Super-who-potter-lock one shots

Johnlock (post riechenbach)

John approaches the large black tombstone. It had been 365 days since sherlock's leap off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. It has been 360 since the funeral, 360 mornings of standing in front of the large black tombstone. John knows that underneath the ground is just a body. Not a mind or a heart, a personality, a person. He knows that Sherlock can't hear him. But how else is he supposed to talk to his best friend.
Sometimes John would bring things. Like coffee with two sugars, just how Sherlock likes it...liked it. He would set it on the ground and the next time he came it would be gone, probably taken by a homeless person or the grounds keeper. Sometimes he would bring books. He had thought about bringing flowers but then he thought of what Sherlock would say to flowers. "Flowers? How useless! What am I supposed to with flowers? Eat them? They serve no purpose whatsoever. 'Here's a bunch of color enhanced, dead plants. I hope you like them. What's it like being dead?' So pointless" Sherlock wouldn't want flowers, so John bought books. He would leave them on the ground with the coffee. And they disappeared too. Then, a couple days later, the book would be back.
First John left classics like Shakespeare and Charles Dickens and so on. One time John left the Hobbit even though he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't like it. John was puzzled by the book mystery but hoped that whoever got them enjoyed it.
When John arrived at the grave on the three hundred and sixty fifth day he was met with a surprise. Yesterday he had gotten Moby Dick back and today he was going to leave The Great Gatsby. But there was already a book resting next to the stone. Maybe the reader had decided to return the favor?
John picked up the book and examined it. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. John smiled and opened the cover. On the blank page next to it was a hand written poem. John staggered backward and dropped the book into the wet grass. He would never forget it. He had seen Sherlock write like this, notes in books, on case files, leaving notes on the fridge to get more 'bulgarian eyelids'. John steadied his breathing and picked up the book. He looked at the writing again. Yes, still Sherlock's lean curls and thin lines. John took another shaky breath and read.

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's shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-Mary Elizabeth Fry