Okay, friends! Get ready for some real angst!
I'm serious. Get some Reichenbach medicine or something. I hate myself for writing this. ._.

"Friends show us who we were once were and who we ought to be."

Graveyards are places of the mind. Too many people skim by, sparing only a glance or two before continuing their routines. Only a select few see beyond what is plain and obvious. They see the people. They see not graves, but faces. Faces and lives that were suddenly set aside like broken mementos in a closed cabinet.

For most, the conversion from seeing what is to seeing what was isn't a sudden, voluntary shift of the mind. It's brought forth with the memories of one that joins the cemetery. In a way, the person becomes haunted. Haunted by memories and "what if"s and "but why"s. Haunted by people with slurred faces and by memories of insignificant moments that made the day extraordinary. Empathy burrows into the soul and shows the broken hearts not only behind one stone, but in the entire place.

Cemeteries are places of the mind. Sherlock was a firm believer in the powers of the mind.

But he saw far too much to bear.

Until the funeral, he had seen only stories behind the curtains of grass. Stories of lives like dusty fictional tales, used only for entertainment and relief of boredom.

But suddenly he saw the faces. More importantly, he saw a face.

John's face.

The face of his other half.

Rain fell in occasional spatters as he made his way to the site of his friend. This didn't feel right. John belonged next to him, not in the clutches of the soil.

When he arrived at the tombstone, everything felt silent. It didn't just sound quiet; the leaves looked as dead as the inhabitants of the yard and the trees appeared to be painted onto the grey sky. Even the rain seemed to be drained of life as it plummeted from weeping clouds.

Sherlock felt like he was the only one who could speak to break the quiet. John is waiting for me, he thought. He would want me to talk to him again.

Sherlock gave a final sniff. "You...told me once. That I was some sort of hero," Sherlock stammered. Talking to inanimate objects had always come easily to him, but to stand in front of a different kind of deaf listener was too much. It was though his audience was both alive and dead. Sherlock could still see him in his mind, listening and watching him. "I never thought I was anything of the like. I saw myself as a..." his voice drifted off as his throat tightened. "...A brain. Not attached to anything."

The entire graveyard seemed to hush as he spoke. It couldn't have been this quiet when he arrived. "But you showed me that I was so much more." A drop started down his face. "You made me so much more. Sherlock's voice quieted down considerably, "You completed me." His mask began to break. More drops joined the first and his chin crinkled. "So..." The headstones leaned in to listen and the trees whispered to each other. "...There."

Eyes searched the sky, trying to hide their tears. "I was alone, John, and I..." Sherlock hated to use the tainted words his mortal enemy had used, but couldn't think of others with the same impact. "I owe you. So much."

The world around him seemed to ease back, satisfied. Sherlock sniffed, a fresh batch of tears pushing the backs of his eyes. When John was...there...he was the reason Sherlock lived. He was his audience, his friend, and the reason he continued on. What did he have to live for now? The approval of news-hungry reporters? A new roommate?

A new love of his life?

The thought split open his mask and his face was showered in sobs.

He slowly reached for his pocket. His hand shook.

When the police arrived, they found a man sagging against a tombstone, a hole in his head and a greater hole in his heart.