With a damp breeze in the air and a few puffy clouds in the otherwise clear sky it was just like that day, that day 3 ago when his entire life had come crashing down around him. 3 months since his world had fallen apart at the seams and the most important thing in it ripped away. 3 months, it felt more like 3 years they way time had dragged on.
The ground was soft from an earlier rain, squishing under his feet as he walked, head held low and coat drawn tight. As he came to a stop he raised his head slowly and his gaze fell upon the grey marble stone in front of him. The front was polished and smooth and the sunlight reflected off it like a mirror.

John Watson
Soldier
Doctor
Friend

Sherlock closed his eyes against the threatening tears, hands tightening ever so slightly. It was his fault that this had happened and he knew it. He'd hesitated.

Moriarty had had him cornered on the roof, his friends' lives on strings and playing with them like some form of twisted god. His life or his friends'; he dies or they die. He'd been standing on the edge of the roof, his mobile in one hand. John was down the street, having just stepped out of a taxi looking for Sherlock. He only looked up and saw him once Sherlock had called him and began speaking to him, saying his goodbyes.
Then he hesitated, just a fraction too long he hesitated on the edge of the roof. But that was all that was needed and a loud bang shattered the silence and he saw John drop to the ground, the other end going silent.
He could feel his body shaking in surprise and shock as he stumbled back, eyes still fixed on John.
Get up. He silently begged him to stand, for the noise to be a car backfiring and that John had just dropped on instinct to such sounds, he was a soldier after all. But he didn't move, he lay motionless even as a crowd formed around him.

He opened his eyes again, looking at the gravestone before him. A slight hesitation on his part and John was gone forever. He never picked up his gun after that, the very sight of it bringing all the memories and pain flooding back.

The funeral had been a large one, of course it had John was a soldier, it didn't matter if he'd been killed in the line of duty or not there were going to be lots of people there. Sherlock had felt very out of place, knowing no one there save Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Not even Molly could persuade him to go up and pay his respects. He just couldn't do it, he couldn't walk up and see his friend's lifeless face, not when he was the reason that he lay there. Instead he sat quietly in the corner head bowed and eyes shut as he restrained himself.

He extended a hand, placing it on the top of stone. His arm was shaking ever so slightly as tears clung to his eyes. "John…" His voice croaked, his throat tightening as he tried to speak. He couldn't even bring himself to say his name now, he didn't even deserve to say it.
He slowly sunk to his knees, head bowed once more as he gripped the headstone tightly. He choked back on the tears as he tried to speak again, as he searched for his voice.

He hadn't wanted to believe John was dead, even in the days following he'd find himself with 2 cups out for tea. Some of the time he'd put the spare away, but most of the time he set it down across from himself, empty but out nonetheless. He never touched the chair John sat in, he couldn't. Sometimes he would swear he heard John walking around the flat when all was silent, but he's look around once again and reality would set back in and the flat would be empty again.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, this was the reason he'd detached himself from his emotions so much, why he never made friends. Caring was only a hindrance and it only lead to pain. No friends meant he never had to worry about getting hurt if something happened to them, he didn't have to worry about anything but himself. But he had, he'd let John into his life and it was, fun. For once there was someone who didn't seem to despise him, someone to talk to who talked back, without cursing him out. He wasn't alone, he had an actual friend. And now he was hurting, he hurt worse than he'd ever hurt before.
His shoulders shook silently as he stared at the grass, it should have been him in there. Not John, him, Sherlock. He shouldn't have hesitated on the roof, he should have just stepped. But it was too late for that now, far to late.
He clenched his eyes shut as a few tears slipped free, as his emotions slipped from his grasp for only the second time in his life. His whole body trembled silently, his face in his hand, tears slipping through the cracks in his fingers.
The wind swirled around, pushing the light clouds through the sky and drawing in darker clouds from the east. It felt like fingers running through his hair, like hands on his shoulders, as if someone were standing there. As if John were standing there beside him.
Finally he managed to choke out a short sentence as he looked up at the stone, tears running down his cheeks silently. "John, I'm sorry."