Disclaimer: I do not own this show or the characters.

John stood over the grave of his best friend, leaning heavily on his cane. The air was misted with a fine drizzle, and he wasn't sure if it was his current location or the weather that caused the pain in his leg to ache more fiercely than was normal. He would stay though – he always did.

He visited the quiet graveside once a week, no matter the weather. It had been nearly six months now… He'd stopped asking for miracles. Now he just came to remember, and to think. Sometimes he'd ask for help in a case, listing off the facts and clues as if Sherlock would appear and piece them together into the solution only he would see. Of course - he never did. The world was back to one Consulting Detective, and John just wasn't as good. He'd learned so much, but he would never be Sherlock.

He never entirely lost hope though. He'd seen too many miracles from that eccentric man to truly believe he would just let death take him that easily. As for his "note", the desperate plea for John to believe that it had all been a lie, he'd never even entertained the thought. Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was not a fake.

After a while John turned with a heavy sigh, his boots leading him on an automatic route through the edges of town. He'd opted to walk today, hoping that the exercise would ease the ache in his leg. Maybe it would even begin to numb the one in his chest. The weather was unseasonably cold, a biting wind that grabbed at the edges of his jacket and found its way through the fabric. He quickened his pace, much as he could with the cursed cane at his side, and held back a shiver.

Not for the first time he found himself wishing for a warm hand in his and a tall figure walking alongside him. He bit down on the thought, forcing his mind elsewhere. He'd barely allowed himself to consider the possibility when he was ali- here… Now Sherlock was gone, and to even think about what might have been – what some part of him would admit that he had hoped could have been – was too painful. So he kept walking, flipping up the edge of his collar against the cold and burying his hands in the pockets of his coat. He was still alone.

Sherlock watched him leave, only emerging from the safety of a hidden alcove once the limping figure was far enough down the empty street. A fine dusting of rain covered his dark jacket, and he seemed immune to the chill in the wind.

Something in him – a small part that he consistently ignored – bid him to run after John. To halt his retreat and tell him, finally, that he was still here. But of course, Sherlock acted only upon logic. It wasn't that he didn't feel emotions – he did, sometimes nearly even at the same level he imagined others felt them. They were interesting to examine, but it was his firm belief that they should remain quite independent of logic and decisions. That was the problem with other people – they never could separate the two.

It was for that very reason that he waited, watching the fading figure of his best – only – friend until he'd turned a corner towards the center of town. John wouldn't see things the way he did, a decision devoid of emotional connection (or at least, that was what he told himself). This had to be done carefully, or else John may never forgive him. If it were anyone else he wouldn't care – even Mrs. Hudson's judgment meant relatively little to him. But this was John… He was different. He mattered.

Sympathy. Sherlock nearly scoffed – the irony was not lost on him.

He'd been traveling in these six months, destroying the threads connecting Moriarty to Sherlock – or rather, the people Sherlock cared about. Even for him it had taken time. So much time, spent on tracking down leads or arranging for certain variables to be… removed.

It was strange though. For so long Sherlock had lived a solitary life, and he'd been entirely content alone. He'd relished the silence, the lack of other peoples' senseless emotions and words spoken for no reason other than to fill the air. When he was alone there was no one to force him to speak, to distract him or tell him to stop playing his violin at 4 am when he couldn't think.

But after meeting John… He found that he didn't quite like being alone anymore. More than once he'd caught himself speaking aloud, talking to someone worlds away in that little flat on Baker Street. He shook his head, again suppressing the strange urge to follow John right this moment. The ghost of a smile lit his features and he shook his head – yes, John was different, wasn't he.