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Author's Note: It's a little sad...and not that good...but here's my first ever Sherlock (BBC) fic. x

"Goodbye, John."

The words reverberated in his mind, constant reminders that he was alone. Six months had passed like a blur. He no longer wished to associate with anyone. He had no reason to. Everyone he knew only made him remember. Fond memories now brought more pain than he ever thought imaginable.
The first couple of months were the hardest. Between the well-wishers and the media, the attention never ended. Eventually people stopped bothering him. There's only so much to say to someone who no longer responded.

The last time anyone spoke to him was weeks ago. Mrs. Hudson had been nothing but kind, but he pushed her away without saying anything at all.

"You can't sit around and mope forever, love," she said, a sad smile adorning her weathered face, "just think of what Sherlock would say if he saw you in this state."

He stared at the wall. Mrs. Hudson was sat in front of him, but he wasn't looking at her. He saw right through her, as if she wasn't there at all. The name made his stomach churn.

She sighed, touching his hand, "I'm here if you ever need to talk, John," she added, taking her time getting up- flinching as she stepped the wrong way with her wonky hip. She offered another smile before walking out of the flat, whispering, "poor man," to herself as she crept downstairs, shutting her door softly.

It was Sunday. Or perhaps it was Wednesday. He'd lost track of the days because days no longer mattered. Nothing did.

Since he came back to Baker Street, the flat hadn't been touched. Everything was almost exactly how it was that last night. He couldn't bring himself to clean out anything. Just in case.

He pulled out his phone, looking at the sent text messages over the past six months. All of them to a recipient who would never see them.

Found your secret stash today. Hid them where you won't find them. -JW

You're right. Deerstalkers are ugly. -JW

Took sugar in my coffee today. -JW

Thought about patching up the bullet holes in the wall. But you get bored easily. -JW

It's my birthday today. Stayed in and had a cuppa. -JW

Had to clean the fridge today. Your thumbs were smelling up the place. -JW

He stared blankly at his sent text messages. There were dozens upon dozens of them, all without responses. He didn't know why he sent any of them, he just felt like he had to. It would make everything seem normal.

An idea struck him at the moment. Maybe, just maybe, if he begged, he could have his best friend back. It was worth a try. He started a new message, typing quickly: I know you're not dead. Stop being so bloody selfish and come home. -JW

A second later an auto-reply message popped up: Failed to deliver message. Phone number no longer in service.

For a minute, he felt like he was going to be physically sick. He chewed his lip, feeling a lump rising up in his throat. He'd sent countless texts, but this was the first time any kind of response came back. His eyes were blurring with tears as he threw his phone across the room. The reality of everything was sinking in.

His friend was gone. His best friend in the world was never coming back. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Silently, he stood up and grabbed his coat, stuffing a small torch in his pocket. The sun was setting and the light was fading fast, but that didn't matter. Night time just meant another day had passed. One day closer to death. His eyes strayed to a scarf that had been thrown on the table. It was Sherlock's. Molly had washed and given it to him to hold onto for sentimental reasons. He hadn't touched it since.

After a moment of hesitation, he grabbed the scarf and wrapped it around his neck before walking out of the flat. He shut the door and tromped down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson cracked her door and peeked out, "you look flushed, dear. Everything alright?"

He stopped and looked at her. His cheeks were still wet with tears. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided he had nothing to say so he turned and left without another word.

After hailing a taxi, he mumbled the name of the cemetery he hadn't dared visit since the funeral. The drive seemed to take hours, but time stopped when the cab pulled up to the gates. He exhaled softly, paying the driver and exiting the car silently. The sound of it's engine faded as he stood, staring into desolate lot dotted with headstones.

His body took over at that point, not matter how much his mind and heart protested. He made his way to the large tree in the back of the cemetery. As he got closer, there was just enough light left in the sky to show off the gold lettering of the shiny black stone. Sherlock Holmes.

He sat down on the damp grass, his reflection on the marker sending a chill down his spine. Nothing was said for a long time. When he finally spoke, it was completely dark except for the torch he'd turned on and stood up in the grass next to him, "Sorry I haven't come to visit. I've been busy," he said softly, almost choking on his words.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead. The air smelled like rain, "I guess I haven't really been that busy," he swallowed hard, "it's been hard to cope. I've got poor Mrs. Hudson worried. She says talking to me is like talking to a wall," he almost smiled, "she misses you."

He sighed, "I think everyone misses you. Even if they don't admit it."

A twig snapping caught his attention, he looked around quickly, before dismissing it. He looked down at his knees, "I think I miss you more than anyone though," he whispered, "I've never been more alone. If you could just do that one last favor for me and not be dead, I'd appreciate it more than you'll ever know," he felt the tears coming, so he grabbed his torch and stood up, "I'd better get going. Wouldn't want anyone catching me in a cemetery at night, people might talk," he half-laughed, touching the top of the headstone, "I know you're not an emotional person, but, I love you. Yeah," he nodded to himself, "I'm still at Baker Street if you ever need anything," he turned, pausing for a minute to collect himself before walking out of the cemetery.

When he turned to walk away, a dark figure watched him from behind the tree, "I miss you too, John," he whispered when John was out of earshot, before disappearing back into the darkness.

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