"Alone is all I have." John muttered. Mrs. Thompson frowned. So. Dramatic. She thought, but didn't show any sign of thinking it. "What makes you say that, John?" She tried to sound worried, but not too worried. She'd tried every trick in the book, but the reaction was always the same. No confession, no open-hearted talk, nothing remotely groundbreaking. Nothing.

She had to push him harder.

John pinched the spot between his eyes, letting out an annoyed breath. They'd been through this already. "You know bloody well exactly what it is that makes me say that," he snapped. Fucking git.

Mrs. Thompson tapped her pen on her desk with disappointed look on her face. "We haven't been making any progress the last months. I'm really beginning to think that you don't want to get over it. That you have some sort of guilt you can't get rid of."

John didn't answer. He didn't like it, but she was spot on. The guilt was eating him up, ripping away bits of his heart everyday. He was fearing that someday, there would be nothing left of who he was. The John Sherlock had made.

He'd been denying his feelings for that brilliant man for far too long. He never got the chance to confess his feelings for him before it was too late. As the fool he was, he'd been denying his feelings from the start. But even if he knew exactly what he felt back then, he'd probably still keep it to himself. He appreciated their friendship too much. He wouldn't risk it. 

Now he couldn't. Even if he wanted to. The only one left he could confess to was Sherlock's tombstone. Or his therapist, but hell no. He sure as hell wasn't telling his therapist.

Mrs. Thompson could see that she'd caused a reaction. She was so relieved, she had to hide her smirk with a cough. Finally! It would be more than inappropriate to smile now.

"Would you like to talk about it?" She purred, quite satisfied.

John narrowed his eyes. It's why I am here, he said to himself. But he couldn't. He couldn't tell her. Wouldn't tell her.

"I need to do something first," he stood up and headed towards the door. He could hear Mrs. Thompson curse under her breath. He smiled.

"John, wait!" "Goodbye, Ella." he answered, leaving her, stunned by his sudden change.

*^*^*^*

He didn't realise where he'd been heading until he stood at the cemetery gates, panting. He'd actually been running.

When he approached Sherlock's grave, his legs gave in. He didn't know if it was because he was tired or the fact that Sherlock was lying 6 feet under him. Probably both.

"Hi Sherlock," he whispered, a warm tear rolled down his face. "I don't know what I should do. Everyone keeps telling me that I should stop seeing you, that I should get over you," he let out a chuckle. "We both know that's not going to happen. Unless you're tired of me visiting you?" He said, not really expecting an answer. "No? Okay, I'll stay a bit longer then. It can't be that bad if you don't stop me."

He let out a ragged breath. "Fuck. They're right though. It won't get any better if I linger. But for some reason it will feel like I'm abandoning you. Like I'm giving up on you," He leaned his head against Sherlock's grave.

"You don't give up on the people you love." he whispered.

He heard a rustle in the bushes, only a few meters from himself. "Um hello?" He said, unsure if it actually was anything. Paranoid, he thought, embarrassed. His head wasn't what it used to be. But then he heard it again, louder this time. John swore he actually heard someone cuss.

"Who's there?" He asked, taking a few steps closer. Damn kids. "This is actually a cemetery, not a playground. So please, sod off!" He spat. When he got no reply, he kicked the bushes. "Damn those kids. Goodnight Sherlock, I'll see you soon." He patted the tombstone, ignoring the cold feeling it left him with.

Then he heard the impossible.

His name, being said in the most beautiful baritone voice, a sadness equal to his own.

"John." The wind whispered, the sound echoed through his soul.

His whole body shuddered. Tears was threatening to spill, there was a scream at the tip of his tounge - he stopped breathing. It's all in my head, he told himself. He let the air out. It's all in my head.

He didn't move until he heard heavy, nervous feet behind him. John did not turn around. John did not answer. John ran.