A/N
Inspired by Lucy – Skillet. I strongly suggest you listen to it, it's a really beautiful, moving song. Anyway, just to warn you, this one-shot does evolve into a slash-containing fanfic. You've been warned.

"Um, hi, Sherlock…" John sighed and rubbed the grave stone in front of him slightly. "I know I was here yesterday, but, I, um, kind of realised something yesterday, at your… funeral…" The word was rough on John's throat, like sandpaper being forced upwards. He bit his lip and looked down at the roses he held in his hand. A dozen roses for a man who meant so much more. John bent down and scattered the roses across the grass in front of Sherlock's grave, the redness causing raw emotion to well up inside him.

"Yesterday… I realised just how much you meant to me. I realised that you, Sh-Sherlock Holmes, are more than a friend to me. I just wish you didn't have to die for me to realise…" John fought back the tears welling up in his eyes. He fell to his knees, and gave up fighting the tsunami of emotion, allowing the tears to flow, falling onto the ground, hanging onto the grass like delicate dew drops, natural and normal.

"I promise I'll try to bring justice to your name, Sherlock, because I know you're not fake, no matter what you say…" He ran his hand across the top of the grave stone, pushing away the few stray leaves that lay atop it. John felt a tiny bit of satisfaction, but it was quickly washed away by the sorrow, tugging at his heart strings.

"I know I'm asking for miracles here, Sherlock, but I'd give the world to see you again. So please, don't… be… dead…" He felt his voice break again, like it did the day before, when he first pleaded with his deceased best friend to grant him a miracle. John let his head drop, and walked out the graveyard, a massive chunk of him missing, buried under the ground.

Sherlock looked on, and felt his throat tighten. But the sociopath didn't understand what he felt, and dismissed it.

"Happy birthday, Sherlock. See? I didn't forget…" John smiled bleakly as he spoke to the gravestone, a habit he'd picked up as the weeks passed. His therapist had suggested he kept it up, that it might help him come to terms with the death of his best friend, but the pain felt as raw as it had done 3 months ago, when John watched his best friend jump to his death.

"If I'd have known, Sherlock, I'd have done so many things different while we had each other. If I'd have known it wouldn't last, I would've cherished every decapitated head and limb…" John looked down at his feet and shuffled slightly, before raising his hand, clutching another dozen roses tightly. "I just wished I had something more to give to you than roses. I'm sure you'd be able to deduce what they meant, even with your trouble with emotions…" He chuckled slightly, remembering his roommate's difficulty with understanding how others felt. And then it just hurt John even more. 221B had become quiet without it's sociopath, that John couldn't bear to stay in there longer than he needed to.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry I wasn't a better friend. I should've stopped you jumping…" John lay the roses at the foot of the gravestone, allowing a single stray tear to roll down and drop onto the rose nearest him. He watched as it rolled down the blood red petal, and onto the grass, clinging to it like a raindrop freshly shed from the heavens.

"You don't know how much I'd give just to have you back in my life, Sherlock, so for me, please, don't... be... dead…" The last three words hadn't got any easier for John to say, and dragged like barbed wire through his mouth, leaving a trail of destruction and savagery behind it. The doctor sighed and let his head drop as he walked slowly out of the graveyard.

Sherlock looked on, and as he watched, his view misted over, and his throat tightened even more. The sociopath was confused by the emotion he felt, so he deleted it from his memory.

"Hi… Remember all those nights we spent together running down the back alleys of London? I do. No matter what I said then, know this Sherlock, those were the best moments of my life. You gave me something to live for. When you first met me, you didn't treat me like a cripple. Everyone else did. And I thank you for that. I was sick of the looks of sympathy. I just wanted to be treated normal. And you did that for me. I can't thank you enough…" John dusted the gravestone down, wiping away the dirt and dust. He put a dozen roses in front of Sherlock's grave with a quivering hand, and smiled slightly, wiping a tear away with his other hand.

"Time and time again, you came for me. You saved my life, and again, I didn't know how to repay you, and now… Now I can't…" He ran his hand through his hair, and felt his stomach knotting itself again.

"I have so much to pay you back for Sherlock, so please, I'm begging you, don't… be… dead…" The three words John always finished with just drew fresh emotions up to the surface, and he couldn't hide them from his face. He hid how he felt in public, in front of everyone, but not here. Not in front of the man who gave him his life back. John let his head drop, the doubt running ever deeper in his mind, turned around and left the graveyard.

Sherlock looked on, feeling a strange warm sensation rolling down his face. He wiped it away with his finger and realised he was crying for the first time in his life. The sociopath started to doubt his self-declared title of sociopath. He tried to delete the memory.

"Uhm, I thought I'd drop by, to tell you this is the last time I'll be coming to visit you… I can't carry on in this life without you, so I'm coming to join you. Tonight. I can't live with all these choices I've made anymore. I should've stayed with you, I should've known there was a reason you didn't come with me when we had the text, and I'm so sorry Sherlock, I really am…" He placed a dozen roses in front of the gravestone, and ran his hand over Sherlock's name.

"I've never actually said this out loud, so, um, I've got something to tell you before I join you…" John felt sick with nerves. He didn't notice as the skies cried with him, his hair sticking to his forehead. All he could feel was the pain, drowning him, dragging him downwards. The only release he knew was to join Sherlock. To be able to hold him and repay him. To be able to show him how much he meant to John, how much John needed him.

"I-I love you, Sherlock…" He ran his hand across the gravestone again, and let his head drop. The tears fell from his eyes continuously, mixing with the raindrops running down his face. John turned around, and began to walk when his eyes met a pair of shoes on the grass, sodden and black.

Sherlock looked on, and realised that he was most definitely not a sociopath. He cared for John, he loved John. He couldn't let John carry on, let him kill himself just to be with the consulting detective. He let his leg walk, and stood still, in the rain. He waited for the doctor to walk far enough till he was in front of him, then Sherlock took a step forward to close the space between them.

"I love you too, John…" The smaller man looked up and met his concerned, yet loving gaze. Sherlock lowered his head and locked lips with John. John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and returned the embrace. Sherlock didn't try to delete the memory.

Sherlock didn't want to delete the memory.