A/N: This will be a multi-chapter post-Reichenbach. Not guaranteeing anything about the content xD A huge thank you goes to TARDIS Blue Carbuncle for beta reading :)

I really hope you enjoy! Please review if you like it - reviews will be appreciated so much! Thank you and enjoy!

John Watson had to stop doing this. 'This' being; wandering through Newport Cemetery, his path always winding towards the black headstone which read 'Sherlock Holmes'. He plops down in front of it rather unceremoniously; his legs sprawled out in front of him, his arms pressed to the ground behind him.

"It's the crack of dawn, Sherlock, and the first thing which reaches my mind is you." He says, speaking loudly to the grave stone in front of him. "My therapist said I should stop doing this." He pauses to swallow. He hesitates. "It's been a year, Sherlock. When are you going to stop doing this? When are you going to stop being –" His voice breaks. "– dead?"

He is greeted with silence, like usual. He awaits an answer for what seems like an eternity, but his watch tells him it's only been five minutes.

John sighs heavily, and slowly picks himself up off the ground. He puts one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way closer to the black headstone. He lays his hand on top of it, feeling the cool marble under his fingertips.

"I can't –" His voice breaks again. "I can't do this anymore..." He begins to caress the marble gently. "Come back to me." He breathes in sharply, closing his eyes. He waits for an answer. "Please."

He feels the tears come, and he makes no effort to stop them. They roll down his cheeks and eventually find their way to the grass below. He lets his hand fall from the headstone, and soon he's kneeling on the ground, his head pressed against the cool rock. The tears still run, tickling his cheeks and gracing the earth beneath.

His breath comes in sharp hisses as he sobs, his whole frame shaking as he is sprawled on the ground by the gravestone. He lets his eyelids slip closed and he cries.

John isn't sure how long he sits there for, his forehead pressed against Sherlock's headstone. But when he does open his eyes, his watch reads nine pm – he's been sitting here a good four hours.

He says goodbye to Sherlock as he pushes himself to his feet, forcing his legs to take him away from the black marble. He strolls back through the cemetery, until eventually he finds his way onto the street again.

He's halfway to his flat when his phone goes off. It's an unfamiliar sound, one which John doesn't recognize until it goes off again and on the third alarm, he pulls it out of his jean pocket. The screen tells him he has three new messages in the course of two minutes.

He unlocks the phone with the digits 7437 as he turns another corner, accidentally shouldering a woman in the side as he walks. He mumbles a half-hearted apology, but still keeps his head down to read.

I've got the day off today. I was wondering if you'd like to come round for a coffee. – GL

If you don't that's fine, but the offer's still there. – GL

John? – GL

A sinking feeling suddenly settles in John, and he knows it's because Lestrade is worried for him. A year has gone by since The Fall (or as the newspapers like to call it – The Jump) today. Sherlock has been gone for a year. It seems surreal, but most of it John spent in his flat. He spent it alone, with only brief visits to his therapist, because Mycroft so kindly paid for the sessions.

He automatically presses the reply button as he finishes reading over the three texts again. He watches the little cursor blink, almost demanding him to tell Lestrade he'd happily come over for a drink. He doesn't want to. But his therapist was constantly nagging him to catch up with his friends; a coffee with Lestrade would shut her up for a little while.

I'll be over in five. – JW

He presses send. He pauses in his stroll on the sidewalk, momentarily forgetting where Lestrade's flat was. He hadn't been there since the funeral. He realizes, as he remembers where to walk, that he hasn't had a proper conversation with Lestrade for over a year.

He hasn't spoken to Molly, Donovan, Anderson... anyone. Anyone who had previously had any connection to Sherlock.

The only people he's spoken to have been his therapist and a hunk of black marble. And occasionally Mycroft, but did that even count?

He reaches Lestrade's flat in ten minutes, according to his watch, and raps on the door with his two front knuckles. It immediately swings open to reveal Lestrade, a very sham smile planted on his face.

He looks older, John realizes as he moves inside, coaxed in by Lestrade's hand. His hair has gotten lighter, if possible. His face is more creased and worn, and the lines on his forehead have gotten more pronounced.

"Was it two sugars for you?" The detective inspector called from the kitchen. John was now seated in the lounge room.

John swallowed. Sherlock always had two sugars. "No sugars, thanks." He corrected.

Lestrade came out a minute later, two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. He sets John's down first. He then plops down on the lounge opposite and sets his own mug down. He gives John another false smile.

"It's been a while," Lestrade says, opening the conversation. John nods. "How have you been?" John hears the unspoken 'coping' hang in the air.

