"You'll have to find something else to blog about John." That last phone call still burned into his mind and heart. Since that day he hadn't been able to write for shit. He tried. He tried to write about Sherlock but it hurt. It did nothing but cause burning anger like a hot coal inside. Twice now he'd lost him. Twice now he was staring at Sherlock's grave, and this time he couldn't even hope for a miracle. He'd had the body thoroughly checked before he was buried. It was Sherlock. There was no trick, no deception. No hope.
It showed around his eyes, they were much more worn then they had been. Around his friends he tried to put on a mask and stand tall, but in that graveyard it showed just how much Sherlock's death weighed on him. The mirth that once lit his face was dim. He'd loved the man that lie under his feet. When Sherlock died so did a part of him. John Watson would never be the same man again. Had it not been for those friends, the chances were high that he might have ended up in a grave beside the detective. He could barely even remember the first few weeks after it happened. It was a nightmare. One he hoped some day to wake up from and find Sherlock staring over his computer looking rather cross at him for sleeping so long.
There were times he could swear he still felt him in their once shared flat. Times he thought when he slept Sherlock was watching, when he woke it was nothing more then a terrible nightmare and Sherlock was gone again.
He thought taking Moriarty's life would make him feel better, but it didn't. It didn't bring Sherlock back to him or take them home, it merely meant no one else would have to suffer the heart wrenching pain he felt. Stil he had to suffer for anything to come of it. At first he too didn't notice her. He tried not to look at the other mourners. It felt wrong.
John didn't like showing emotion publicly, but it was clear how miserable he really was as he stood still and silent. Just remembering. Not everyone understood what it was like to have a friend like Sherlock Holmes. John didn't care. John believed in him even if nobody else did. Only when he felt beads of moisture threaten his eyes and he was forced to turn his gaze away did he notice the familiar blond curls of Emma Swan.
"Miss Swann." A generically and automatically polite response to her presence, but the look on his face was far from thrilled to see her.