I own no characters! only my own silly plot :)
It had been four months since he had seen, heard, or even read a text from Sherlock Holmes. It was intolerable. and the fact that the man was dead ... wasn't going to stop John.
Dr. Watson, alone in 221B Baker Street, reached for his laptop - .com. The most clicked article, with some ten views, was on 43 types of ash. He hadn't opened it or the site since the day he'd met Sherlock. Almost smiling, John read - "Obviously, the analysis of ash is vital to crime scene investigation." His mind reconstructed Sherlock's saying the sentence perfectly: scorn and smugness blended together. It worked! John wiped his eyes and read on, hearing every boring line in his dead best friend's voice.
In two weeks, John started learning the consulting detective's mind palace technique, as best he could. And his imagination willingly supplied Sherlock's mocking commentary at his struggles with the practice. It was perfect. Every day after work, he could go home and spend time with Sherlock. He wondered whether he was going insane and decided he didn't care.
Greg, on one of their rare pub nights, noticed John was smiling again and that he seemed in a hurry to get home. The D.I. thought his friend might've gotten a girlfriend and was happy that the John's earlier paralyzing grief was abating. John went home to read about how fast corpses bruise and told Sherlock why he thought Lestrade might be getting back together with his wife again (an ironed shirt and only one drink). In John's head, Sherlock's voice commented that John had missed the lack of eye bags and that he should really pay closer attention.
Within two months, John knew Sherlock's site by heart, and he could usually tell what patients came to see him about before they spoke. That was all good, but he desperately needed some new way to talk to his friend. The site was too familiar to come across in Sherlock's voice and his imaginary flatmate didn't seem to enjoy listening to his analyses of patients anymore. That was the problem John contemplated as he listlessly read the newspaper.
Greg's name caught his eye. Some murder story. Sherlock might've taken it, before. A Mrs. Kerry died and no one had any idea who killed her, except they'd left a silver cuff link in the woman's hand. John peered at the picture of the woman's body. A faded, shade-4 of gray cuff link, with a small semi circular dent. He'd seen this little gray circle before! Think, John, think!
Sherlock's irritated voice provided its own variation of encouragement - "you've only five weeks of information in that excuse of a mind palace! I have years! How hard can it be?!"
Ahha! Second pocket, top quarter! John always did have the task of finding things in the many pockets of Sherlock's coat. It made a good mind palace now. He had been reading some story about the brilliant boy who graduated from college in a year. There was a picture of him, with that cuff link. And a name - Colin. Colin Kerry.
"Elementary. That wasn't even a solid 3" Sherlock quipped in his head.
John chuckled.
"Still darn good for a goldfish" he shot back "Beat Scotland Yard anyway."
Shit. Scotland Yard. Lestrade. Did John have to tell him? John was no consulting detective. It would be wrong. Sacrilege. He also hadn't told Greg about his new hobby. No. No way. The ex-soldier resolutely got up to make tea and forget it. The second part of the plan didn't work out as well as the first, though. Images of a frustrated Greg kept introducing as he updated his mind palace and watched some Telly. It would be betrayal though. So John went to bed, his text to Greg unsent. Bit not good, as it turned out.