It had been nearly 9 months since Sherlock`s fall, and John had done little in ways of clearing their apartment. The skull, the violin, still rested in their old spot, collecting dust among the other antiquities that lined the shelves. John sat on the sofa and sent a text he knew his friend who never receive.``

'Lestrade says there`s a case involving a triple homicide, you interested?'

-JW

John waited by the phone for a long while before grabbing his cane and getting to his feet. A couple weeks after the accident his limp had returned, much to the worry of his psychiatrist. It didn't really bother him- only gave another excuse to remain cooped up in the apartment. John had hardly been outside the flat the past months, except for the occasional meeting with Lestrade and run-ins with Molly. He had quit his job at the clinic, though it hadn't made much of an impact on his lifestyle. Mrs. Hudson never came around to collect rent anymore, and he assumed it could only be Mycroft settling his debt every month. John had avoided Mycroft ever since their confrontation at the funeral when John had let his raw anger get the better of him.

John was past the pain of being reminded of Sherlock in the little things: He could grab a single mug for tea and not stop to remember how he used to always grab two; he could clear the kitchen table without catching his breath at the sight of each chemical burn that lined the surface. And so, on the good days, John could make it til noon before his first break down.

On a normal morning, John would sit and wallow in pity before hitting the drink, but today, something about the apartment was unsettling and irritating. After putting his cup away and glancing into the living room where his phone remained perched and silent, he decided he would take up Lestrade's offer and help in a case- the first one he would attend since Sherlock…left. Because that's what happened. John knew he was gone, but hadn't accepted that he couldn't come back.

Even so, John Watson grabbed his cane and left his coat, and hobbled down the stairs leaving his flat, and his ghosts, behind.

...

Sherlock found himself occasionally mulling over the potential life of Dr. John Watson. It had been 9 months, well over the average grieving time for most. The probable reality was that the good doctor would be dating some uninteresting and mundane women (boring), he would have started work up again (possibly even staying with the police instead of the medical clinic) and he would have more than likely moved out of their old flat at 221B Baker St. He knew he could check with Mycroft for precise updates on John's life, but he hated the idea of making his brother feel useful.

Mycroft, of course, knew that his brother was alive, and much to Sherlock's distaste, knew he couldn't have pulled off the suicide stunt without him. Even so, Sherlock refused to mend any more bridges, and contented himself with a solitary existence away from London.

But he wasn't contented, not even slightly. It bothered Sherlock that he hadn't memorize all the streets and alleyways in his new city. (The truth was, he hadn't really made an effort to try). He missed the familiarity of his shortcuts through London's backways and his connections through the homeless network. He missed his lab equipment and violin,-god how he missed his violin; He had nearly gone mad the first month trying to think without his wooden arm. Surprisingly however, was how well Sherlock was able to manage without his blogger. He would still talk out loud as if John was there, and found himself occasionally asking him for a pen or to pass his mobile. Whenever his mind began to wander to the sentimental moments with his flatmate, he could immediately dismiss and move them to the back of his mind. They were currently irrelevant. Still, he had to admit to himself that without his companion, he was much less pleased with life.

Soon, he told himself. Soon he could return to London, and soon he could see John Watson again. Mycroft would be near finished disposing of the last of Moriarty's men-the loyal ones anyways-, and the article explaining Sherlock's innocence would emerge at the 1 year anniversary of his death, just as he had planned. It was only a little longer living his uncomfortable life.

Just then he received another text from John, the second of that day.

His texts were typically simple questions or veiled comments on mundane life, and more often than not did they disregard the fact that Sherlock should in fact, be dead. Sherlock quite liked getting the messages. It made John feel all the more present.

Lestrade assures me he hasn't seen a case this tricky in a few months.

-JW

Sherlock had to swallow the temptation to reply and put his phone back into his coat pocket. Considering he had to content himself with petty street crime to keep occupied, any sort of case would have made him a happy man.

Grabbing his scarf, Sherlock Holmes set out on another day of mundane observation, while trying to keep his mind from driving itself mad.

"Dull..."

He thought to himself, before shutting the door to his room behind him.