Author's note: I have been ridiculously in love with the Sherlock series ever since I started watching it two weeks ago. Cannot wait for season four. But the couple I keep shipping, no matter what is Johnstrade. Martin Freeman and Rupert Graves are very good-looking and while I understand why people ship Watson and Sherlock I simply can't drag myself away from John and Greg. So, this fic will take place 6 weeks after The Reichenbach Fall and John is trying to get on with life at Baker Street after Sherlock "dies." Eventually he'll find solace with Greg in ways he never thought would be possible. Hope you enjoy. Sorry for rambling. :)

John Watson had been sitting, staring at the all-too familiar fireplace in the apartment he had called home for two years. The name 221B Baker Street was so firmly etched into his mind, that it seemed so unnatural to imagine him anywhere else. Just like the name Sherlock Holmes felt empty and dull without the man himself nearby, insulting him at every interval. Being difficult yet brilliant at the same time, deducing someone the second they walked into a room and all the while maintaining a certain warmth that always brought a smile to John's face. Now that man was gone and the good doctor couldn't think of any way he might continue Sherlock's legacy. Mycroft offered a half-sincere apology that almost brought John to the precipice of decking the older brother in an absolute rage! The only three people who seemed to truly care other than himself were Mrs Hudson, Molly and Greg, who each had very different coping mechanisms.

The kind Mrs Hudson (who constantly assumed John and Sherlock were involved) got through each day minding the shop and giving it extra bouts of cleaning that started to nauseatingly make it smell 'too clean', so John offered to help out here and there when she began to work herself too hard. Molly never kept in contact after The Fall, presumably due to too many painful memories that would remind her of Sherlock and John was one of them, so she only shared a tear-filled hug with him after the funeral and apart from one or two phone calls, she had cut contact with him completely. Greg however had done something he never thought he'd be capable of, quitting Detective Inspector. After everything that occurred with Sherlock, who was more or less a friend to him, Greg was done with being a detective and anything to do with the police. John had seen him a few days after that in the nearby supermarket, but decided to just go home without making himself known.

Looking out the window, John observed a young man walk happily up to the front door of Baker Street with letters in his hand, disappear for several seconds and reappear walking down the street with fewer letters than before. Curious, John got up from his comfortable chair and checked the time on his laptop. It read 10:04 P.M. "Wow!" John thought. "Is it that late? Who'd be delivering letters at this hour?" He frowned uncertainly which quickly turned to suspicion, a hazard from time in Afghanistan and Sherlock having many enemies. After chewing on his bottom lip thoughtfully he turned back to the time on the bright computer that lit up half the apartment in artificial light. The clock now read 10:14. "I need to stop thinking about these things too much. Come on, John! Just go to the door." After that brief talk to psych himself up, John proceeded down the stairs to the front door.

A small amount of light emptied itself into the narrow hallway, revealing one white letter on the new purple embroidered carpet. Picking it up delicately, John found that it looked more like a birthday card, with a fancy splash of colour on the front. Once he was back in the apartment, he observed the very colourful lettering. "Want real music? Come to the new nightclub at 34 Baker Street. No Dubstep, Hip-hop or Rap. Open from 5 P.M. to midnight. We hope you enjoy." John couldn't help but grin at the idea of going to a nightclub, with proper music and maybe some fun. "It couldn't hurt, could it? It closes in two hours, so at the very least I might just poke my head in and see what it's like." He lightly placed the card on the table, and put a clean shirt on, with some blue jeans. Summer had been very warm this year. Taking the steps two at a time he called to the back of the complex. "Mrs Hudson, I'll be back in a couple hours! Just going for a walk!"

The night air held a very crisp, comfortable atmosphere that made John sigh happily, all thoughts of Sherlock temporarily erased in the magic of the moment. After walking for awhile, he found the address. It was very quaint with a very faint neon sign outside and a red door leading to the inside. John quietly entered the club and after walking down a couple of steps he could hear the gentle plucking coming from a guitar nearby. When he found the main room, John looked around, surprised by the club's simplicity and charm. To the left of the entrance there was a small lounge area with a few people talking and very relaxed. In the middle was a lovely oak-laden bar stocked with a considerable amount of alcohol and a stocky guy in a muscle shirt that showed off his impressive biceps. And to the right, three tables facing a small stage with a chair, where a guy was experimentally tuning a gorgeous patterned guitar.

John made his way to the bar and ordered a beer from the handsome bartender, who gave it to him with a sincere smile. Looking over at the stage, he saw someone else saunter up to take the guitar and pull the strap on, ready to play. The man was silhouetted in shadow while getting himself into position to play, but John saw him gesture to someone and then a spotlight bathed him in a bright glow, highlighting all his features. Silver hair, toned arms and the unmistakable face of former Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. John stared in shock, spellbound by how casual and relaxed the other man looked. He didn't expect to be even more surprised, but then Greg started to confidently strum the chords and opened his mouth to sing. When he began, John felt like he was going to melt, no thoughts going through his head apart from this spine-tingling angelic voice that threatened to steal his mind away.