The Anniversary

,,If there is ever a tomorrow when we are not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we are not together I will always be with you"

~Winnie the Pooh

The sound of the church bell rolled hollowly through almost empty cemetery.

John found himself in the same place he had been in a year ago. On grey-green grass, under a branchy tree, looking at a black, cold gravestone, on which, written with big, golden letters was an inscription:

SHERLOCK HOLMES

It seemed like the time had stopped in that place. From behind the clouds unsteadily was leaning out the same pale sun, the same mournful silence was tightly tucking up the cemetery's ground, the same cold wind was creeping under coats. The same was also pain.

Sharp, piercing pain, which successfully was taking away the desire of living and was filling an anxious dream with nightmares. The pain, which was turning silence into the worst noise, and itself into ghastly companion. The pain, bringing the feeling of emptiness in the heart, taking away the warmth even from the brightest days. The pain of loss.

Loss, that John Watson sustained a year ago, when his best friend, Sherlock Holmes had committed a suicide.

He saw it. He saw the man, he loved more than anything in this world, standing on the hospital's roof. He saw the person, who helped him to start life again, lying in the puddle of his own, scarlet blood. He saw his friend, lying in the coffin among white flowers.

And this day was an anniversary. The first anniversary of the day, when Sherlock Holmes, the only one consulting detective in the world, a great man, genius, master of deduction and best friend of Doctor Watson died.

John took a deep breath.

'Hi, Sherlock' – he said quietly, rolling a red rose between the fingers of his right hand. 'Today is... is the anniversary. That's why I decided that I should finally visit you. A year without visiting a friend is quite long'.

He became silent for a moment, feeling an unpleasant pressure in his throat. Then licked his lips and started again.

'Well... I miss you. Yes, I think that's what I wanted to tell you' – he smiled bitterly, almost hearing Sherlock's voice, calling him a sentimental fool. 'It's been a year now. And... probably I wasn't there for all this time, because I still hoped, that... that you will come back home. Or I would just wake up from this nightmare I'm living in now. Because this – my life – is a nightmare now, Sherlock. Sometimes, when you were putting body parts in the fridge, or when you were shouting at the air because it was too loud, I thought, that I would never miss those quirks. I was wrong. I was horribly wrong and I can't even describe how I miss it now...'

John took another deep breath and looked away, feeling that his throat was getting even more tight.

'Only because of you I put myself back together after Afghanistan and I was able to live there again and have a normal life. If solving crimes with you and chasing criminals can be called "a normal life" ' – he laughed shortly and nervously. 'Anyway, if not you, the demons of war which haunted me, would never go away. And now, when you are not here, they have returned. Earlier I couldn't get used to living in London and now I can't get used to living in London without you.'

'And... and I think that's why I moved out of our flat at Baker Street. At some point I wasn't able to stand that place anymore and I decided that I had to move out, find myself a flat and try to live, not thinking about the past. I would lie, saying that I did it...'

He stopped. He took the rose to another hand and shifted his weight to another foot.

'Our flat has suddenly become too big and strangely empty. Something was missing. You. There was missing only one, pale figurine sitting in the armchair in front of me and I had a feeling, that something took a half of the living room... You know, maybe I would still live there, no matter what, if not... if not the fact, that it was really bad with me. I started to have hallucinations. I was seeing you walking in our flat, hearing you, calling me from living room, or you, playing your violin at three AM. It was close for me, to lie with you here.

He shut his eyes, bit his lips and shook his head.

'You are' – he started with a muffled voice 'You were... such an amazing person, that I just can't understand that you are not there with me anymore. I also can't understand, how could you try to convince me, that everything we've been trough together, things you've made... that you were one, big lie. I know, I know, that someone made you tell me that. Maybe it was a part of Moriarty's plan. I don't believe that you were a lie, I don't believe that it was just a game... I don't believe it and no one will ever convince me that it was true. I knew you. I know who you were and I know that your genius was true. Like our friendship and my belief in you.

He breathed spasmodically and started to bend and straighten the fingers of his free hand, nervously.

'Sherlock, I don't know why, I don't know how, I don't know anything, but... I believe in anything that will bring you back home to me'

John came closer to the tombstone and ran his finger on the black stone, like this touch could, at least a bit; close him to his dead friend.

'There's... there's one more thing. One more thing I should have told you long time ago. I should have, but I'm not as brave as you thought I was...' he took a breath rapidly, and still with his hand on the tombstone, he said: 'I loved you. And... I don't mean that I loved you like a friend, but I, really, was madly in love with you. Now I'm wondering why I never told you anything. Probably because I was scared. Not because of my feelings, because, to be honest, it would be hard not to fall in love with you. I was scared of your reaction. And now I will never know it. I'm late. I can't even beg you for forgiveness.'

'That's... actually everything I wanted to tell you'

John took a step back, bended down and put a rose on the grave. He looked at the golden letters again.

And then something broke in him.

His shoulders were shaken with a silent sob. The tears were starting to fill his eyes and one by one started run down his cheeks. A moan of pain escaped from his throat. He put his hand on his mouth, another crumpled into a fist and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he completely lost control over his own self. More tears were running down his cheeks, leaving wet traces on his face, screams of helplessness were filling cemetery's silence and his legs started to deflecting under himself. Finally, he fell onto his knees, crying with his forehead pressed to ruthlessly cold gravestone. He cried, screamed, scratched black stone, not able to control himself.

And, suddenly, everything stopped.

John moved away from the grave, stood up and wiped his face.

'We will see in a year, Sherlock' – he said with hoarse voice, turned around and walked away, not looking back.

But if he, at least for a second, turned his head around and look behind his arm, he would see a tall, skinny figure in a long coat, looking at him from behind a branchy tree.