Once, John had run his fingers through /his/ dark curls, careful not to pull and hurt the human being underneath him. He had remarked on the softness, wondering how someone who seemed to have horrid hygiene habits, bathing included.
/He/ had laughed, brushing it off as a mere illusion that he did not wash. John remembered looking at /him/ weirdly.
But now, John would never touch those curls again, feel them pull and curl and twist around his fingers. John would never give /him/ that look again, Never need to make that exotic tea that only /he/ drank.
Perhaps, a year later, John would return, kneeling next to the spot where his best friend had fallen, cracked skull dripping ruby. Perhaps, he would have the taste of foreign tea in his mouth, a flavor that only recently his tongue seemed to crave. Perhaps, his eyes would be red, maybe from crying, probably from waking up in the early hours of dawn, shaken with terrors of war and falling, falling fast.
Perhaps Molly, the kind pathologist, would be leaving the building for an early lunch break and see him there. Perhaps she would join him in his silent vigil, laying a hand delicately on his shoulder before sitting next to him, spending her entire break within the stony silence.
Perhaps, they would not notice the figure that was stationed on a bench across from the hospital, light eyes hooked over the edge of a newspaper. Perhaps, the figure would have dark curls growing from the base of the hat he had used in an attempt to conceal them. And, perhaps, by a small, infinite chance, his name would be Sherlock.