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John walked through the cemetery slowly. He hadn't been back since the unveiling of the tombstone. He knew that he should have been by long ago, but couldn't bring himself to do it. And no one had forced him.
The air was growing cooler. Leaves that had shed themselves from trees crunched under John's boots.
It hadn't been easy. Mycroft had sent some people by to collect a few of Sherlock's things, but a large portion of packing had fallen to John. Each item John packed was another nail in Sherlock's coffin. Another reminder that he wasn't coming back.
Even now, months later, John found pieces of Sherlock everywhere. Books with notes scribbled in the margins, the occasional scare when John found an experiment Sherlock had hidden somewhere in the flat. John still found it odd when he opened the microwave to find it clean from all traces of heated-up body parts.
John sighed as he approached the grave. Someone had been by earlier that day and left flowers. John tried to imagine what Sherlock would have thought about them. He always disliked sentiment, but somehow John knew that he would have understood and accepted them if he could.
John put one hand on the tombstone, the other gripping his cane. His leg had started acting up again after Sherlock's death. His therapist suggested visiting Sherlock's grave might alleviate some of the pain. She suggested it months ago, actually. But John had been too busy.
After Sherlock fell, John had started doing more consulting work for the Yard. He still worked a few hours a week in the surgery, but he threw himself into the hole the great Sherlock Holmes had left as often as he could. John had hoped that filling that would also fill another hole he was feeling inside himself. So far, it hadn't.
Lestrade had been extremely supportive of John in the months after. John knew that Lestrade helping him was more for Lestrade than it was for John. Lestrade had always been fond of Sherlock, and Sherlock being called a fake wore on them both.
John took a deep breath before speaking. He wasn't really sure what to say.
“Well....here we are.” John started. “Lestrade is fine...well as fine as he can be. He barely leaves his office anymore....And Molly is...she's seeing a bloke now...a nice guy. You would hate him, actually. A bit of an idiot, really. But...she seems happy. And I'm...”
John didn't know what to say. People had been asking him how he was for months. And now, standing in front of a slab of concrete, talking to it as if it was his best friend. Everything was starting to sink in.
“What I said before...the last time I was here...don't be dead...” John started. “I meant it. I've tried filling in on your cases, but I can't...” John took a deep breath “I can't do this without you.”
John shifted his weight as he thought, his fingers on his free hand absently tracing the letters on his friend's grave.
He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there, but when he looked up again, someone else was walking toward him.
“Hello, John.” Lestrade said as he approached. “Hope I'm not...interrupting anything.”
John shook the detective inspector's outstretched hand.
“No. Of course not. I was just...” John's voice trailed off. What was he doing? He wasn't even sure.
Lestrade put a hand on Sherlock's tombstone. “Hello, lad.” He almost whispered.
The two men stood there in silence as the cool air moved around them.
“Have you made any progress?” John asked quietly.
John and Lestrade had not been able to accept Sherlock's declaration before his jump. The Yard had accepted it and moved on. It had been a tough few months for Lestrade as he was questioned by his superiors and threatened with loosing his job. It appeared handing over confidential case information to a civilian was in fact highly frowned upon. He was not fired, only put on a tight leash. But that didn't stop him from thinking that he might have been able to do something.
Lestrade shook his head. “Nothing, John.”
There was little evidence in Sherlock's favor. Not only were they unable to find any information regarding Moriarty or his network, but Sherlock had admitted himself to being a fake. There was no proof that he was the genius John and Lestrade knew he was. Any essays he wrote on his particular style of deduction did not prove his genius to the extent of the law. Even so, Lestrade and John could not accept that he was anything less than the greatest consulting detective. The only one.
It also didn't help that one of the conditions of Lestrade keeping his job was that he did not look into Sherlock's death. That particular case was given to another team and closed rather quickly.
While Lestrade was busy working other cases, John continued to search for any information which would lead to proving Sherlock's genius as well as disproving the existence of Richard Brook. Unfortunately, there weren't many leads. John was becoming frustrated.
“It's my fault, Greg.” John said. “If I was half the man he was...”
Lestrade put a hand on John's shoulder.
“John. Sherlock wouldn't have befriended you if he didn't think you were anything less than extraordinary.”
John looked at Lestrade. He seemed to have aged ten years in the past month. The lines on his face had deepened, and there were dark purple bags under his eyes.
“It's just so hard to see the newspapers calling him a fake when...they didn't even know him, Greg.”
John wasn't going to be able to hold it together much longer. His shoulders were shaking, his eyes were stinging, and his breathing was becoming more shallow.
They stood there in the cold as the sun set over the hills of the cemetery. John silently crying while Lestrade stood there with his hand on the army doctor's soldier.
Both men knew that no matter what, they would never believe what the papers were saying. Sherlock Holmes was a great man, and would always be one.