I don't even know what I'm writing. Dang you, depressing pictures on tumblr! *shakes fist* Also inspired by this youtube video and the poem within: www (dot) youtube (dot) com/watch?v=-ks0YHc99AI

I sobbed. Like a baby. What is this fandom doing to me?

John finds himself back at the grave every day and he's never sure how he got there.

He was supposed to be walking home. But he can't remember where he was or what route he meant to take to get there. It was raining earlier, he thinks. He meant to get an umbrella... wasn't it? But he ended up here instead.

He absentmindedly kicks the fallen leaves off of Sherlock's grave. Isn't there a groundskeeper around here somewhere that's supposed to keep these things off the dead?

A moment passes and he speaks before he even realises he's doing it. "You were supposed to stop this." He pauses for several seconds until he realises he won't be getting a reply. "I asked you to stop this." As if phrasing it a different way would make it work more effectively.

They have this conversation every time he comes here. Every day. John asks him to stop. Sherlock never replies.

A gust of wind rustles the leaves at his feet and he kicks them again. "Why can't you just sto-?" He hears his voice crack and taps a hand against his leg impatiently. "Please." He swallows, throat tight. "Please Sherlock, just come home."

He wants to kick the headstone, but he doesn't. It annoys him that the headstone doesn't say anything. He left it to Mrs. Hudson, he didn't want anything to do with it. With Sherlock's headstone.

John runs his hands down his face. His cheeks are red, an overwhelming force of will preventing him from crying. "We need milk again, you know? Who's fault do you think that is?"

Sherlock doesn't reply.

"Your headstone should have been different. Sorry for that, I guess. When this one gets worn down, I'll get you a better one." He decides not to remind himself that marble doesn't exactly wear down.

He speaks several times more and gets no reply. He finally leaves as the sky begins to cry the tears that he cannot.


The next day, around the same time, John finds himself standing in front of Sherlock's grave. Again.

But this time, it's different. Someone - probably some idiot kid - has taped a piece of paper to the headstone. Taped a piece of paper. John would roar like a beast and tear it off, except it's too perfect - too straight, too neat - to be anything like a prank.

On the paper is written something that John must kneel to read. In perfect calligraphy, a poem sits, waiting. He reads it aloud:

"Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush,

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there, I did not die."

He feels the tears pouring down his cheeks, but he does nothing to stop them this time. He can't decide if this is just some sick joke, or someone sincerely trying to make him feel better.

But he can't leave the paper taped to a headstone, that's ridiculous. He rips it off, tape and all, and folds it into his pocket. He leaves when the sky cries again.

When he finally gets back home - to wherever it is that he lives now, not that it matters to him - he sticks the paper to the wall next to his bed.

And every night, he reads the poem and stares out the window at the stars, wondering when Sherlock will finally come home.