Just a little something I wrote up the other day that to prove that I'm not dead just...busy with school and slightly stressed. Chances are I'll get back to my main stories soon, I hope. Maybe once I get this Johnlock stuff out of my system, I hope.

Sorry if I mis-spell something or get this or that detail wrong. I'm new to the fandom and am still trying to work out the kinks. Hopefully this won't turn out too bad if I can get my Sherlockian friend to look it over.

*EDIT* She says everyone's in character, I'm happy. Modifications made to end of chapter.

Rights to Sherlock and all affiliated characters belong to BBC all of them except one, but I will point that out at the end of this chapter.

Time would numb the pain, or so he'd been told. However, after that fateful day at Bart's, John had come to one awful conclusion; time only seems to pass slower when someone is in the throes of grief.

After they'd buried Sherlock, John had returned to the flat with Mrs. Hudson, went straight up to his room, and locked himself in it for the rest of the night. While war might have hardened some men to where death no longer phased them, it had never been that way with John. Death still affected him slightly, but he'd found Sherlock could at least distract him from the horrors with all of his weird quirks, including shooting the wall and playing the violin at three in the morning. Which made it all the worse when Sherlock, one of the few John trusted completely and the only one he depended on frequently, died. It was simply unfathomable that Sherlock would do such a thing as commit suicide. Sherlock was brilliant, he wouldn't simply throw his life away like that, would he? Yet, John couldn't imagine a reason why Sherlock wouldn't tell him if he was alive. That was a lie, he could, but it ate him more if he thought Sherlock was alive and well, chasing someone or something.

Mrs. Hudson had woken him the next morning to coax him into eating and John had managed to eat some toast to appease his landlady. He then spent most of the day around the flat, sometimes staring at things Sherlock left out and recalling all the memories he could think of involving said object. The violin was particularly bittersweet, yes it had woken him up on multiple occasions, but it also often told John more about Sherlock's emotional state than even Sherlock would let on. The next week passed by in that fashion, with John staring around the flat without any purpose and Mrs. Hudson would get him to at least eat something during the day.

His mind was a wreck, hardly able to concentrate on anything except for the fact that the flat was too quiet, too empty, and Sherlock was gone. Time mattered very little to the distraught doctor, but one day he got a thought in his head to go for a walk. John cleaned up, dressed, and pulled on a coat before exiting the flat. He wasn't sure where he wanted to go and decided to wander aimlessly, that is until he realized that his feet had taken him straight to Sherlock's gravestone.

Unsure of what to do, John spent several minutes just standing there. Most people say a few things when they visit a grave of someone they cared about. What to say though, well, John couldn't come up with anything. The sky, already cloudy, started to drizzle and John hesitated, trying to think of something, anything to say before heading back to the flat lest he catch a cold. There was a lot he could have said, but in the end, all that came out was "I miss you." He turned and headed back to the flat, not noticing through the rain that someone was watching him, and that someone just shook their head sadly before leaving the cemetery themselves.

Every day for the next week John went back to gravestone, often not saying anything other than 'I miss you' or something to that affect. He would feel a little better after he went, never noticing someone watching him come and go. After another week of doing the same, John started only going two or three times a week, and he started talking more. He'd say things that came to his mind that he thought Sherlock would want to know, still not entirely convinced that the detective was dead. It would be just like Sherlock to find some way to record audio in case anyone visited and John said as much once, though he also admitted he couldn't find any such device.

John didn't move things in the flat very much, he cleaned up the lab equipment from the kitchen as best he could and put it away, but that was the extent of it. Mrs. Hudson was letting him stay as long as he liked, telling him that his share of the rent would be enough, though he was sure she was lying. That all being said, it wasn't that John had stopped grieving; he had felt Sherlock's loss very deeply and simply couldn't move on.

One day Lestrade walks into the flat unannounced, though chances are Mrs. Hudson decided to let him in. John glances over at him "Yes Lestrade?"

"I didn't want anything important, unless you're free to come check out a homicide case. I'm not expecting you to come up with something impossible" An observation like only Sherlock could make of course. "Anything you could come with would help us out a lot." John contemplates it, wondering if it woulld help him any to go. Eventually though, he decides that going to crime scene just wouldn't be the same without his detective.

Wait, his detective? The thought shocks him, and Lestrade gives him a concerned look "Everything alright John?"

John snaps out of his trance and nods "As fine as it can be. I think I have to decline though, Greg."

"Ok..." Lestrade doesn't seem convinced but nods a farewell and leaves. John follows to shut the door before returning to the couch, contemplating. It felt right to refer to Sherlock as his detective in his head, natural even. John is puzzled and decides to go on his usual walk, bumping into a younger woman when he set foot in the cemetery. She apologizes as she moves out of his way and John doesn't give her a second glance. She is here as often as he is after all, so bumping into her isn't too odd. John feels eyes boring into his back but when he looks around there is no one there, so he shrugs it off and resumes his path, hoping that Mycroft remembers his request to stop having his goons follow John.

When he stops in front of Sherlock's gravestone John hesitates, as unsure of himself as he'd been the first two weeks he'd come here. Sherlock, if he were here, would tell him to 'get on with it' no doubt and finally John begins. "Lestrade came over today, to check on me. He asked if I wanted to come along on a case, thought I might enjoy getting out. It was a homicide, if you were wondering. I declined, since I didn't think it would be right to go without you. In my head though, when I thought about why I shouldn't go, I thought it wouldn't be right to go without my detective."

