John had always hated the time before sunrise because there was no one around to remind him of what person he should try to be—so it was easier to remember what kind of person he currently was. Lonely and isolated in his too small flat on the outskirts of a cheap neighborhood in central London where the air seemed perpetually foggy and the noise deafening even in the middle of the night; Cars backfiring sounded like gunshots and people yelling reminded him of desperate times in a foreign land. He always woke before the sun would stretch its yellow limbs across the floor. He usually stayed in bed a long time, left hand shaking and waiting for the sunlight. The darkness was oppressive. When sharing a flat with Him, John didn't feel so alone. He was insufferable at times, horrendous manners and arrogant beyond comprehension, but there was nothing more comforting than hearing Him play his original compositions on the violin at 3:00 in the morning. John couldn't return to 221B Baker Street for a long time after The Fall, but he simply couldn't stay away. Each day he slowly made his way up the stairs with held breath, hoping that he would find Him just sitting in his chair, plucking softly at his violin strings and asking him for something well within his reach. That day hasn't come.

He used to smile at her. Molly. Not a genuine smile but one born out of courtesy and learned repetition. John liked to think that the smiles he received from Him were real. When he was alone he could remember his laugh and sometimes he even found himself laughing at the memories. Their cases were more than cases; they were adventures. He had a way of making almost anything interesting even if he himself didn't think it to be so. John found that the words "boring" and "dull" had suddenly made their way into his vocabulary more solidly than they had ever before. The Yard sometimes asked for his help, even without Him. He surveyed the crime scenes, careful to observe, not just see. However, John always knew that he was missing everything of importance. John remembered when they would just stand there, pretending to be just friends when all the time in the world could not pry them apart.

John's fall was longer, slower, and vastly more eloquent; the result of painful repression brought on by blind trust followed by furious disbelief and finally begrudging acceptance of one thing; Sherlock was no longer at 221B. The night was falling and John made evening tea as usual; always two cups, just in case. All he knew is that the end was beginning and that he would forever be haunted by all the things he didn't say.