Days merged into weeks, and weeks into months. The monotony was not lost on him, but he found it desperately hard to keep track of the tedium of life, despite the fact his watch clearly marked the date accordingly. The reality was that it hardly mattered whether it was May or September, for it was just a shift in Gregorian calendar that had absolutely no impact on his life. The world could have moved over to a whole new system and he wouldn't have noticed; he no longer read the papers or watched news broadcasts.

His days felt endless. Routine had been an integral part of him from his earliest memories – it had helped him achieve his goals and provided the stability in his life when all else crumbled around him. He had tried to establish similar boundaries in the last 12 months; breakfast at the same time each morning and laundry had to be on before 11am but not before 8am to ensure the harmony between him and his flatmate. The truth of the matter was it was less about pissing off his flatmate and entirely about avoiding any form of contact. He needed someone to share the rent with and she had been the first person who answered his advertisement. She knew nothing about him beyond the articles published on the internet and he had no interest in what she did. A census form had arrived in the post recently to ascertain the inhabitants and whilst filling it in, he realised he didn't know her surname. In the end, he'd left it on the kitchen counter with a pen under the guise of allowing her the liberty of choosing whether to take part. That lack of human interaction perfectly epitomised his life at present and reflected sardonically the same traits in his old friend.

Through contacts, he had managed to find some form of employment. He was paradoxically aware he was paid to help the wellbeing of others in spite of the fact he could barely tend to himself. His cheeks no longer bore the flush of colour attributed to health and happiness and his eyes seem to burrow deeper into his skull with each passing week. He had never been overweight and the twenty pounds he had lost in weight since were alarmingly apparent on his small frame. At times, he forced himself to eat at the expense of his unhappy digestive system, which more often than not, expelled it straight away. His persistent need to vomit after eating caused him indirectly to seek medical advice, only to be hollowly reassured that the root of his problem lie far deeper than physiological reasons. As a man of medicine himself, he had recognised that anyway but his obstinate colleagues had arranged the appointment and ushered him into the room. Collectively, they had tried doggedly to get him to see a psychiatric professional but the attempts were met with deaf ears. He knew that the only thing they could offer him was the ability to talk through his feelings or worse, a bunch of tablets to depersonalise him completely. Neither option appealed to him, so he had lived his life in the hope one day the mist would finally lift, even if he strongly doubted it would.

With any new workplace, he had been invited to a wealth of social events and initially he had attempted to integrate to show normality. Before, he had always satisfied occasions, sometimes at the expense of his old flatmate. In the end, they left him feeling empty inside. He couldn't verbalise anything important to say and nothing that was said seemed of great consequence to him either. It was idle chitchat at best, and pure gossip at worst. There were a couple of instances where the ale had nearly elicited a profound response to the questions he was sure people were asking behind his back, but these were chased down by his own internal reprimand in the lavatories. Despite being the stoic figure for so long, he couldn't trust himself not to break down in the company of people he barely knew, if only for the release of emotion. He figured it would do more harm than good to the watercooler discussions and after about two months, he stopped going to the pub altogether.

His evenings after work were spent depending on his appetite. If he was marginally hungry, he would purchase a cheap ready meal that offered nothing in the way of nutritional value, half of which normally ended up in the bin. More often than not, he would forego food and drink tea late into the night. Alcohol provided nothing for him other than the lowering of inhibitions that on occasions left him trying desperately to muffle sobs from his bedroom, as well as an unhealthy throwback in the form of a foggy head the next day. His book collection had expanded significantly in the last twelve months – some of which were his old friend's kept for sentimental reasons but never touched, just observed from a distance. Reading propelled him into another world far from the one he barely existed in and he would find himself reading right through the witching hour before allowing himself the grace of a few hours sleep. The only other activity he engaged in was long, rambling walks that took him miles across London. He would start the stride feeling horrifically burdened, but five miles in the fresh air cleansed his soul enough to survive for another day. He had lost count of the times he had accidently stumbled on a drugs deal or woman touting for business due to his dazed hiking, but most streets in London were fair game to walk. He certainly wasn't scared of the underworld with all its vices, but he couldn't bring himself to walk past his old home, nor the street outside St Bart's.

His old landlady wrote to him every so often with curling calligraphy that swept across the page in the way older people tended to print. She would always draw a haphazardly shaped flower on the back of the envelope, an action he could never recognise the meaning of. It was always sent First Class and had a return address on the back. He could see she was still situated at the lodgings he had once lived in, and wondered who had taken on the old flat and whether they knew of the immensely bittersweet memories he had experienced there. He couldn't bring himself to open the delicate correspondence, and they sat in a pile on his windowsill collecting dust. Mrs Hudson still continued to write despite of this; maybe it was catharsis for her. Each letter that arrived on the doormat prompted a guilty response and he kept promising to at least thank her for her concern.

He had one significant date each week planted in his head like a metaphorical diary. He had visited every seven days for 50 weeks apart from one occasion where he had influenza and the week prior to the funeral. Getting to the destination was notably difficult owing to where he lived now; it cost him a fortune in Oyster credits and fares for the bus. He balanced it against the fact he no longer took taxis; he simply couldn't allow himself to reminiscence of the journeys he had once taken in the simple vehicle. The last ride he had taken was the one before he stepped onto the tarmac in front of the old hospital and that was enough to prevent him to part with his money for the promise of convenience.

