You wanted a sequel? :P

~0~0~0~

John Watson sighed in utter relief as he spotted Faye Newbarns sat cross-legged on the grass, staring at the black head stone. He slowly approached, gently sitting on the ground next to her and adopting the same pose. He should have known to go there; there was no place she'd rather be. Typically for Britain at any time of year, the day was overcast, the threat of rain in the grey clouds but the only moisture on the ground was left over from the day before.

"We've been looking for you." He scolded quietly, feeling like he should act angry when was just incredibly relieved that she wasn't on the roof of St Bart's again.

"If he was here, he'd have found me in seconds." She replied just as quietly, adding a little shrug into the conversation whilst not looking away from the golden 'Sherlock Holmes' carved into the black marble.

"He was the best as what he did." John agreed.

"Even his death was spectacular." She reached forward, tracing the lettering with her fingertip, "Why did he leave me, John?"

"I don't know." He replied honestly, "You were the only one who had a chance at seeing how his mind worked."

"That's not true." She corrected, "Jim Moriarty did a fine job before blowing his own brains out of his skull." Another figure joined them on the other side of her, the sight of Mycroft Holmes sitting on the grass startling John into silence.

"You shouldn't run off." Mycroft stated in the same indifferent tone he always used, "It's rather troublesome."

"I've been here..." She looked at her watched, "36 minutes. Your team used to be able to find me in half that."

"Sometimes it's best to not find the lost straight away. Sometimes people are best left alone." He explained ominously. He knew how John had been following her around since his brother's untimely death, constantly checking up on her, making sure she ate and slept right. Always asking where she was going, for how long and such things that he knew would make her feel suffocated. They were also points she would never raise with the ex-army doctor and neither would he.

"Sherlock was alone." She retorted harshly, waving a hand at the headstone, "And look how well it worked for him." She sniffed, tears flowing yet again, "He shouldn't have been on his own. I should have been there. I let him down." She began sobbing softly, pulling her knees to her chest as John wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her an awkward hug.

"You don't let him down." He reassured her firmly, "He loved you in his own, psychotic way."

"Sociopathic." She corrected with a wet laugh, a nod to the way he would always correct anyone who called him psychotic. 'I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath.' The memory made her smile, a bitter-sweet one, but a smile nonetheless.

"Sorry, sociopathic way." He replied. She sobered up slightly, running her hand through the turf that had been used to cover up the whole his body laid in.

"Then why did he leave me?" She whispered. John sighed, lost for an answer, so he just gave her shoulders a tighter squeeze. Mycroft patted her hand, his touch lingering a fraction longer than he was known for, then he stood up, brushing himself down, back in business mode once more.

"Now we know that Miss Newbarns is safe and unharmed." He stated authoritatively, "Perhaps we should give her some time with her thoughts?" It sounded like a suggestion, but John knew it was more of a command so he stood up, pattering her on the shoulder as he did.

"I'll come back in about 30 minutes and take you home." He explained gently.

"ot necessary. A member of my team will be here when she's ready." Mycroft interrupted. He needed to feel useful, make up for the huge betrayal he'd acted out towards her. The regret he held over telling Moriarty about her was evident even to John. Every time someone asked her about her 'boyfriend Richard Brook', he always came to see her. Some weeks his visits were almost daily, and he had set in motion the corrections in the papers to try and change public opinion that she was dating Moriarty. John had seen him work tirelessly to make up to her what he couldn't for his brother, and he knew how much Faye needed it so he once again didn't protest. She didn't say goodbye, didn't even look back as they left her on the damp floor.

"Why did you leave me, Sherlock?" She whispered, asking the same question again, "I never believed for one second you were a fraud. There had to be a better way. I might have been able to help, you never know." She sighed, shaking her head, "It's too late now, I suppose." She laughed hollowly to herself, "You'd tell me off for talking to a piece of marble." She shifted, leaning her back against the headstone, next to his name. It wasn't even his full name, only a handful of people knew it and he'd have hated it broadcast to the world. Enough details of his life were public knowledge, his name could stay his secret.

"You're going to hate this." She commented before rolling her eyes. As if he could hear her now, "Know no fear, I'll still be here tomorrow. Bend my ear, I'm not going to go away. You are love so why do you shed a tear. Know no fear you will see heaven from here." She sniffed, wiping her eyes, "I'll shelter you, I'll make it all right to cry. And you'll help too, because the faith in myself has run dry. We are love, don't let it fall on deaf ears. Now it's clear. We have seen heaven from here." Her voice broke as she collapsed into gut-wrenching sobs, curling up on the grass as her grief shook her to her very core.

"Please, she begged, "Please Sherlock. Please don't be dead."

~0~0~0~

Next to his grave was the beginning of a wooded area, where Molly Hooper hid, watching the devastated woman as she sobbed herself into an exhausted sleep, begging anyone who would listen to bring back the man she loved. She turned away, unable to watch her friend fall apart so opening and saw a very-much-alive Sherlock Holmes shaking, tears built up in his eyes as his fists clenched at his side.

"Go tell her." Molly whispered compassionately. He briefly considered it, this was his opportunity to let her know he was there, he hadn't left her, not really. But, he shook his head once.

"She can't know." He replied hoarsely, "She needs to be like this for the world to believe I am dead. She's safer this way."

"Only from the bad guys." Molly murmured.

"She will be fine. John will see to that." He snapped back, "I need to go to Belarus, book me a flight." He stood up, stalking away before pausing, looking back at the woman sleeping on his empty grace. He rolled his eyes at his own sentimentality before diving out into the open, shrugging his long coat off and draping it over her prone form. He then stalked through the woods, ignoring Molly who watched him sadly before following.