My first Sherlock fic. It's not very long, but here it is. Beware of Reichenbach spoilers.

Sherlock is passing the cemetery when the thought occurs to him. Yes, he's officially in hiding, but when is he going to have another chance to see his own grave? He hesitates, then enters the cemetery.

The first thing he notices is the grass, far healthier than grass in other parts of London. Obviously, it's well taken care of, but he quickly puts it out of his mind. Sherlock has taught himself to catalog everything and to shove trivial details out of his head before they become a nuisance. In this way, he keeps from overloading on information, keeps his mind sharp and alert. It's part of being a consulting detective. But, Sherlock isn't a consulting detective anymore.

He passes a large cross and a small clump of bushes before he spots it, his tombstone. As he gets closer, he notices nothing has been placed beneath it. Sherlock smiles. He has always hated the idea of putting flowers by peoples' graves. What use are flowers to a corpse? It isn't as if a dead person can smell them or even see them. Then again, Sherlock also has no idea why people even visit graves. Why travel across the city to talk to a stone when one can say the same things in one's own living room?

The headstone is a simple, shiny black with "Sherlock Holmes" printed on the front. Sherlock can see himself reflected on the stone's mirror-like surface. For a moment, he simply looks. As far as he can tell, he is much the same now as he was a few weeks ago. His hair has grown a bit, but he wears the same coat and scarf he always has and his face looks the same, devoid of emotion, calm, pensive. Sherlock shakes his head, turning away from the grave. Only now does he notice two dark figures approaching the gate. One has a slight limp. Sherlock moves into some nearby trees, obscuring himself from view.

John and Mrs. Hudson visit his grave, regularly judging by the way they walk together and the fact that it has been a few weeks since Sherlock's "death". John is limping again and Sherlock winces. John's limp was caused by a traumatic experience. His stunt has brought John's psychosomatic limp back. He continues to notice little things like they way they're dressed (nicely and in dark colors, indicating they're still in mourning). John is wearing his old jacket again, the one with the shoulder patch. He walks like a soldier (he's falling back into his old ways; John is struggling). Mrs. Hudson is chatting away, trying to make things easier for John, though clearly struggling herself if the state of her makeup is any indication. Even from a distance, Sherlock can see her eyes are red and puffy. She's been crying.

They stop in front of the tombstone, both of them staring. Sherlock can't quite make out what they're saying, but something is irritating John. He stands too still, too straight. Sherlock guesses John is upset about something Mrs. Hudson has said. The sandy-haired man says something and then Mrs. Hudson is walking away and John is standing alone. Sherlock wants nothing more than to reveal himself to the man he considers to be his best friend, but he can't. Not until he knows it's safe. For now, he moves closer so he can hear what John is saying. Sherlock doesn't know why, but he wants to hear what John says to his grave. It's a masochistic desire and he recognizes this, but Sherlock has always been just a little bit of a masochist.

"You...you told me once...that you weren't a hero. There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that youtold me a lie, so ... there," John glances behind him, as if to check for witnesses, before moving to touch Sherlock's headstone. "I was so alone…and I owe you so much." He turns and begins to walk away. Sherlock watches, mesmerized by his former flatmate's display of emotion. He's never known anyone to feel this strongly about him. Then again, he's never known anyone quite like John Watson.

And then John stops and turns back. "But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be…" he pauses, trailing off. "dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this." John's voice breaks and Sherlock reaches out a hand. Memories of the day of the fall flood his mind. He'd reached out for John on that day as well. Today, John doesn't reach back. Sherlock watches as his friend bows his head, no doubt trying to regain some composure before returning to face Mrs. Hudson. Watching John mourn makes Sherlock feel as if he is mourning as well.

Finally, John turns on his heel and limps back toward the gate. Sherlock watches him go, noting the way he turned (like a soldier) and the way he walks, the limp a little less obvious. Sherlock's throat is tight, his vision blurry. He frowns in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together. And then it dawns on him, something he has never quite understood. Sentiment. He blinks back tears as John disappears from view and makes his way quickly from the cemetery. One day, he will make John smile again. But, until that day, he will be content with keeping John safe. He will have nothing to do with sentiment. It's better this way, he thinks as he reaches the street, resisting the urge to call for a cab. John will be happier without me.

Three years later, Sherlock Holmes returns to Baker Street to find he was very wrong.

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