DISCLAIMER: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and sadly, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own BBC Sherlock soooo... basically, I don't own anything other than the plot of the fic... *sighs*

A/N: While I am a minor Johnlock shipper, I won't be writing any fics involving the sort.

IMPORTANT: I've also included the return of John's limp and tremor to show the traumatic affect it had on him - I don't know, obviously, if that would really happen. I just think it illustrates how much Sherlock's death impacted him.

Time? Eh, well, roughly a few months after Sherlock's death. We'll go with that. I really have no idea. That's how awesome my planning is.

Constructive Criticism is welcome! Don't be shy!

Anyway, hope you like. I love any kind of feedback.

Hero

John Watson paced very slowly, and alone, on his path. He was in no hurry. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do.

The day was dull, as many days in London were. The sky was gray, and there was no wind, though it gave the impression of impending rain. The cemetery was silent, save the rare call of a bird in the surrounding, sparse trees. He leaned heavily on his cane as his uneven steps led him down the muddy path to a black marble headstone which was the object of his visitation. It still struck him hard every time he saw it, and each instant it still seemed impossible to believe—a bad dream, as if Sherlock's fingers might pinch him awake any moment with a sarcastic, but welcome, remark as to his state of mind.

He swallowed and halted where the trodden path grew faint. He had only been here on two other occasions: the funeral service, and the other with Mrs. Hudson. On this occurrence, he came alone. Somehow, he felt drawn there.

What am I doing? he wondered to himself. What on earth am I doing? He's not here.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and took the last few steps to the headstone.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

That was it. Nothing more. With a sudden heart-wrenching blow, John realized how sad that was. Everything that great, incredible man had done, and there was nothing more to put on his grave. No Beloved Brother, Cherished Son, Treasured Friend—just his name. SHERLOCK HOLMES. Though, maybe that wasn't sad, necessarily; maybe there was no way to express such a man in words. He supposed that was enough to sum up what couldn't be put on such a great man's grave. Racking his brain now, John realized that he couldn't come up with a way to sum up the achievements and position in life of Sherlock Holmes.

Consulting Detective, genius, incredible, amazing, mind-blowing, mad, arrogant, show-off, observant, cocky, conceited, alien, wonderful—vigilante, guide, protector, insane, brilliant, intimidating, mysterious, dramatic, scientific, cold, heartless, stoic, hard, inhuman, the brain—hero. Hero was a good one. Hero would have been enough.

Beloved Brother—Sherlock had said himself that there was no love lost between Mycroft and himself. He had only seen Mycroft once since the funeral, and he was as stoic as ever. Cherished Son—he didn't know anything about his parents. Treasured Friend? He had been John's friend. He had made the mistake of not realize it earlier, and now it was too late. All the things he hadn't said. All the things he had said that he wished he hadn't. The regrets. He cleared his throat.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

That statement kept coming back to him.

Mind turning, he grunted as he sat down before the headstone, staring at his reflection in it. He couldn't help thinking it was an accurate idea; the day Sherlock left, a part of him had gone with him, and so, perhaps, had his life. He had only now realized how fully he had dedicated himself to Sherlock Holmes and his work. It had struck him many times before, but not like now. He didn't know what to do with himself.

John bit his lip for a moment before finding his voice. "Sorry I haven't been down earlier," he said, unsure why he was apologizing. "I can't even go near Baker Street. Not yet. I've been staying at a hotel. I haven't seen Molly or Lestrade since the funeral. Or really anyone, actually. I saw Mycroft once. He's fine. Saw Mrs. Hudson last time I was here. She keeps emailing me but…" he trailed off, and chuckled ruefully to himself with a raw smile on his face, "I don't even know why I'm telling you this. It's not like you can hear me." He wished Sherlock's face would somehow appear. "I suppose it's more for my benefit than yours," he said. He continued the tale of his doings: "I haven't been on my blog but once, to post the news report on your suicide." The word brought a bitter anger back to him. He ranted heatedly, "Why did you do it, Sherlock? Why did you have to jump? I'm never going to believe you were a fake. Never. I hope, wherever you are, that you know that. And I hope it's causing you a lot of grief, what you've put me through." He jabbed a finger at the stone, then shook his head. "I just…" he looked down, clenching his trembling hands, "I don't understand. I suppose, if you could, you would be telling me to get over myself; that emotions get in the way. You would explain everything perfectly: why you did it, what happened on that roof—all of it. I wish I knew, Sherlock, I wish you could tell me. I wish you would have. Then maybe I would understand why, what made you do what you did." He bit the inside of his cheek, the anger still bubbling inside him. "I'm not as angry as I should be, though," he said. "Because I know you, Sherlock, and I know you do everything for a reason. So what, please tell me, was your reason for this? Why would you do this? To me? To Mrs. Hudson? To Molly, Lestrade…" he trailed off. "You know what, forget it. You can't answer me. I'll never know why, Sherlock, and that's what's killing me."

He sat there for some time, plucking at the grass, waiting for an answer that would never come. He stared at the headstone for a long moment.

SHERLOCK HOLMES

It bothered him that there was nothing engraved beneath that. The name, to those who really knew him, was enough, but for those who believed the lie—that Sherlock Holmes was a fake—it brought up painful events and angry emotions for him. They thought he was a fake. That was what bothered him. Something else should be on that tombstone, not for him or for Sherlock, but to tell the world what he really was.

He rose, disregarding the cane for a moment, and stood straight, with his feet together and his head up. He snapped his hand to his forehead in a crisp salute.

"I wish the world knew you like I did, Sherlock," he said thickly, dropping it.

He gathered up his cane and turned away fractionally before changing his mind. He glared at the headstone. Adjusting his stance, he cleared his throat. "You were wrong, Sherlock," he said. "You told me you weren't hero, but if there was one thing you were ever wrong about, it was that, because you were my hero, Sherlock." He turned away, and muttered, lastly: "If you were no one else's hero, you were mine."

John Watson, his throat thick with anger and hurt, hobbled away back to his waiting cab. The cemetery seemed even lonelier and quieter, and perhaps guiltier, than before.

R&R!

-Anevay