A couple of things to say before we start:

1)This is eventual Johnlock, I have to develop the story before we introduce Sherlock again.

2)I don't own Sherlock

3)This is my interpretation of the Baker Street Irregulars

I think that's everything, so I hope you enjoy!


London streets had become incredibly dull to John. They never look the same; they used to be filled with excitement and unexpected surprises around every corner; that was why he found London so incredible. Jumping from rooftops. Climbing up ladders. Chasing criminals into the darkness. All of this made John feel more sane. But all of this was when Sherlock was still...

No. He didn't want to think about it. Not now, perhaps later when he's in the comfort of Baker Street, crawled up into a ball on his favourite chair by the fireplace. There was nothing to look at anymore, the empty space where Sherlock's chair once stood was becoming increasingly painful to look at, with or without the chair. The day that John gave up the chair to charity was a day he had regretted most. The room felt extremely stupid without it.

But even now John couldn't return back to the flat, well not yet anyway. Sometimes, when he's alone in the flat -or even alone in the whole building if Mrs Hudson is out- he gets this strong urge to lock himself in his room; his room is the only place which doesn't remind him of Sherlock. Harry insisted that he should leave Baker Street and live with her for the time being; this was three years ago.

John was always kicking himself for not calling Harry, or Lestrade, or anyone else for that matter. The thought of keeping in touch with the people who didn't believe in him was painful. To this day, John felt like he was the only one who truly believed in Sherlock and the incredible things he could do.

Truly incredible. Sherlock's deductions is one of the reasons why John fell in love with-

Great. It was all coming back to him, even when he tried to forget. But he understands now: he left it too late. You should never keep something so life changing a secret.

John was in love with Sherlock Holmes. His mind. His personality. His everything.

But he always loved Sherlock, even if John didn't know it himself. There were moments in their life when they had a true connection. That was what John held onto the most. The great moments they shared.

If Sherlock were alive now, he would probably look at John in disgust. With true disgust. It was a Friday night, and the only way John could feel sane was to drink his sorrows, stumble home drunk and collapse into his bed. But he wouldn't sleep until hours later. It still felt like Sherlock was still in the flat. As he thought of all this, he was walking towards the nearest pub where he could be ignored and left alone.

No. He had to change. Today is the anniversary of Sherlock's death. Three years he had been doing this and he wasn't going to continue for three more. Contact. He needed to call somebody. Anybody. Quickly, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to search through his contacts.

Mike. It had been more than three years since he's seen him. They were great friends back at St Barts. But right now wasn't the time to talk to him. He needed to talk to somebody who was also close to Sherlock. He quickly called the person he thought he could talk to the most.

"Hello?" said the voice over the phone. It had been three years since he had heard his voice.

"Greg, it's John." he slowed down and came to a halt at the edge of a building, away from the moving crowds.

"John? Is that really you?" he couldn't help but smile at how shocked Greg sounded, "Um, how've you been?"

"So-so." was all he could say, "Listen Greg- what are you doing now?"

"Right now? Well, nothing really. Sat with the Mrs, why are you asking?"

"Well, you know what day it is today right?"

There was a pause over the phone before Greg replied, "Yeah, I- I know what today is. Why? What's wrong?"

"Well, it's a Friday night. I was wondering if you wanted to go to the pub? It's been three years. I know it's sudden."

Again there was a silence over the phone, but sounds of-what appeared to be- Lestrade's wife talking in the background. After a few seconds, Greg replied, "Sure John, that sounds great. Um, where do you want to meet?"

"Remember the pub on Greenway Street? Where we went after the case with the stolen painting?" he asked, with Greg humming a yes to every question, "How about there?"

"Yeah, that's perfectly fine," he could hear the sound of keys rattling over the phone, as if he was about to leave the house, "Did you say Greenway Street? Are you there now?"

"I'm on my way now," he started to walk again, merging into the crowd.

"Right, I'll see you there." said Greg, then ending the call. Three year he's kept himself in the dark. Kept himself away from people who cared. Tonight was a new change. A change for the better.


The Abbey Arms was a quiet pub which stood on the corner of a fairly empty street; not far from the flat. The case was about a painting that was stolen from a rich businessman and was claimed to cost hundreds and thousands of pounds. It turned out that the businessman hired someone to steal the painting in order to get back at his cheating wife. Since Sherlock was irritated by how easy the case was, Greg randomly decided to take John, Sherlock, Anderson and Donovan to The Abbey Arms to cheer themselves up. Of course it didn't change the fact that the case was time wasting for Sherlock.

