Soon.

It had become habit for John. One day of every month he would drop by Sherlock's grave. Sometimes he would tell Sherlock how his life was going, but of course, "You probably already knew that." John would say. Sometimes he would stand there and think. And although he would never admit it, sometimes he would sit there and let the tears flow silently.

At first people were worried that John would get a bit obsessed over Sherlock's death. The constant visiting to his resting place didn't help the hushed whispers. John never cared what other people thought. He knew it was okay. He was coping. Everyday got a bit easier since the little ritual started. Once he even brought flowers, but after the inquiry of visiting a lover, he stopped. John had already had come to terms with his love for Sherlock. A lot more than as a brother, and a bit less than anything too serious. He tried not to think about it that much, it felt wrong trying to determine your feelings towards a dead man.

On a brisk day in the month of October, John made his way towards Sherlock—er—Sherlock's grave. This time he felt ready to admit to Sherlock—the grave he meant, that he'd finally decided to move out of 221b. As much as John loved living there, everything was Sherlock, and everything hurt. He knew Sherlock would be mad, but it's not as if he was there to stop him. John winced at that thought. John became acquainted with quite a few people at the cemetery. The old woman who visited her dead husband, the family who came to drop flowers off at their mum's grave, and the man who would sit and curse the heavens at the head stone of his brother. But the man standing at the small white marble headstone a bit a ways from Sherlock's was new. Poor sod, John thought.

John had finally reached the looming black stone. He loosened the grip on his cane, not realizing how hard he had been previously holding it. He brushed off a few leaves from the smooth surface and ran a thumb over the engraving. Sherlock Holmes. The familiar lump in John's throat showed itself, and no amount of coughing would clear it.

John sniffed and composed himself. Mustn't cry anymore, John thought, he would be confused if he saw me cry, wouldn't understand the—

"Sentiment." Said an unfamiliar voice, it had belonged to the old man he saw earlier.

"Sorry, what?" John said, obviously not hearing what the man had said before.

"Sentiment, the downfall of us all." He repeated. His voice was eloquent, but raspy. A smoker, Sherlock would note. John rubbed his tired eyes and got a better look at the man. Hunched back, decent amount of dark hair, peppered with gray covering the majority of his face, more hair hidden under a ski cap, and a crooked nose that has probably been broken a time or two. But his eyes. At first John that he was looking at someone else, but there was something missing in those drops of silver. There was no beautiful mind working a mile a minute behind them. Instead there was something else, they were tainted by past bad experiences.

"Don't you agree?" the old man said, pressing for a conversation.

"Ah, no," John said, looking back at Sherlock's grave, "but my friend here would. Would have, that is." John felt the knot in his stomach tighten at the correction. Past tense. Would have. No longer does.

"I see…a friend." The old man looked between John and the gravestone and asked after a bit of silence, "What was he like?"

The question caught John off guard. No one had asked that in a while. He took a minute, unsure of how to answer. "Well, he.." John cleared his throat, "He was a genius. Could figure out your life in less than a minute just by what you were wearing, or what you ate for breakfast. He was a consulting detective. The only one in the world, because he invented the job," John chuckled a bit, "Sometimes he was unbearable. A right git. But I lo-" John caught himself, "I, uh, he was great. He was my best friend, and now he's gone. I'm not mad at him. I was, but, I understand now. He was unpredictable, he got bored. I miss him terribly though. Don't think I ever will get used to it." John coughed as he finished, blinking a few times to push back the tears. The old man just stared for a bit and finally said, "You talk about him like he was more. More than just your friend."

John couldn't help but laugh a bit more. Even after he died, they were still assumed as a couple. He didn't mind as much as he used to. Somehow it made John still feel connected to Sherlock.

"I don't know really. Our relationship—if you could call it that—it was complicated. He was a self-proclaimed sociopath, but he cared. About a few people. Myself being one I suppose. He's ruined some of my relationships. Then again he's also saved my life," John smiled at the memories and pauses, "a week before he," John gestured at the gravestone, "he bought the milk. It was nice, almost like things would return to normal. God I miss him." John pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his fingers through his hair. He was reminded of when they were in Dartmoor and Sherlock had admitted that John was his only friend. And then the night before he jumped, running through London. Hand in hand. John remembered leaving countless dates to go to be with Sherlock, and initially he was always upset, but secretly he never minded. John remembered all the muffled laughter at crime scenes and adrenaline filled chases that nearly always ended with Sherlock clasping John on the shoulder, giving him one of his rare Sherlock smiles. The genuine one, the one that said "I appreciate you in my life." It was love, but in a strange and completely Sherlock way.

"We were eachother's." John said quietly. He felt the man's hand on his shoulder. It felt familiar, but still so alien.

"Don't worry mate, he'll always be with you." The old man smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I lost a friend once, he was a great man. Better than me. I loved him—I still love him, but I hurt him, broke him even. He didn't deserve me in his life." The old man's eyes glazed over, and John felt uncomfortable. John didn't usually have heart to hearts in cemeteries with complete strangers.

"If he's as good a man you say, then he'll forgive you." John said, trying to offer some comfort. The hand squeezed his shoulder and dropped. "Thank you," John said, "for listening, I mean. To me babble about a lost friend."

"He isn't lost, mate," Said the old man almost in a whisper, "Don't ever think he's lost."

John coughed and shifted, uncomfortable again. "Bye then." John turned and limped off towards the exit. He was consumed in his thoughts, again, mostly about Sherlock. As they always were when he left. But this time the thoughts were nice. John loved Sherlock, and he was okay with that. Smiling to himself, John kept walking, not turning back.

He doesn't see the old man straighten his back. John doesn't see the ski cap being removed, unleashing dark brown curls. John doesn't see the man remove his beard and then his nose. John doesn't see the pure human sadness in those silver eyes. And John certainly doesn't hear Sherlock's promise.

"Soon."