**Major Spoilers for season 2. If you haven't watched it, be warned. Reviews are love!**

"You told me once that you weren't a hero… um… there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh. There.

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

"Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"

I sighed and choked back the tears that had been falling unheeded from my eyes. I needed to be strong for Mrs. Hudson, now. My tears wouldn't help anyone. I placed my hand on the grave one last time and turned around to walk to where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me, pulled a handkerchief from my pocket, wiped the tears from my face and blew my nose gustily. The cab ride home wasn't going be easy.

No, it wasn't going to be easy at all.

When I reached her, Mrs. Hudson wrapped her thin arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I realized that we must look like mother and son to anyone watching. That didn't matter. In fact, it was right. She'd been a mother to Sherlock and me these past two years.

As we started toward the road I noticed someone standing by a grave near the fence. I felt myself go rigid. It couldn't be… No, it was just a man wearing a long coat with dark hair. Am I going to be seeing Sherlock's ghost everywhere I look?

When we got home, I sat at the table in Mrs. Hudson's small kitchen. There was no way that I could have up to the empty flat at that moment, knowing he wouldn't be there.

Mrs. Hudson retrieved a bottle of scotch from the top of the refrigerator and three glasses from her cupboard. She placed the glasses firmly on the table and filled them.

"Who's the third glass for?" I asked.

"It's for Sherlock. It's traditional to pour a glass for our lost loved one at the wake. Sherlock never got a proper wake, so it's going to have to be just you and me," she explained as she sat across from me. She pushed a glass to me, took one for herself, and placed the third in front of the seat where Sherlock had so often sat.

We talked and drank and cried late into the night. Mrs. Hudson offered me her couch, but I needed to be where Sherlock had so often been. As I stumbled up the stairs, I decided that I needed to make a blog post. I left it untitled, and typed out the shortest and most truthful post that I had ever written. "He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." I disabled the comments and went to bed.

I woke up the next morning with a hangover bad enough to make me consider calling in sick to work. I knew that I had to keep moving on, though. Sherlock would have wanted me to go on. I ate a large breakfast and drank several cups of coffee before leaving for work. My case load was light; Sara was trying to be easy on me because of my loss. She was a good woman, Sara. The day seemed to drag on and go quickly. When five 'o'clock rolled around I was surprised. I knew that Mrs. Hudson would have cooked for me, but I picked up some Chinese on the way home. On a whim I stopped by the market and bought a bottle of whisky. Who cares if Chinese and whisky don't go together, I need a drink. When I got home I ate and watched the telly for a couple of hours. At about eight I realized that my bottle was empty and went to bed.

This was the pattern of my life for the next couple of weeks. I knew that it wasn't healthy, that I was gaining weight and was well on my way to becoming an alcoholic, but I didn't care. My best friend, the only real friend I ever had, the best man I had ever known, was gone. Who was to care if I drank myself to death, anyways?

One night, after drinking most of a bottle, I decided that I wanted to see what people were saying about Sherlock. I pulled my computer to me and ran a search for "Sherlock Holmes." I was aghast at what I read.

"I always knew he was a fake," said one blog.

"That fucker deserved what came to him," said another.

"tHat basterd kiled Richard Brook, im glad hes dead!"

I felt myself get very angry. No one, not one single person, believed in Sherlock. I considered throwing my computer across the room, but thought better of it. I was going to need my computer to help me prove the truth.