Hey Y'all. I actually watched the movie a second time now and then I got another idea for a fanfiction.

I tried my best to write it down, but I had to realize that it is so much harder with dialog in it o.O, so I hope it went ok.

This is again about Watson's reaction, but it is very different from my last fanfic and I'll post the story in two chapters, the second is still under constuction.

I can give you the same warnings I gave in my other story, I'm a writing rookie and english is not my first language, so sorry for mistakes, I'm doing my best.

Right, and then I want to thank everybody who reviewed my first fanfiction, really from the bottom of my heart. I never expected so much positive feedback and it just felt so…so uplifting, I can not describe it. Just thank you very much.

And of course thank you to those who put my story to their favourites or on alert, as well.

That was a long authors note, I'm sorry couldn't help myself

Now to the story

The Art of Mourning

Two days. It had been two days since he had seen his best friend tumbling down the Reichenbach Falls.

And still, John was unable to dwell on the thought that Holmes wasn't there anymore.

It was like, when he didn't think about it then the…the incident didn't really happen. Then he hadn't really seen Sherlock Holmes pushing himself and his adversary over the railing, down the long fall into the rushing water.

At first he was in shock, Watson had been standing a long time on the balcony, looking down to the deadly rapids, like Holmes would appear any second, swimming to safety.

Logically he knew of course that this couldn't be true, that the fall was just too…fatal. But he wasn't thinking rationally.

It was Sherlock Holmes, after all. That man could think his way out of every dangerous situation, had more lives than a damn cat, he couldn't just…drop off an balcony.

After that everything seemed even more surreal. He remembered Mycroft coming to him, taking charge of the situation, no doubt having deduced what happened, and before he knew it he found himself back at the place they had met up with the older Holmes after their confrontation in Germany, the one that had almost claimed his dearest friends life already.

John had immediately retreated to the room he had stayed before, and there he remained.

This was a situation he could not deal with. He had done a lot in his life, he was independent, self-confident, but this was, well…nothing he could deal with.

When he came back to London after he got medically discharged from war, without means, and more importantly, alone, it wasn't until he met his old friend Stamford and trough him got Holmes as a fellow lodger, that he got his life back in control again, with a place to call home.

Of course, then he started to join the consulting detective on his cases, and some chaos began on a whole new level, but that was actually, even though he rarely admits it, chaos he enjoyed.

It gave his live excitement back and he never got bored. And, especially, during those adventures the housemates have bonded. They became friends, and even though Watson did complain sometimes, about Holmes stealing his clothes, about playing his violin at unnatural hours, about his experiments on Gladstone, about, well, a lot, they'd become best friends, brothers even, not in blood, but in bond.

Through many years Sherlock and he had been companions, they'd stood site by site against many, and have always come up at the top.

And even though everything changed when Mary entered his life, Holmes was still his dearest friend.

And to think that he had suddenly lost this important person was just unthinkable to him.

So for two days now he had irrationally stayed in his room. And while Mycroft was out, supervising the search for…well the search, and Simza had returned home, to mourn her own brother with her fellow gypsies, her remaining family, John Watson pretended like it hadn't happened, like when he went back to London, Holmes would be back at Backer street, irritating Mrs Hudson.

But now he ended up on a point where he could only conclude that he had gone insane. For it was the only logical solution.

The doctor was sitting in chair, where he had spend most of his time here, and was glaring at the couch, half an hour now, for that was all he could do. This couldn't be real.

At the couch, relaxed, one leg lazily over the other, sat non other than Sherlock Holmes, in perfect health, smoking his pipe and grinning wickedly at John.

"Some time you'll have to acknowledge me, old boy." Great, now he was talking as well.

Maybe he should acknowledge him. Talk to him. Would do it gladly if the detective wasn't so strangely… translucent. Like John could just go through him with his hand to touch the couch Holmes was sitting on. His pipe wasn't even steaming.

If Watson believed in the supernatural, he would say his friend was a… no, that couldn't be. He himself was going crazy, that's it.

So he kept staring, like his glare would shoo this… this illusion away.

"Watson, we've played this starring game for quite some time now, it is getting kind of dull, don't you think it's enough?"

He wouldn't answer. Talking to the illusion would only confirm his own madness.

"Now come on, you'll get wrinkles it you keep starring like that," illusion-Holmes joked, "How long do you want to keep this up? Remember when I first made use of our bartering system? You tried to give me the silent treatment then, and it only lasted, what? One hour?"

"If I hadn't noticed the hole you'd somehow gotten in my brand new waistcoat, I wouldn't have talked to you for far longer! That thing was expensive Holmes and after you stole…"

"Borrowed."

"..used it, it was irreparable!"

"See, suddenly you are talking to me."

The doctor sighed in defeat, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, calming himself.

Right, so it was time to approach the problem heads on.

"Holmes, what are you doing here? Are you… are you a ghost?" he didn't look back at his friend, the illusion, the maybe-ghost, instead chose to keep his eyes shut for the time being.

"Don't be delusional, Watson. Haven't I taught you anything? There are no such things as ghosts." He heard his not-really visitor scoff.

"But then…"

"I am merely a figment of your imagination."

"Well now, that is reassuring." Watson finally looked at the transparent, maybe-present man on the couch. "So I am going insane. Of course it would be you, who'd be part of my decent to mental illness."

"That's not fair, my friend, you conjure me up, and then you blame me?"

"I did not conjure you!"

