Author's Note: I'm not Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so I don't own anything canon. But I mean, really, when you write the show/original books why would you bother posting fanfiction... disclaimers are silly. Anyway, first fic, hope you enjoy. Review if you have something to say.

1.1

The skull sat on the mantel facing John as he gingerly stepped through the threshold, his eyes flitting across the familiar territory for the first time in several months. The dark holes where eyes once sat stared imploringly at him, giving John a peculiar feeling that he was somehow being watched.

"I won't be long," John told the skull, at once feeling ridiculous that he was talking to a chunk of bone. "I'm just here to…" his voice trailed off. In fact, John wasn't entirely sure why he was here. He knew that his therapist had told him that revisiting the apartment he had once shared with… with him (he was still unable to say – or even think – his name without difficulty) would help give him a sense of closure. He knew that he hadn't returned to 221B Baker Street since that particularly dreadful night, and that there were a few personal items that he would have liked to have had over the months. But he couldn't bring himself to actually come back until… well, now.

John adjusted the pillow on his armchair, but didn't dare sit down despite the weak feeling in his leg. Even though he had been convinced that his leg wasn't actually hurt, that it was simply in his head, there were some days where it bothered him to the extent of needing his cane to limp around town. On those days, he was almost embarrassed to go out in public. He often stayed home with a cup of tea and a plain beige wall in his new flat to stare at as he mulled over his grief.

The flat looked exactly the same as he remembered it, though there was a new scent. From the kitchen came a slightly putrid stench, as if an experiment had been left on the counter when it should have been refrigerated – or kept in the morgue. John wondered if Mrs. Hudson had come into the flat at all to tidy up, but decided that she probably hadn't, or else she would have cleaned the source of the smell. Maybe he would tell her about it so she could deal with it. After all, the smell would eventually reach her flat downstairs, and that wouldn't make her very happy at all.

The violin he longed to hear leaned against the far wall next to the window. He noticed that it – as well as most surfaces in the flat – was covered in a fine coating of dust. Eloquent or not, it would take a fine dusting before anyone could live here again. But with Mycroft paying the rent and Mrs. Hudson's unwillingness to sell, John doubted that anyone would be moving in anytime soon.

Endlessly happy, the glaring yellow face smiled at John from its place on the wall. From where he stood, he could see the bullet holes where it had been shot those months ago.

John's face deepened in a frown as he felt anger build inside of him. He had been furious coming home to see his flatmate shooting the goddamn wall because he was bored, of all things. There was nothing in this world that kept his flatmate interested other than clever cases, nothing for his flatmate to do to occupy himself in productive ways… so much so that there wasn't anything, or anyone, interesting enough to keep him on that goddamn roof, or on this goddamn planet.

Not even John.

His leg buckled beneath his weight, tipping him into the table and unsettling some of the dust. A noise of frustration erupted from his throat as he grabbed hold of the table to steady himself.

Why couldn't he have been enough?

There were so many questions that John hadn't been able to find answers to. He felt like he was always on the brink of tipping too far – and not being able to find anything to anchor himself.

John wondered what it would be like to be so bored of this life. His fingers enclosed over his pistol and drew it. Aiming at the yellow face on the wall, John readied his weapon. He felt a thickness in his throat and a turning in his stomach – his anger was there, but he could feel waves of anguish crashing in his stomach. A storm was rising inside of him, but he couldn't find the shore.

The first shot exploded from the barrel with sound that was surprising even to John's ear. The yellow face took another hit, but the smile remained. John fired again.

Goddamn, nothing could bring this guy down. Three, four, five shots more.

A sob escaped John's lips, followed by a slight shake in his hand. He tried to compose himself – after all, he had been a soldier in the war. He had seen things, done things, tried to heal those that had had terrible things done to them – but none of that was significant now. John had his own internal war to deal with, and he wasn't sure what side he was on anymore.

The pistol turned away from the yellow face. John pressed the tip against his head in salute at the endless happiness the face held onto, even in the face of such distress and pain. The gun shook against his temple as his tremor worsened, but he stared unyieldingly at his noble foe.

"We're out of Cheez-Its."

For as long as the yellow face had been painted on the wall, John had never assumed it to have a woman's voice – and that's when he realized he had finally succumbed to mental instability. That is, until he heard the creak of the floorboards, indicating that John was no longer alone.

It took a mere few seconds for John to point the pistol at the intruder instead, and even fewer for him to aim it elsewhere. A blonde woman, early thirties, in a pair of pajama pants and a concert tee stood just inside the doorway. Her right foot – in a simple white pair of anklets – was pressed forward, though she had yet to put her full weight into it. She was clearly unsure whether or not she could take another step forward without further alarming the man with the gun.

"Sorry… am I interrupting?" she asked tentatively.

"Shit," John breathed. It was one thing for him to have a mental breakdown by himself, but quite another to involve some poor woman. But then a thought occurred to him: who the hell was she?

"I can help, if you'd like. A fresh coat of paint over the wall, or maybe new wallpaper, if that's your style. Personally, I prefer paint. Having to unpeel wallpaper is dreadful business, really…" she continued, indicating the wall the yellow face was occupying.

"I don't care about the wall," John said flatly.

"Oh, well I had just assumed you didn't fancy it, considering the amount of bullets you've put through it," she shrugged.

"Not all of them are mine," he said quietly.

A flash of confusion fell across her face. About to question it, John interrupted suddenly: "Sorry, but who the hell are you?"

"Mary Morstan, 221C," she said.

John stared at her incredulously. He vaguely remembered Mrs. Hudson saying that she could never get anyone to rent the basement flat because of the damp – but could it be that she finally managed to find someone desperate enough to take it?

"I moved in two months ago and I haven't seen or heard anyone up here before… and yet I have a hard time believing that a burglar would take a mo to shoot at walls in the midst of a heist," Mary continued. "So I think the proper question is… who the hell are you?"

And in that moment, this woman had nailed the question that John had been trying to figure out for himself. Without his flatmate, without… without Sherlock, who was John Watson? A lonely military man with feelings he can't explain and a life unsuitable to live?

The best answer he could give Mary was this: "John. I'm John."