"Considerably well." He answers. It feels like a lie, and both men know it is. "How about you?"

"Fine." Lestrade responds. "Work's keeping me busy." He tries to change the subject away from what John knows is going to come up. "Since Anderson and Donovan have been demoted, I've got so much paperwork."

John arches an eyebrow. "Demoted?"

"It's the least I could do for him." Lestrade replies.

John winces. He can't help it. Lestrade notices immediately and he hides his apologetic expression by taking a sip from his coffee.

There's nothing said for quite a long time. Lestrade hides behind his mug and John looks at his cup longingly. He wishes he hadn't agreed to this in the first place. He wasn't feeling hungry or, in the least, thirsty.

"I never thought I'd miss him." Lestrade eventually brings the topic back. John shifts his gaze to his feet. "He's the most arrogant dickhead I've ever met, but oh god John, I miss him."

"Me too." His voice is small. He barely recognizes it.

Lestrade utters a heavy sigh. "One bloody year. You never thought it would go so quickly." He sets his coffee down. He draws out a long breath. "I still can't believe he's gone."

John finds himself nodding in agreement. He stops himself when he realizes. This past year had in no way gone quickly. Most of it had consisted of being cooped up in his apartment and trips to the cemetery and the therapy clinic. He felt like it had been an eternity. An eternity without Sherlock.

"How's your job going?" Lestrade changes the subject, and he's glad.

"I quit." He answers.

Lestrade recoils, but recovers quickly. "Do you get paid on army pension?"

"Mycroft." John tells him simply, and he nods in understanding. Mycroft had kept him fed this past year. He'd also paid the rent for John's flat. "I've never actually said thank you." He forces a laugh.

Lestrade doesn't say anything after that. John takes a sip of his coffee.

He thinks about it – the Mycroft caring for him business. He hadn't given much thought to it before now. All he knew was that when he went out, Mycroft's people would restock the fridge and pantry. And once a month, they would pay his rent and the bills, and then leave him to confide to himself in the tiny little flat. It seems like a repayment, in a way. As if he's saying sorry for letting Moriarty get hold of what he did.

"I suppose I'll let you enjoy your day off in peace." John begins to get up. Lestrade's brow creases.

"You haven't even been here five minutes." He observes.

"And I didn't plan on staying." He moves towards the corridor leading to the front door, his choice of words bitter. "It's been lovely seeing you again, Lestrade. It has." He rests his fingers on the knob.

"John." The detective inspector's voice suddenly sounds pleading. He turns away from the door to find Lestrade at the other end of the hallway. "I'm worried about you." His expression turns solemn. "Heck, even I can't accept he's dead, even after a full year." He swallows. "You're cooped up in that flat with no one but you and your thoughts, and it's worrying me."

John sees immediately what the man is implying. "I want him back. But what gave you the idea I was going to follow him?" He asks.

Lestrade reddens. "If I can't accept it, it means you can't either." He begins to approach. "I saw how much it bothered you when he didn't eat or sleep, and I can't even begin to imagine how painful everything is for you now."

"I'm seeing a therapist." He assures Lestrade.

"I know." He responds. "But there's only so much therapy can do."

"What else do you want me to do?" John snaps suddenly. "Am I supposed to talk to her about him and how much I miss him? How much I want him back? I miss him beyond belief, Lestrade, but what else can I do?" He draws out a long breath. "I don't attend the therapy sessions to forget him."

Lestrade hesitates. "No one ever said you have to forget him."

"That's the impression I get." John returns harshly.

"People just want to see you happy again." Lestrade says. "Whether that means you forget him or not, I don't know, but everyone only wants to make sure you're fairing okay."

John scoffs. "And who is everyone?" He asks. He notes the sudden bitter tone in his voice, and isn't quite sure how it got there.

"He would have wanted you to be happy." Lestrade's voice is quiet. He avoids the question.

"Do you think he wants me to be happy about what he did?" He barks again. Lestrade blinks heavily. He remains silent. "I thought so."

"John." Lestrade is pleading again. "Promise me you'll talk to the therapist about something."

John doesn't have any suitable answers anymore. He flicks his eyes to the ground as his fingers brush the knob again. He pulls the door open without another word and Lestrade's left standing in the corridor.

He strolls back to his flat after that. He gets no texts from Lestrade again and he's glad. He gets in and finds the food restocked. He sighs heavily and collapses backwards onto the bed; arms sprawled out beside him.

His thoughts drift to what he had said to Lestrade.

I want him back. But what gave you the idea I was going to follow him?

He wonders. He can't help but wonder.