When John entered the bar and saw Greg sat in one of the booths, he didn't have to check twice to make sure it was him. There wasn't any difference in his appearance, however the only change was that he had far shorter hair which had turned a lighter grey. Compared to himself, Greg looked better. John didn't need a mirror to tell what he looked like; he could feel it. The bags under his eyes; his shoulders slouched; and his facial hair had grown out. He didn't realise-however- how shocked Greg would be.

"Christ John, is that you?" he asked getting up from his seat, "Wait here a minute and I'll get you a drink. A pint?" he asked, which John nodded to as he took a seat in the booth. Finally John was able to sit down and rest his leg, as he felt it tense up as he was walking. He looked down at his hand still clenching at his cane; when he tried to loosen his grip, his leg tensed up more. Greg came back to the table, holding two pints and placed one beside John and the other on his side, "How long's it been since we last saw each other?"

"Three years. Doesn't feel like it." he said, taking a sip of his drink, which had a bitter aftertaste to it.

"Yeah it doesn't. Work's been hectic."

"How has work been without Sherlock then?" he asked, taking a far larger gulp than the first one; he had already drank a third of his drink.

"Oh you know, it's not been the same and all. Anderson's still a pain in the ass. Donovan's been better. Do you know they've moved in with each other now? After Anderson's wife left him."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah, I remember the night he knocked on my door and said that his wife kicked him out without packing. He lived with me for a week before Donovan offered to take him off of my shoulders. Cases have been hard to solve, with Sherlock-" again, John took another shot of his drink, "-gone we've tried to hire a couple more people who were inspired by Sherlock, but it still doesn't help."

"Well, sorry about that Greg. I can imagine what Sherlock would be saying though if he was watching you now."

"He'd probably go on about how all the people I hired were idiots and deduce the whole crime scene. After that, he would finish by insulting Anderson again."

"He'd say again 'Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street.'" said John, and giggled nervously to himself as Greg copied. Both grabbed their glasses in sync and took another drink; John barely had any left. They sat across from one another and stared at the rest of the room; obviously both trying to think of something to say. Inside was still empty; besides John and Greg, there were only six other people sat at far ends of the room, either in pairs or just on their own at the bar.

"So- uh John, how've you been lately?" asked Greg.

"Oh, I've been-" he stopped, picking up his glass out of habit, "-fine. I've coped, I guess. Started my own private practice in the flat."

"Oh? And how's that been? Getting any business?"

"It's been alright. I mean business is slow but many people can't afford private services and some people can."

"Well, at least you've got a decent job then, eh?" Greg asked. His eyes wondered over to the cane John was holding and he tensed in his seat, "I- uh, see that you're using a cane again?" he asked, but soon wished he didn't bring it up. John took one look at Greg before taking a full swig of his drink without stopping and getting out of his seat.

"I'm getting another one, you want one?" he asked plainly. Greg was too worried to answer, so John just left him and went to get his own. Further into the night it had gotten far worse.


This was why he never choose to drink, but somehow he always ends up taking one little sip and starts to lose control of himself. He can't help it. John was just about to start his fourth pint while Greg was still on his second, who was staring-shocked- at John. They had been there for two hours and were now the only ones left in the pub.

"Hey John, maybe you should take it easy." said Greg, reaching a hand to try and grab John's drink off him, but John was fast enough to pull away.

"You know what bloody day it is today Greg?" he said, his words slurring with each word, "Today is the day Sherlock bloody Holmes jumped off that bloody building and landed flat on the bloody ground and I stood there and did fuck all."

"John, listen to what you're saying. You didn't know it would happen."

"Don't care, I mean I could have called you and asked you to help me. I could have been less of a bastard to Sherlock before he died. You know, he told me that he was a fake before he died and do you think I believe him? Of course I bloody don't. I'm not fucking stupid you know."

"John, look at yourself. Do you think he'd be happy seeing you like this?"

"Don't you dare use that against me. Actually, you know what, it's all your fault he's dead. Yeah, that's right. You. You killed him, not the fall. Donovan helped. You both helped him reach his death, and somehow you can move on with your lives?"

"What the fuck John?!" he asked, trying harder to pull John's glass away from him, "I did fuck all, it was Moriarty who-"

"Yeah, that's the thing. You did 'fuck all', didn't you? You thought he was fake when he wasn't. You thought he kidnapped those kids, but he didn't."