He knew anniversaries were nearly always the precursor to accelerated sorrow, but he couldn't remember a substantial period of time when the pain had abated long enough to suppress his heartbreak. He had brief moments of clarity akin to the carefree days when he first woke up in the mornings, but they were soon crushed and the reality hit him like a freight train. Recently, even his dreams were dominated by his grief, replaying the final moments like an insensitive horror movie. He would always be in the same place but his feet failed to move and his words came out like pitiful gurgles stuck in his throat. It felt much like how he did in his wakeful moments; completely useless. Before he fell into a state of fitful sleep, he often asked a higher being to allow him the chance to slip away peacefully. It was an ironic contrast to the moments where he had faced death whilst in the Army; begging for his life to be saved. Now he was begging for his life to end. Truthfully, he felt that his life had already ended; he was simply a shell that processed oxygen and a figure to the Government.

The ground below him held the purity of fresh snow, cracking underneath his boots as he paced towards the cemetery. The clouds had long since departed, unveiling its load over London and had been replaced with a bright blue sky. As with most weeks, he had arranged to have a half day on the basis of making the hours up later in the week. Nobody complained with this arrangement, for most of his colleagues detested working weekends and were only too happy to allow someone else to cover. Sometimes he would stay for hours, as the daylight gradually faded and the horizon was replaced with a shade of purple. Other times it was briefer, especially so if there were other people milling around.

The grave had taken on a rather more distressed look owing to the particularly harsh winter. The golden inscription no longer glowed so bright and although he had tried hard to prevent it, some weeds continued to grow. He often wondered what would happen when he was no longer here or in a position to come. Eventually the stone would be removed to make way for a new batch of burials, and his friend's name would only exist in the volumes of deaths recorded. The public had nigh on forgotten about the great mind and questionable character and in a world not far from now, he would just be another statistic.

A single rose sat in the vase – he understood the gesture was from Molly. Originally she had attached a small note that simply stated her name with a kiss and a year on, she no longer seemed to bother. The very fact she bothered to come at all was enough; he doubted anybody else did. He speculated that Lestrade was bound by his guilt; he had expressed his troubled beliefs at the wake that he felt he could have done more for his colleague of sorts. Mrs Hudson was getting older and had probably faced many friends departing this earth. As for Mycroft, he had virtually disappeared. He made a fleeting appearance at the funeral and since then, nothing.

Reaching for his pocket, he unravelled a small rug he brought each time he visited. In the summer it was perfectly adequate to prevent grass stains, but in the winter it was hopelessly inefficient at protecting his clothes from the mud, rain or indeed, snow. It mattered very little to him; it was analogous to a comfort blanket and it was just part of the ritual. Laying it down on the soft snow, it could already see the water soaking through the fabric but without hesitation, descended into a cross legged pose in front of the grave stone.

"Hi…" It was the first words he'd spoken all day and it exited his mouth like a demonic spirit.

"So, this our fiftieth date. You could say we're going steady now" Tears prickled at the back of his eyes. He always cried on these ventures, but not normally so soon.

"I always used to think people who visited graves regularly would never let go of the past. I used to advise soldiers who had lost friends, including myself, that grief was a normal process and that it takes time. I never knew it would take so long. I never knew that in fact, there is no real end to grieving. There are no words that can be said that ever changes how you feel"

"I always thought I had a purpose. Saving lives, I mean. But I failed. I failed at the one purpose I realised was the most important. I would take back the lives I saved on the battlefield, however harsh that is, to ensure I saved you. You gave me purpose. You were my purpose. I existed for you, I breathed for our moments. I felt so alive in your company. Sometimes I wish I had never met you. But I know, given the chance, I would do all the things we did and relive those memories in a heartbeat, if only it meant I could see your face again"

Hot tears fell down his face, coating his cold face in a thin film of anguish.

"I was never completely honest with you. In fact, I was never completely honest with myself. I tried to hide my feelings beneath a veil of what I thought was normal. Now I realise the only normal thing should have been to tell you. And now it's too late. It's been too late for a year. I talk to you in my dreams. I talk to you in my nightmares. As much as it hurts, it's the only time I'm able to see you. But you are never coming back. You don't exist anymore and neither do I. I can't exist without you; god knows I've tried. You are under that pile of grass and soil and I am left with this endless emptiness. It won't get better. I won't move on."

"I love you. I have for a very long time. I loved you so much I was too scared to say because the thought of you abandoning me was too much to bear. But you have abandoned me. You can't leave me anymore than you already have. So I am not scared of telling you now. I would tell everyone if I thought you'd appear in front of me, but my miracle didn't happen. It never will."

Composing himself, he stood up.

"I'm sorry Sherlock"

Walking away from the grave, he felt a strange sense of liberation. On the floor, the rug laid, saturated with water.

That night, he fell asleep holding a photo of his friend.

Eventually, he began to dream. He was back at the gravestone, head in hands, sobbing. A voice beckoned him, the rich baritone echoing across the cemetery. In front of him, Sherlock Holmes stood, tall and elegant, with a smile. He walked towards him, ignoring the streak of light blinding his eyes, until he could smell the familiar scent and count the individual curls. He opened his mouth to speak, but a slender finger pressed against his lips.

"Don't say a word. I've listened to you for hours! It's my turn now"

He looked into his bright blue eyes, sparkling with the delight of life. Sherlock Holmes pulled his slight frame, the warmth of his body warming the grieving, cold heart.

Sherlock Holmes lowered his head until his lips connected with his old friend's ear.

"I will love you for all my lives. Now, do you want to see some more?"

NEWS ARTICLE.

25th January 2013

…

After presumed missing and sparking a local hunt, Dr John Watson was discovered two days later. He was found in his bedclothes, clutching the photo of his deceased best friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes.

An inquest was opened and found he had consumed a large quantity of Oxycontin, a potent pain relief medication, which he had obtained from the surgery he was employed by. Death was caused by intentional suicide and he was interned next to his friend.

Mrs Hudson, who was Dr Watson and Mr Holmes former land-lady, claimed that he had "died of a broken heart".