He still saw him sometimes, sitting there in his chair with his feet up and his knees to his chest gently rubbing his bottom lip with his clapped hands. He still saw him doing experiments in the middle of the kitchen, in the living room robed in his dressing gown and large protective goggles on his face, not even looking up when John would come in and scoff at the mess. He still heard the violin at odd moments and would start down the stairs only to find the room empty, no Sherlock pacing around plucking at his instrument idly as he thought. He still felt his presence in the flat. Sherlock Holmes was everywhere, he was seeped into the building itself. No one could mention 221B without John thinking about his friend, but his friend was gone and so was John.

John had gone back to using the cane, leaning heavily on it as he strolled around the park wincing at every loud and unexpected noise, having to stop at every instance to regain control of his hand. He would have to press it into his thigh and will it to stop, to breathe in and out, to stop it from shaking. Without Sherlock he was back to being a plain, ordinary citizen haunted by the war. He no longer missed it, he missed something else instead. Being with Sherlock had been more exciting, more thrilling than all his days in the war. He never knew what hid just around the street corner when Sherlock was by his side, but now all that there was around the corner was empty people with empty faces. Nothing mattered anymore.

Mrs. Hudson had come in once as John was resting in his chair that still faced the consulting detective's old one. "You miss him, don't you John? We all do, you know? It's hard having him gone. Would you like a cuppa?"

"No." He said blandly, hoping she would leave.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He sighed.

"It's a mess in here, isn't it? Let me just clean up a bit." He watched as she began to shuffle papers and stack them. She messed with the lab equipment, but abandoned it and walked over to the fireplace. Her hand lingered over the skull, "I never did like this thing. Do you think I should throw it out?"

"Get out Mrs. Hudson."

"What?"

"GET OUT!" He shouted, not caring when she gasped at his harsh tone and hurried out, tears in her eyes. Slowly he shut his eyes and focused on his breathing. Once he was calm again, he stood up and walked over to the skull. He reached out tentative fingers and hovered over the yellowed skull. If he looked closely he could see ruts and places where it was shinier, places where it had been touched, places where it had been loved by Sherlock's long fingers. Closing his eyes he placed one finger on the skull, then two, three, and four. It felt odd under his fingers, rough and smooth at the same time. He could never throw it out. He couldn't bear to throw anything out. Mrs. Hudson had been trying for some time, but she was always so afraid that she would throw away a memento that she had only come for the trash in the bin under the desk. John couldn't tell her that everything was a memento, that everything reminded him of Sherlock. His therapist had told him to only keep a few things, but he couldn't decide which things. Not yet. Not ever, really. As long as he was in the flat, he couldn't throw anything away. And he couldn't leave the flat. If he left the flat, he left Sherlock and he couldn't do that, again. He roughly pulled his fingers off the skull and opened his eyes.

He needed a profession, something to keep him busy. He needed something to separate him from everything. He would get work at a surgery. He would sleep with all the women he could. He would slowly work his way away from the memories of Sherlock, not because he wanted to, but because he should.

In the end, he kept the scarf and the coat, the silly hat, and the skull. He would stuff the scarf in his coat pocket every winter and he refused to let his new girlfriend wash it. She really didn't understand it; he could see it in her eyes. Once he caught her staring at it as it hung in their closet and as he watched she scowled at it and hit it with her hand, muttering. She hated the skull on the mantelpiece, too. He would laugh at her when he found her talking to it, telling it about her day and all the difficulties the children at the school had given her. She had blushed the first time and stammered an excuse.

"Its okay, Mary, I do it too." He told her and kissed her. "Sometimes its nice to have someone just listen, for once."

As for the coat and hat, those were hidden in the back of the closet, taken out only once a year, when Mary was off visiting her family. John would sit in his chair and nurse a drink as he relived the memories that he and Sherlock had had, then they would go back in the closet.

Christmas in the third year found John and Mary married and settled in the country. It was their first Christmas together after getting married and they wanted to celebrate it with all their friends. Mary had invited many; a lot of teachers and old school friends. John invited other doctors from the surgery where he worked. There was no Mrs. Hudson with her special sherry, no D.I. Lestrade with a cheery grin from getting a holiday off, no Molly Hooper showing up in a sexy dress that accentuated curves that usually hid beneath a white lab coat, and there was no Sherlock silently sitting just outside the conversational flow not quite comfortable with it all, but trying for John's sake. Instead there was laughter and cheer that circled around John, but never quite settling on him. He had grabbed some punch early on and settled himself near the window, staring out at the bleak landscape, thinking about old times when he thought he saw a tall, dark figure standing in the road. Without thinking he rushed outside, passing a startled Mary on his way out who shouted as he wrenched open the door, "Your cane, John!" but he didn't hear her.

Outside the world was cold and it was beginning to snow, but he could care less for standing in front of him was his friend.

"Hello, John." Said the familiar deep voice.

Emotions welled up inside John, so many at once that he didn't know what to do. He wanted to ask and say so many things, but the words that escaped from his lips were surprising, even to him, "I love you." Sherlock gave him a surprised look. "Not that way, you idiot." He said and tears started streaming down his face, "Oh, god. You are such an idiot, you know." He sniffed, "Have you deduced that yet?" He wiped his eyes and looked up at his friend, then rushed forward and hugged him tight. Sherlock's arms came hesitantly around his friend and after a moment his dark head on top of the light one. "Three years, Sherlock, three years," muffled John into Sherlock's chest.

"I needed that time to regain my mind."

John leaned back to look at him, "I could have helped you, you know."

"I didn't. I was afraid you wouldn't-" his voice broke, "you wouldn't accept me."

"Oh, god, you really are an idiot." He raised himself up and softly placed his lips on Sherlock's. "I don't care about that."

Sherlock smiled down at him. "I'm sorry."

"You better be." John said and pushed himself away. "It's cold out here."

"It is." Sherlock agreed and pulled his coat collar up. John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the old, ratty blue scarf and slipped it over Sherlock's head. John could see as Sherlock's mind raced, taking in information and making connections and as he opened his mouth, John waited for the unintended insults, but what came out was "Thank you, John."

John breathed out a laugh, "That's not what you normally say."

"What do I normally say?"

"Lots of words, usually very fast. Come on, I'll introduce you to the missus, though I don't think she'll like you."

Sherlock looked down at the scarf and conceded, "I do believe, for once, you are right, John." They looked at each other and began to giggle.

Finally, life felt right again.