A smile tugs at his lips "Yeah, I know 'Sentiment John', but it's true really, now that I think about it. Most people would have moved on or at least stopped coming here as often as I do, it's been nearly ten months after all. I can't though, You were my life Sherlock, which means I simply can't move on. It makes me feel even worse, that I can only say to you now what I could never say to you while you were alive. Mainly, because I only just realized this little fact myself. That being that I love you, Sherlock Holmes, not just as a flatmate or a very close friend, but well, romantically." John lets out a breath, it had all come out at once, as he'd found himself unable to stop, but it had been said now, even if Sherlock himself couldn't hear it. As soon as the words had left his mouth, John knew it to be true. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense; everything he'd done for Sherlock, gladly and without complaint from the errands to the praise, all of it.

John smiles honestly now, finding the knowledge that he'd been in love with Sherlock strangely, comforting. "I can only imagine what'd you say right now 'is this really John talking, the man who swears up and down that he's straight even though I have evidence that says otherwise?' You would, knowing you, but yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Just because you're dead doesn't change that fact, I'll wait for the rest of my life to see you again if I have to, so I can tell you again and actually get an answer." John's smile slips away, but he's more content now, with himself if not the world or the state of things. True contentment and happiness will elude him, possibly for the remainder of his life, but he could accept that. "I'll be back again next week, same as always" John says quietly and heads back to the flat.

The woman John bumped into when he arrived watches him leave from a safe distance. She sighs, not looking forward to giving her report this time as it had been intimate and the words coming from her own mouth wouldn't mean as much. No, it would be easier to write them down, she decides, so they can be read over multiple times, in the true speaker's voice. A smile forms on her face, she'd best go write it all down and send the letter on its way before she forgets, only the recipient would know exactly what transpired here today, but at least she can look forward to getting all the money Mycroft owes her, someday.

"Two years" John says softly as he studies the gravestone. Despite all the rain it had endured, it's still in rather good condition.

After his 'confession', John had only come once a week from now until then, but he always came. He felt closer to Sherlock like this and it gave him more exercise than just going to the clinic every day, where he'd started working again. John never did pick up dating again, he found after his first try that he simply couldn't bring himself to really date, it would be like forgetting Sherlock. That was the one thing that John would never risk, the reason why he never sold Sherlock's stuff; he didn't want to forget about his detective, yes His detective, he'd come to accept that.

"Two years since what?" A female voice gets John's attention and he turns his head to the woman that that also frequents the cemetery. Her eyes flicker to the gravestone and nods slightly, answering her own question. "I see you here often, so he must have meant a lot to you."

"The world" John answers, turning his attention elsewhere, trying to be dismissive.

"Oh, I see" her tones is sincere, so maybe she does understand "I won't pry then, you just seemed really, really down today after you had seemed to snap out of it long ago, I wanted to make sure you weren't thinking of anything...drastic." John shakes his head, just a concerned citizen, it makes him feel a bit better about the day to know that there are a few of those left. Though it almost makes him chuckle, John is willing to wait to see Sherlock, there's no reason to accelerate the process "I'll leave you alone" she says quietly and retreats, John doesn't bother to give her a second look as she catches sight of something in a nearby alley and heads straight towards it. She double checks to make sure no one is paying attention to the alley before casually leaning against the wall. "He's alright though given what day it is his slight depression relapse can be forgiven. He certainly still misses you though. What brings you out here anyways, you never come to listen to my reports in the open."

"This is a special occasion" answers a smooth baritone as it joins her, the tail of the coat settling from it's usually flair.

"You're done? That took long enough, especially given your standards, Sherlock" she smirks at her own jab, hoping to ruffle his feathers.

It works as he rounds on her "After all I've done in the past two years you dare-" she holds up a hand before the tirade starts. Just because she was successful doesn't mean she'd like to get yelled at.

"I never doubted you, I've known you since we were kids Sherlock. Does this mean you don't need my help anymore?"

Sherlock settles a little, more familiar with the somewhat snarky side of his childhood friend, though he still seems a little offended. "Yes, I believe you and Mycroft can stop keeping an eye on John, I can take if from here."

"Of course" she nods and glances back towards the cemetery. "I'd hurry if I were you, if you plan on beating John back to Baker Street. He'll leave soon." When she turns around again she notices the tail end of that dramatic coat disappearing around the corner and laughs. Sherlock is back, best she go tell Mycroft to pull his agents out and cut the feed to his cameras, at least for the time being, before Sherlock decides to do it himself. She steps out into the street and hails cab to go and do just that, smiling as she realizes something. The elder Holmes brother won't be pleased to know she'd been helping Sherlock too, but he'll let it go eventually.

As she climbs into the cab she pulls out her mobile, noticing a slip of paper that hadn't been there before. She unfolds it and glances at the hasty but familiar scrawl before returning it to her pocket. At least now she could collect the money Mycroft owes her for their bet. The Gambler never loses a bet after all, even to her adopted brothers

AN: The woman, the Gambler, isn't overly important. Please don't mistake her for Irene Alder, because she's a different person entirely. The Gambler is kind of someone I made up on the spot but I've grown fond of her concept. Essentially she runs the streets of London and almost all the gangs are scared of her due to her uncanny ability to always win every bet she makes and her accuracy with a pistol. She likes to rile Mycroft and Sherlock up, but will still help them when they need her, since they are like family to her. That's the main reason I added her to the story.