A/N: So you guys will be getting shorter fics like this one until I can finish the first part of my much longer fic. It's taking a bit, since I've come down with a bad case of writer's block and am lacking any way to cure it. A big thanks to SnapeLikesMyPatronus, who offered her help and will hopefully help me in the future, because she's a fantastic beta! It very much sticks to the scenes from The Reichenbach Fall, however includes just a few things that ran through my head while I was watching the episode. I hope you guys like it! Please review and point out whatever you like or don't like, criticism is always welcome. Enjoy!

He watches as Sherlock reaches out to him one last time, and John mimics the motion, his arm nearly acting of its own accord. "Shut up. Shut up, Sherlock." This isn't right, he wants to say. This isn't how I'm supposed to say goodbye to you. His thoughts scream out, but he can't form the words. There are so many things he needs to say. I need you. I believe in you. I always have. Instead he says, "The first time we met." Because he treasures that day. That was the day he came alive again, the first time he felt something stir inside of him since the war. That was the day that he met this man, this wonderful, brilliant man, Sherlock Holmes, and he has believed in him ever since. You told me once; you told me you weren't a hero. You were wrong. "No. Stop it now, just stop."

"John," The voice on the other end was strangled, thick with unspoken words and it is a small comfort to John that he is not the only one who can't say everything he wants to, even if he does wish Sherlock could say it because it's the last time – No, he stops himself – Don't think that. This isn't it. This can't be it. And then Sherlock says something that makes time freeze for John, and he swears he can feel his world crumbling down around him.

"This phone call, it's um – it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? They leave a note." You're not them, Sherlock, you and I both know that. You're an extraordinary man, you're something different altogether… Even though John knows the answer, he asks anyway.

"Leave a note when?" It doesn't make sense to me, Sherlock. And if you – if you go, God, nothing is ever going to make sense again. Why can't you see that?

"Goodbye, John."

"No – Don't – " It is in that moment that the two men lock eyes, and to John, for the first time since he's met him, Sherlock looks unbelievably small, standing atop St. Bart's. It scares him more than anything, more than he'd like to admit.

And before he can say another word, before he can try and say all the things he wanted to say but couldn't, he sees Sherlock drop the phone, and hears the dial tone. John screams. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm sorry I never said it before.

"Sherlock!" And he jumps. John cannot save him this time, there is no killer to pull the trigger on, Moriarty is not there to use as a bargaining chip. His voice is barely a whisper now, and he can't look away from his falling comrade. "Sherlock…"

A sickening crunch, and everything slows. John's legs are sluggish and he can't get to Sherlock soon enough. A biker hits him and he falls to the ground, wondering if this is all some horrid dream. He staggers towards the body and the crowd of people now surrounding it. His reality is shattering, his world is hazy, and no one will let him through. He can't stop saying Sherlock's name, as if that will somehow bring him back.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through," I can fix this. There has to be a way to make him better. "Please, let me come through." I can save him, I know I can if you'd just let me see him, please. "Please, he's my friend. He's my friend!" You don't understand, none of you do. None of you knew him. Please.

He grabs a hold of Sherlock's wrist. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. While it's still warm, it's not the same. The lifeless eyes stare up at him, pupils fixed, no longer dilating, and the wrist does not have a pulse that jumped like it used to when John touched him. You are not him. You are a body. You are not the man I knew.

I'm sorry I couldn't save you.

xXx

It is just days later that he is going to the headstone which Sherlock lays under, accompanied by Mrs. Hudson. While he'd rather go alone, he doesn't have the heart to tell her this. They approach the grave, and it's all John can do to keep himself together, and he does it for Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm angry." I hate that you did this to me. How could you leave me like this? I needed you. I still do.

Mrs. Hudson continues to talk, talk about all of the bad habits and her grief is beginning to overwhelm her and John isn't sure if he can take it much longer. If he can hold it in much longer. If he can keep it together much longer. He tries to calm Mrs. Hudson down as best he can in his current state, and she leaves him alone before her crying really starts. For that, he is grateful. He needs these minutes alone, this time alone with a gravestone and the man underneath it.

His breathing is jagged, and he turns to see that Mrs. Hudson is far enough away before he starts speaking. "Um. Hmm..." Where do I begin? How am I supposed to do this? "You… You told me once that you weren't a hero." He pauses to take in a shaky breath. "There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human—" Inhale. Exhale. "Um, human being that I've ever known, and no one will convince me that you told me a lie. That's um – There." He pauses another moment, and goes up to the gravestone. He touches its cold surface, and instead of feeling assured, or comforted, he isn't entirely sure what to feel. It is not Sherlock. He isn't sure if this man will hear the words John always wanted him to hear, but was too afraid to say.

"I – I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He touches the grave one last time, and though it is not the warm skin of the man he loves, he supposes that this will be the closest he can get. He steps away from the headstone, taking in another shaky breath. He isn't sure how much longer he can keep up the pretense of holding it together. He turns around quickly, facing the grave, as if Sherlock is fixed there in cold marble, rather than just his name. "Oh, please, there's just one more thing – one more thing – one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead." The last word comes out as less than a whisper, for it is something that John never wanted to say. He hates the word. Hates that he has to use it when talking about – or to – his best friend, the one man who meant something – meant everything – to him. He sucks in a shallow breath, "Would you do that – just for me? Just stop it. Stop this." He scolds the gravestone, and exhales. There is nothing but Sherlock's name staring back at him now, and he feels himself give way. His shoulders slump, his head sinks down, he has no will to keep it up. His eyes screw up as he does his best to keep too many tears from falling, but it is to no avail. He shields his eyes with a hand, sucking in a few deep breaths. The tears drop down his face and onto the grass below him, and there is little he can do to keep himself together now. It only lasts for a minute or two, but it is the one time John truly allows himself to grieve. He takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders and drying his eyes. He turns, looking back one last time. His last unspoken thought, the one he wishes he had said long ago, before it was too late.

"If it's any incentive, I – I do love you, Sherlock. More than anything. Just um, if you needed a reason."

As he leaves the cemetery, he tells himself that maybe the small gust of wind was not his imagination, and that maybe his words were finally heard.