Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine, never will be. I am not worthy of it. I'm just another fangirl who is about to die, due to the lack of season 3.
A/N: Just a little angsty story for you today. Please leave a review when you have read it. Then, there will be a funny story next time, I promise!

There are times he doubts it had really happened. He has to go to his bedroom, see the empty bed and remember it all over it. Feeling the heartbreak, the grief, the anger again and again and again.

He has to get away.

He has to get away from the empty flat. He has to get away from the lack of shooting. He has to get away from the fact that Sherlock was not there!

Sometimes he goes to pubs. Hoping the alcohol will numb his pain and take images and words out of his head. Some days it works. Other days it makes it all worse and when he gets back he collapses in sobs, the voices echoing in his head ("Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" "This phone call – it's, er ... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they – leave a note?" "Goodbye John"). He almost always ends up breaking something.

Sometimes he somehow ends up at the hospital where it happened. He stares at the top of it, and sometimes it looks like someone is up there, looking at him. That's when he runs away, but he always comes back. He is disgusted by the place and at the same time drawn to it. It's a morbid fascination he has.

And then there are the days he finds himself at the cemetary. He always ends up by his gravestone. It's the evidence, that this is not some horrid nightmare. It's harsh, cold reality as the Devil made it. And yet he always says the same thing. Stop pretending. Stop acting like you're dead, as though he is hoping it will open a secret passageway where Sherlock is hiding, safe and sound.

He brushes away the fallen leaves, wondering how many people come to this place. Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Some longforgotten cousin who was passing by anyway? There are no flowers to witness such a visit. Maybe he should get some, just to make it look less forgotten. Like somebody actually care. Then again, the thought of placing flowers on Sherlock's grave is almost as weird as the thought of giving a living Sherlock flowers. He almost chuckles. Almost.

He is always running away. Away from the voices in his head, the painful memories that follow. He finds a place of peace at the cemetary for some reason, but in the end he runs away from it too. But no matter how fast he runs, he always ends up going to places of pain. You can't run from your memories. He knows that more than anyone now.

He never looks back.

He never sees the shadow, always following him. Hiding in the shadows of the pub in a disguise. Standing not far from him as he gazes at the top of the hospital roof. At the edge of a graveyard, watching his tears.

And the shadow is always asking himself if he did the right thing that day. He knows he will have to come home to his friend.

Soon.