Title: Communication in The Absence
Author: hanbunnotsuki
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Don't own any of the characters or the original story, to my indefinite woes.
Warnings: SPOILERS for The Reichenbach Fall episode, tiny bit of swearing and (what I would consider light) angst. Unbetaed and not brit-picked.
Pairings/Characters: Sherlock/John pre-slash
Word Count: 3432
Summary: Even in the absence of one another, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson somehow still managed conversations.

Author's Notes: After watching the last episode of season 2, I was feeling overwhelmed and this fic somehow came to be. I cried so much even though I knew vaguely what's going to happen *sniff*. This would be my first fic in the Sherlock fandom (where I have only been lurking for the past few months) and also my first fic in years. So, yay! *throws confetti* It's the magic of Sherlock! I apologize beforehand for my messy writing. English is not my first language, and no matter how hard I try to make this fic pretty, it came out just..okay. I hope. *crossing fingers* Enjoy!

Here he was again.

Once more he was back, just like all the times he did, every week without fail.

Many told him that it was an unhealthy obsession. Not many had the heart to tell him to stop, though. Not when they were also still in mourning.

The inscription of Sherlock Holmes on gleaming black gravestone was John Watson's only host among the residence of the dead. No matter how many times he had seen it, the looming marker of his friend's death still sent stabs of pain straight to his heart. He took a deep breath and exhaled. He was getting better at this, controlling any sobs which threatened to be let out. People say, over time the pain will subside. John would argue to that. The pain that came was the same every time; a fresh, chilling pain that would make you stagger and flinch back in reflex. It was him who changed, he observed. With every glance at that name engraved simply yet elegantly, a little piece of John froze and became numb. With every touch of the smooth stone, that numbed piece of him died away and there was less of him to feel the pain. There was something crumbling away alright, but it was never the pain.

"Right. Back again."

As he took his self-designated seat, just a patch of land across the headstone, he could feel his mind patching up a response in place of the absent consulting detective.

'Such a creature of habit, John. Can you be even more DULL?'

John snorted at that. His head was getting better at impersonating Sherlock. He did not know whether to be happy or sad with that fact.

"Everyone is a creature of habit. It's just how we're programmed. Can't do anything about that, sorry." He shuffled a bit to get a more comfortable position. Well, as comfortable as he could be, sitting on hard, cold ground. "And it's a bit masochistic of me, keep coming back here. Not so dull, don't you think?"

'Dull.' was the only phrase his mind provided. He couldn't help but gave a small smile.

"Right." He cleared his throat and tried again, this time without breaking his voice. "Right."

And so, John Watson resumed his visit to the grave of his closest friend, the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.

The first time he came, he came with Mrs. Hudson.

He couldn't help the tears that spilled. It was still all new. The pain, the hurt. He was still whole and the wound stretched from where he started until where he ended. Wide, ice blue eyes and the blood red pool of blood had taken over his recurring nightmares, haunting him in the dark. Pushing the black thoughts away, he focused on the task at hand. He was trying his best to keep his composure and look more of a respectable, grieving flatmate than a pitiable, weeping widow. He just didn't know who it was he was giving all that show for.

After a few lines he managed without being reduced to a sobbing wreck, he turned and left. He couldn't remember much of the rest of that day.

The second time was with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Two men, both having just lost a dear friend, shoulder to shoulder. It was as if the two of them would fall apart without the support of the other beside them. They regarded the grave in front of them in mutual silence.

Moments passed, until finally Lestrade made the first move and put a hand on John's left shoulder. The movement was not rough, yet it took John all his might to curb down the instinct to flinch away, so to not give a false impression to the DI. "He was a good man." Lestrade said in a sure tone, tinted with sadness, squeezing John's shoulder softly. John just kept still. "A very good one."

They went to the pub, after that. Sharing a few drinks, some exchange of gossips and watched a good round of football.

John just looked after Lestrade most of the time. He was worried there was more to his friend's grief- more than the normal mask of sadness a mourner usually wears. During the few drinking sessions he had with the DI after-

The direction his train of thoughts was heading to- ice blue and blood red- brought John's mind to a violent shut down.

