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John couldn’t help it. Over three years had passed, and he still felt the need to tell his best friend. Tell him that he had met someone. Tell him that he was getting married. Though Sherlock was buried six feet under, he still visited him on occasion, bringing him news of Molly, and Mrs Hudson. He felt awkward standing alone in front of the glossy, black headstone. The golden lettering of Sherlock’s name almost mocking him for not having moved on, even though everyone else had.

“It’s been a while. And I know I’m crazy, because you’re dead, and you have been for three years now. I’ve met someone. You probably already know that though, you always know everything. I proposed to her. She said yes.” He paused to take a deep breath. Why did he feel like crying? He should be happy, he was getting married for god’s sake. Finally, his dream of a suburban home and white picket fence would be achieved, but a small part of him squirmed at how wrong it all seemed.

“Actually, we’re getting married in two days. I should’ve told you sooner, but…” There was no better time for this. “But, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” He could almost hear the still familiar baritone asking him, why not?

“You know why.” And then, before the tears started to fall, he left.

 

On the cab ride home, he felt a hot bubble of embarrassment welling up inside him. He was a grown man, and he shouldn’t be talking to a dead person, even if that dead person meant the world to him. His therapist had suggested this at the very beginning, and it had become a habit until he had met Mary. Oh, Mary, his soon-to-be wife. She was everything he’d always imagined his wife being. She was funny, pretty, smart, extremely relatable, and super understanding. No one would be able to fit the Sherlock shaped hole that was still present in his life, but she was very close. And she’d said yes! But, still something churned in his gut. His life shouldn’t really be like this.