when they really could...

Just like John believed that talking to a shiny rock would get the message across to a dead friend.

For once, though, in actuality, John was exactly correct.

More post-Reichenbach. I should really stop dwelling.

So, I was watching The Crow, and the [cemetery is] "the safest place in the world to be" quote inspired me to write this. Poor John. And, in an odd way, poor Sherlock.