His head was blank and his throat tightened involuntarily. No, not yet. He just couldn't even think it out loud, not now. But he had to try, bit by bit. It wouldn't be so hard, just a few words inside his head. That was what people were supposed to do, wasn't it? Coping.

John didn't even notice its appearance, but the burn was already spread across his chest like wildfire. After Sherlock's death. There. He closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath, as if just thinking used up his energy.

After Sherlock's death, John and Lestrade had exchanged brief words on the man. How an exceptionally bright mind he had. What an outright dick he can be, most of the time. The potential of what would have been, just barely murmured.

One subject that they had never touched, however, was Moriarty's final act. The destruction of Sherlock Holmes, in every way possible. His name, his credibility. How Lestrade's last contact with Sherlock was when he arrested the man, his last memory was of his back when he was running away alongside John. John could only guess how long Lestrade had known Sherlock, but he knew during this period the DI had grown fond of the consulting detective despite his eccentricities. It must have broken the man that they had to bury Sherlock before anything could be resolved. John knew the DI wouldn't do anything stupid, the worst he could do was probably drink himself silly, but it still comforted him that he could be of any help at all.

When one time John captured Lestrade gazing at him, however, he decided to rest the case and just enjoy his pint.

It was a familiar gaze every person who knew had thrown at him, for two whole weeks. Pitying, sad, worry, and the most prominent of all: anxiety. It was as if they were waiting for a button to be pushed, a bomb ticking away towards its explosion.

Someone needed help piecing himself back together, after this whole ordeal.

But that person wasn't Lestrade.

The third time, it was raining. John expected to be alone this time, but to his surprise someone else was already there.

An umbrella in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in another, Sergeant Sally Donovan turned to take a look at the owner of the approaching footsteps. Something akin to panic quickly crept onto her face, but upon remembering that she had no reason to, she schooled her face into the now seemingly default features surrounding John. Not that he was being ungrateful, but he was frankly sick of everyone still treating him like a damsel in distress.

Donovan took several steps to the side, probably an invitation for John to stand next to her in front of the grave. John did not have any intention to accept, however, and stood his ground, just a few paces behind her. They just stared at each other for a moment, two stiff figures dampened by the rain despite the protection of their umbrellas. Seeing him not budging in the least, Donovan's expression was almost pleading.

Still, there John stood, waiting for his turn.

Donovan dejectedly turned around again to face Sherlock's grave, bending down to place the flowers and hurriedly stood up once more. Before John could blink, she was already heading his way with long strides and paused when they were side to side. She looked away first before searching his face, but John wouldn't meet her eyes and just fixed his eyes on the loops and dashes of his friend's name.

"I'm really sorry."

It was probably the worst thing she could have said to John.

Thinking of the reasons behind that apology almost sent John to the brink of fury. Was it for calling him a freak? Was she just sorry for his loss? Was it for constantly accusing Sherlock being what he was not? Only with his insurmountable self control did John manage to restrain himself and remain stoic. He didn't even let out a twitch.

The sergeant marched on her way, half desperate to leave the company of a man who blinded himself towards her existence. A mutual relief was felt by John, who was by now feeling a bit shameful. John Watson was supposed to be a forgiving man. But by now, he should have learned that anything related to Sherlock Holmes would always be an exception, even after the man's death.

John shuffled small steps towards the grave and put a hand on the wet headstone, feeling its chill. His only thoughts were that he never considered bringing flowers, although it was traditional to do so when paying respects to the dead. Perhaps for his next visit?

Looking back, it was during this moment that John's mind started responding in Sherlock-speak.

'Flowers, John, really? Now you are just being contradictory. It was you who berated me on spending money wisely in the first place. And now you want to buy flowers, you say? For the dead to appreciate? Ridiculous. Might as well keep the money and buy yourself something pretty.'

The last sentence was so unlike, yet so much like Sherlock that it made John chuckle. It was perhaps his first laugh after the smooth black stone was erected.

Even buried deep underground, it was still too easy for Sherlock Holmes to place a smile on John Watson's face.

