More Johnlock! Yay! I've been fangirling over this couple for like a week straight now... and there's surely more to come.

Here's another little one shot I came up with! Hope you enjoy it!



John Watson visited his grave every single day without fail.

He knew this because he visited it daily as well. While John sat in front of his grave, though, Sherlock hid in the shadows, watching. This was why he went to his own grave. To watch John. To keep his eyes on the man he cared so much about.

John never said anything after his plea to the gravestone the first time he saw it. He would come into the graveyard, seat himself in front of the stone that read "Sherlock Holmes" and clasp his hands in his lap. He'd stare at the stone, sometimes for more than an hour, and never move a muscle or say a word.

Neither did Sherlock. Sherlock would stand to the side, watching from behind a wall, entranced by his friend. He would have to force himself to remain hidden, though. How he longed to move from the shadows and embrace the doctor, tell him that everything would be alright. Tell him the things he so yearned to but never had.

Six months after Sherlock's fall, John's routine changed.

This time, he spoke.


Just one word. Just his name. It was enough to send shivers down Sherlock's back. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall he was hidden behind.

John spoke again. "Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock. I miss you. So much. So, so much."

Sherlock squeezed the bridge of his nose, willing the tears that had come to his eyes to go away. He took a deep breath. He heard John do the same. Sherlock opened his eyes again and peered around the corner at John.

John was sitting like he usually did. Tears were streaming down his face. He sat like that for a few minutes before standing, touching the gravestone for a moment, and walking away.

This continued for a while. John would sit down and remain silent for a few moments before speaking, saying Sherlock's name first and then following it up with whatever was on his mind. Sometimes he would only say a few words, a few lonely words that cut Sherlock to the core. Other times, John would speak of things going on his life. Small talk, as though Sherlock was really there. Mrs. Hudson was doing fine. Things at work were busy as usual. A girl had asked him out. He'd turned her down. Sherlock was pleased to hear John was doing so well. But the words that John spoke always resonated with a hint of confusion and desperation and loneliness It was as though he really wasn't sure what to do with himself without Sherlock there with him.

A year after Sherlock's "death", John came with a flower.

It was a single red rose.

He laid it beside the gravestone, over where the casket had been buried. He sat down, like he usually did, and sighed.

"Sherlock," he started. "Sherlock, it's been a year. A year ago today, I watched you fall. My best mate. The first person to really understand me. You really were a wonderful man, you know. Despite what some people thought. Not that you cared what they thought. It makes me wonder if you cared what I thought."

Of course I did, Sherlock thought, shaking his head.

"I guess that doesn't matter anymore." John sighed heavily. "I miss you, Sherlock. Life hasn't been the same without you. I doubt it ever will." He paused for a moment and rubbed his hands together. "You know, there were somethings I had wanted to tell you. Things I wish I had had the chance to say to you. But now I won't. Not ever." He closed his eyes. Sherlock stared at him, silently willing him to say what he had wanted to, hoping that those three little words that he had so desperately wanted to hear from John would finally leave his lips. "Sherlock, I-" John stopped and stared down at his hands. "What am I doing?" he asked. "Talking as though you're here. You aren't. You never will be. Saying this will be pointless. It will only make it hurt more, won't it?"

John went silent again, as though waiting for a response. Sherlock clenched his fists. He couldn't. Not now. It wasn't time yet.

John stood and left without another word.

He didn't stop coming, though. Every day after that, without fail, John would appear at the gravestone, rose in hand. He would whisper Sherlock's name and tell him he missed him and occasionally talk about the mundane things he had before.

Two years after the fall, John was sitting in front of the stone when it happened.

"I love you."

Sherlock held his breath, unsure that he'd heard the doctor correctly.

"I love you," John repeated. "Well, I did, anyway. But you were always too busy to notice. Or maybe, even if you hadn't been busy, you wouldn't have. You never were too good with that sort of thing." He managed to laugh. It was a cold, humorless sound that made Sherlock cringe. "I loved you. And hell, I think I still do."

Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing on John's voice and the memories of the man that he so desperately held onto. The memories that kept him rooted to the spot, kept him coming back day after day, kept him wondering about John's well-being.

"I love you, Sherlock. That's what I'd wanted to tell you. I'd wanted to tell you for a while. I was so in love with you. So much that it hurt. I know what Molly felt like. Loving you from a distance but never being able to do anything about it." John sighed. "That's all, I guess." He brushed his fingers against Sherlock's name.

Sherlock leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. He wrapped his arms around his legs and buried his face in his knees.

John had loved him. John still loved him.

He loved John. He had hurt the man he loved. And that man had loved him back. His mind spun with the new information. Emotions that Sherlock had never known before came sweeping over him.

He allowed the tears to come. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Sherlock Holmes sobbed.

By the time he had calmed down enough to lean around the corner, John had left.

The doctor continued to visit the grave. He continued to bring a red rose every time. Sherlock had begun to pick them up after John left them. He'd keep them until the next one found it's way into his hands. Every time John visited, he said Sherlock's name and told the stone that he missed the detective and that he still loved him.

Two years and six months after Sherlock died, John came to the grave empty handed. Sherlock frowned, wondering what had happened.

John sat in front of the stone and stared at it without whispering a word, much like he had when he had first begun visiting. Sherlock watched him from the shadows, wanting to go out and comfort his lonely doctor but knowing he couldn't. Just a little while longer.

John stood to go. Before he did, though, he turned back again. "I can't do this much longer, Sherlock. I really don't know what to do with myself. My leg is beginning to bother me again. Work is getting difficult. Living each day without you is getting more difficult with each day that goes my. I miss you, Sherlock. I really do. And I love you."

Sherlock watched the doctor leave. Soon, he realized. He'd made up his mind. He'd be with John again, very soon.

John Watson visited his grave every single day without fail.

He had stopped bringing roses. He had stopped saying anything at all. Not even Sherlock's name.

Sherlock was beginning to worry. John clearly wasn't doing well. Was this all because Sherlock was gone? He couldn't be sure. He hoped so, though. He wanted to make John feel better, and if his death was what was causing John so much distress, then he could help fix that. He wanted to fix that. He wanted John to smile again. To say his name. To whisper those three little words that he had craved to hear.

Three years had passed. The sun was going down. Sherlock was hiding in the shadows as usual when John arrived. John sat down and sighed heavily. For the first time in six months, he opened his mouth to speak.


With a deep breath, Sherlock righted himself, shoved his hands in his pockets, and took a step closer to the doctor, to his best mate, to his love.


Ta da! I hope you liked it! I enjoyed writing it. :)

Please review!

Thanks for reading!