"I know that John. Christ don't you think I know that?" said Greg, who put down his glass and looked at his watch, "You need to get a grip John. Anyway it's getting late; I have to get back to the wife."

"Yeah, fine. Just go. Leave me here you bastard. I'll be fine. I mean I've been fine for three years haven't I? I've coped! I don't need you, I don't need anyone! I'll be on my own. Alone protects me."

"No John. No it doesn't." said Greg. He stood up and put on his coat; and chucked a couple of notes on the table, "Go home John. Get some water down you and go to bed. When you wake up tomorrow, try and remember what happened just now. Stop drinking. You know I've met your sister. Don't end up like her." he finished, storming out of the pub and making sure to slam the door behind him. So there he was: sat on his own in an empty pub, having lost his only chance of fixing himself. What he said was hard to take back and the thought of that made him sick.

"Excuse me mate, we're closing up early tonight." said the barman, who stood at the table to clear all the glasses. John was about to protest before he felt a pair of hands pick him up and push him out the door, "No, don't complain. I've got an early morning tomorrow and this place needs clearing up. You've had too much to drink. Just go home."

As the door opened to the late night street, the cold air brushed against his face like sharp cuts. The door closed behind him and John was left standing outside the pub on an empty street. Somehow, John found it difficult to decide which direction home was, so just followed where the wind was taking him. Gravity was acting against him, as he tumbled and tripped on his every step trying to focus on the difference between the road and the pavement.

It was ten minutes into walking when John felt something painful in the pit of his stomach. The pain was excruciating and unbearable; so unbearable that John had to turn into an alley to crouch down against a wall, clutching at his stomach while trying to control his breathing. It was a sudden realisation when John took notice of what state he was in. John was completely drunk in a dark alley, with nobody to help him; nobody to care. If only Sherlock was still alive.

This is what pained him the most. He wasn't alive. He was dead. Very much dead. The person that he chose to fall deeply in love with couldn't love him back; there was nobody for him. The years before the fall were the best of his life. Sherlock continued to amaze him and impress him with his intellect. Their cases were exciting and there was never a dull moment. Those were the days he missed the most.

All of this thinking caused John to lost control of himself and started to cry right there; on his own; with nobody to tell him that everything will be okay. This was the most he had cried in the three years, even the first days after his death was less worse than this. Not only did his leg ache or his shoulder, his heart ached to. It hurt him so much to think about anything these days. Whenever he would think about Sherlock, he couldn't cope, and it was hard to keep himself steady.

It was because of this that John didn't notice a figure stand next to him. It was because of this that he didn't react when the figure grabbed him painfully by the shoulder so they were standing face to face. It was hard for John to look at the other person in such a dark backstreet, but he could sense that it was somebody who wasn't looking to help him. John looked down and saw that the figure possessed a large, sharp knife in his hand, which was pointed directly into his stomach. The tip of the blade was so close that if he tried to breathe out, he could feel the tip poke into him.

This was it. This was the moment-John thought- that he could finally reunite with Sherlock. He didn't have to be alone anymore. Facing the world everyday wasn't going to be an option anymore. This could finally release him from his pain.

"What are you waiting for?" John gasped, finally letting go on his cane and curling his hands into fists, "Do it." The person stood there, hesitating because-John guessed- they were too shocked by John's reaction. From this, John grew impatient and shouted louder, "What are you waiting for!?"

This made the person react. However, instead of stabbing John in the stomach-which was where he hoped it was- the person stabbed him in his already injured shoulder. All the pain he had suffered felt worse as the blade punctured further and further into his shoulder, causing him to scream in agonising pain. Because he screamed, the stranger took out the knife and dropped it before running down the alley and around the corner, out of sight.

The feeling in his leg was gone, as he finally fell to the ground and landed in a cold puddle on the pavement, just next to the knife. Just as he was about to chuck the knife away, it started to rain heavily onto the streets and drenched his whole body. The blood from his wound was soaking through his clothes and from underneath him onto the street. His breathing grew quicker and deeper; his eyeballs falling to the back of his head as he tried not to close his eyes.

Just as John was about to finally close his eyes, he saw a dark figure stand before him; blocking his view of the night sky. Sherlock always found the night sky interesting; and he hoped his final view would be of what Sherlock had interest in. Maybe this was death meeting him in his final moment; ready to take him. When he took one last look at the figure, he closed his eyes. At that moment, he was ready to accept death with open arms.