The fourth time was the first time John truly came alone.

At first, he just sat there in silence, face to face with the headstone. Several times he opened his mouth, yet he only closed it again hesitantly with a huff of his breath. In his head, Sherlock's voice chattered away.

When he finally braved himself, the only word which left his lips was only a soft 'hey'. That was apparently enough encouragement for the rest of the words to flow freely out of his mouth. Before long, John had finished recounting his activities for the past week. Sometimes the Sherlock inside his head responded with little comments here and there, sometimes he stayed silent. It didn't matter.

One-sided as it was, this was Sherlock and John's first conversation after a long while.

Although feeling he just edged himself a degree closer to what people would call the border of insanity, John welcomed the step gladly. And he savoured every moment.

The following weeks, John continued paying visits to Sherlock's grave.

At times, his visit could be as brief as a minute. Once, John left after only seeing the headstone. (It was one of those days when it was just so unbearable.) Other times, he would stay hours at end, just to let his voice out. (It was when there was just too much to talk about.) No matter sun or rain, John would always come.

A few people think he really should stop this routine, his therapist for example. She had advised him to let go of the sadness by moving on with his life. Surely, going to the graveyard every single weekend to have a conversation with a dead man, whose voice he was reliving inside his head, would not help his case. In the end, what did she know? She was the one who told him to say the things left unsaid. The difference was that John preferred to say them directly to the guy, that's all.

It was sort of a relaxing therapy to John, really. The only shortcoming it had was the side-effect of John never letting Sherlock's death became a concrete, real idea in his mind. That was probably because he could still hear him, most of the time.

Whenever John had something he wanted to rant about, something unexpectedly pleasant that happened, or just something he just wanted to share, he would save them all up for the weekend to come. For the conversations between Sherlock and John.

"You probably already know, but I'm not on any cases anymore."

A shrug of shoulders and a sad smile.

"Wouldn't even allow me getting near a crime scene. Said I didn't have any clearance to be there. I bet my money it was the workings of that superintendent of Lestrade's that I punched."

It was a dispirited and weak laugh laced with disappointments, yet he could still hear the amused snicker which would have accompanied it.

"At first, I was thinking of leaving Baker Street."

The imagined, disapproving frown was too clear in his head.

"Yeah, I know. It was silly. I won't leave her alone, Sherlock. Don't worry."

He put up his hand on the stone, as if in reassurance and to promise.

"I won't let her lose us both at the same time."

"You know, I don't get why they use that word: widow. Even if, if, all those speculative crap they were spouting about us in the papers were true, widower would be the more correct term, wouldn't it?"

His random musing was not acknowledged with any reply.

"Confirmed Bachelor. That was what they wrote about me at first. And somehow, I had managed to secretly get married to you in the middle of everything. They should give me some credit, to think they thought I wouldn't notice if we had gotten ourselves married. At least the tax reduction would be obvious, since I'm running our finances-"

And there John stopped. And he glared, hard.

"Sherlock…"

His threatening, accusing tone was only met with the image of a too-innocent expression he knew too well.

"It was never back, the limp."

A confused furrow of eyebrows.

"Do you know why?"

As he himself didn't know the answer, nobody replied back to him.

"Mycroft did something with the papers. Using his minor position in the British government to the fullest, I presume."

An exasperated smile and a huff.

"He was really trying to repent, cleaning off those conspiracies around your death. I really hated seeing them. Can't brainwash every single person out of that horrible journalist's idea of an article, but at least we won't be seeing them anymore. The one-page obituary was a nice touch, too."

He could almost hear his voice going on and on about how unnecessary the whole thing was and how he did not owe Mycroft anything, so John can leave the idea of family reconciliatory far, far away.

"Did you know Harry actually forbid me from coming here anymore?"

Almost growling to the incredulity of it all, John became too agitated to sit down and ended up pacing back and forth instead.

"Like she is any role model. Like she wasn't the one binging on alcohol again, after Clara broke it off with her. Again. And now she wants to tell me about healthy behaviors? Well, fuck her!"

He raised his voice near shouting before recollecting where he was. He rubbed his face in frustration, hands on the headstone to steady himself as he bent closer and just breathe.