"Keep telling yourself that, old chap, but that won't change anything." The fake-Sherlock put his pipe on the table and then stretched out on the settee, looking like he wanted to take a nap. Watson briefly considered about asking him to put out his pipe so nothing would burn, but on second though didn't saw the point, "I'm just going to stay here, until you make up your mind why I am here in the first place."

The doctor groaned and buried his face in his hands, " Can't you just leave me alone?"

"Sure," not-Sherlock grinned at him challenging, "Make me."

Then came silence.

And it lasted well into the evening. Watson passed the time by reading a book about Switzerland he had found lying around and pointedly ignored the figure lying in his room.

He would have to vanish sometime, if John pretended he wasn't there, wouldn't he?

But he didn't. Transparent-Holmes stayed on the couch, sometimes lying lazily with his eyes closed, sometimes watching Watson unashamed, but never saying a word. This behaviour was very unusual for Holmes. But then again, this wasn't really Holmes!

After his third yawn, Watson decided it was time to turn in for the night, so he got changed and went to bed, walking past made-up-Holmes, who kept on watching him, without saying a word.

Sinking into the pillows with a tired sigh, he tried to banish every thought concerning Sherlock Holmes from his mind, which was quite the feat.

He was startled by a voice on his left and his eyes shot open again to look at the detective, who wasn't grinning anymore, but looked at him with a mix between serious and sad.

"You do know you are in denial, don't you, dear friend? I won't be waiting for you in London ."

His words were like a stab to John's heart and he closed his eyes at the pain, he couldn't answer. Finally he just turned to his side, his back to 'Holmes', and closed his eyes, rather imagining happy times with Mary, willing himself to sleep.

When Watson woke the next day he was alone, and he sighed in relief. Maybe him going insane was just a bad dream.

He went about his morning business in the adjoining bathroom, freshened up a bit but didn't bother to put any decent clothes on, just pulled on a robe over his nightwear, he didn't plan to leave here anytime soon anyway.

"You look horrible. Maybe you should leave this room and go out into the daylight to gain a bit more colour. And the rings under your eyes aren't really helping matters either. "

Watson almost fell back trough the door when his dream-Holmes suddenly appeared right in his way, standing like he just waited for Watson, his hands in his pockets.

"Damn! I thought you were just a bad dream!"

"Well, I guess you could call me dream," fake-Sherlock mused, "but I think it wouldn't be a completely accurate description, since you are obviously awake."

"Won't you just leave me? Please." John felt suddenly very tired again and leaned against the doorframe.

This was just too much.

Maybe he should be happy, if he can't have the real Sherlock Holmes, at least he got a made up imitation.

But the thing it, he didn't want an imitation.

He went around 'Holmes', because really, walking trough him would be way to creepy, and flopped down on the couch.

"I thought we established that already, doctor, I can't just leave. And you should stop ignoring me, besides the fact that it has proven to be rather pointless, it is also very rude indeed." Not-real-Holmes said with raised eyebrows, following Watson " Now. Maybe if you thought about why you felt the need to make me up, then I'll finally rest in peace."

At the last word, Watson couldn't help but cringe "Don't say that." he whispered, tone defeated.

"Why not? You know I can't have survived that fall." This Holmes, like the real one, went straight for the fact this time.

Of course he knew. But couldn't he pretend a bit longer?

"You are a man of great intelligence, Watson, it is time to accept what happened, and to stop being so daft. Foolery does not suit you, mon frére."

The imagined detective was right in his face now, leaning over him almost menacingly. His words felt like physical punches but damn, John new he was right.

Maybe two days were enough time for ignorance and it is time to face the cold, hard and painful truth.

He waved the transparent detective away, because he really didn't want to go trough him, leaned forward and rubbed his face with his hands, then running them trough his short hair.

Finally he looked up at his illusion, who now stood beside him, looking expectantly.

Watson sighed, "Ok, you are right. I know you won't…" his voice caught a little in his throat, but he didn't cry, "I know you won't be waiting for me in London. Or…or anywhere else. Sherlock Holmes is dead. Happy now?"

The face of the conjured detective morphed from serious to a self-satisfied grin in a flash.

"Ecstatic."

John leaned back again, head tilted back and eyes closed. He'd just gotten out of bed and already he felt exhausted again.

The doctor wasn't sure what he was feeling. Of course it hurt. It hurt like hell, that his best friend was gone. Dead. Had left for a place where he couldn't follow him that easily.

Yet, he also felt a burning in his gut, something he couldn't describe. And shouldn't he feel the need to cry? Maybe even feel guilty? Because on the balcony he hadn't hurried to help Holmes, but stood frozen at the door for a moment.

Honestly? Admitting that his friend did die didn't make this any easier.

John knew what he should feel, he should be inconsolable, mourning the death of his brother. Maybe he was still in denial? No. He knew Holmes was dead.

Probably he needs time. Sometime it will hit him. He is sure of that.

But what to do now? By all means, he should finally leave this room. That was a plan.

Suddenly he noticed the silence and opened his eyes. He was alone. Maybe really all it took was coming out of his little hole.

John couldn't help but feel a bit sad now. He wanted that Holmes imitation to leave, really, but… he could have at least said good bye.

The doctor pushed himself up and went back to the bathroom, this time, to change into something decent.

He spend some extra time in front of the mirror, not wanting to look like someone who'd been in a two day depression and then had seen his dead friends ghost…Illusion, whatever.

Deeming himself presentable, he made his way back to the living room.

"You look splendid. That's the Watson I know."

And for the second time that day, his own imagination almost gave him a heart attack.