"I wonder why Mycroft didn't inscribe any epitaph for you."

A nonchalant expression was the silent reply.

"It's fitting, though. It's as if saying you're not done just yet."

John felt something close to triumphant glee.

"You know, nowadays my dates never went well anymore."

A scoff for him to get to his point was as clear as the day.

"There was this girl, Mary. She was such a sweet and nice girl. I thought we could really hit it off. Then, after the date I went back to the flat-"

John didn't know what exactly happened after he went back the flat. Instead of finishing his sentence, he closed his eyes just so he could almost see the questioning rise of one eyebrow.

"I'm blaming you."

"I don't really write anymore. Not much to write about, anyhow."

A hearty good riddance was implied in the air.

"And I think I lost my muse."

It was a sad, yet playful smile.

"I think Mycroft is still keeping me on watch."

Concerned, puzzled crease on his forehead.

"I wonder what Big Brother still wants with me."

Even in silence, somehow John still got the impression that there was something Sherlock wasn't telling him, as per usual.

"Just so you know, I do cry. A river by now, most probably."

Silence was all there was.

"Not here, though. Never here. People would definitely start talking."

Two laughs on their private little joke.

"It's kind of weird. I've never seen Molly come visit you. Not even once."

An almost-accusing 'so?' left with the wind.

"Hmm. Nothing, just wondering."

John was starting to think she had avoided him altogether.

"Oh god, even after all this time, Angelo still sees me as a surviving Juliet."

He waved his hand aside with a dismissing notion.

"Not that I mind the free food. But for every meal, I have to wait for him finish cooing over me while reciting the tragedy of how I lost my Romeo to anyone listening. I do miss the times when he would leave us alone after a short "I'll leave you two to your date", honestly."

One smile was amused, while another one was nostalgically reminiscing.

It was a clear of a throat. And then another.

"This is quite ridiculous; I don't know why I'm even going to say this-."

A long pause, followed by a sigh.

"You know, if you did manage it, the miracle, I mean. Somehow rising from the earth like a zombie, any other disturbing method, I don't know."

He held himself together not to laugh at the image of a Zombie!Sherlock. An overactive imagination was such a blessing.

"If you did, I would have told you something really important."

A gentle, open smile that John reserved only to a number of people.

"Something really, really important. That is, only if you haven't figured it out already."

He closed his eyes and Sherlock was looking at him incredulously, as if he just talked down on the consulting detective.

"Hm. Of course you have."

Every week, without fail, Doctor John Watson would pay a visit the grave of Sherlock Holmes. After a conversation was had and the Doctor was satisfied, he would leave the graveyard to resume his day.

And each time his steps left the premise of the cemetery, a man, different every week, would take out a voice recorder, smartly hidden behind the grave stone and take it to a secretary. The secretary then passed it over to another secretary. She then converted the recording into a file and transferred it into a USB before passing it off to the other secretary. Thus, off the USB, different each week, on its long, arduous journey before arriving at the hands of one Mycroft Holmes. He would then upload the file and sent it to an email address, which had to change every week, of course, before the recording of Doctor John Watson and Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes' conversation finally came to the hands of its recipient.

In a place which would not be named for the sake of many, a man with dark curls and ice blue eyes, not unlike the features of a certain late consulting detective, tapped his fingers while waiting for the file to load. He put on his earphones, all the while, trying to last his weekly ritual as long as possible. He was never one for routines, god no, yet he succumbed to this particular habit the instant he gained knowledge of it. It didn't even matter that he had to owe his arch-nemesis to get a hold of it. It was the one thing that pushed him on. A promise he held on to, his anchor.

The moment a familiar voice rang out of the buds of his earphones, he clung to every word, every syllable, relishing in them. He closed his eyes and reached into the catalogue of his mind, matching up facial expressions and gestures with intonations and words. A curl on his lips was just shy of a smile, as he murmured replies that shall remain unheard under his breath.

Every single week, Sherlock Holmes would indulge himself a few hours of rest, listening to his conversation with Doctor John Watson, without fail.