When one life ends, it is up to those left behind to carry on their own legacies. That's how it works. But John's been counting the days since he left. He doesn't mean to; he does it subconsciously, of course. Or he likes to believe that. Deep down, part of him knows that every cross on the calendar is one more doubt that he'll ever return. He's not sad. He's angry, at him. At Sherlock. But he's distraught, too. Not that he ever lets people know how sad he is. How sad he really is. He doesn't want people to think he can't cope without Sherlock. He's starting a family of his own now, and he doesn't need his brother in arms. Because Sherlock was his brother, if not more.
He loves him like a brother, even now.
And even now, as he slips into the routine of a domesticated life, he still can't shake the memories. He dreams about them. No nightmares, only fond dreams of what once was, and what can never be again. But that's the most agonising part of it, for John. It's the fact he'll never relive those moments. Its the fact that the closest he can ever get to any sense of satisfaction is dreaming or drinking. Because when he dreams, he can imagine his best friend there with him, and when he drinks he can hear the hinted taunt of the Consulting Detectives voice. His deep, booming voice, that seemed so eerily comforting at times. He still smiles, but sometimes he hides how much he's hurting. He still thinks they can't see him when he's sad.
Mary can't help him when he's depressed. She never knew him, so John doesn't blame her. But he's not modest, he expects more from his other friends sometimes. But in all honesty, they don't know what to do. He knows that, but sometimes he chooses not to believe it, because he needs all the help he can get. And he doesn't like the therapist any more. Not that it's ever been something he enjoys, but lately it's been more difficult than usual.
He solves cases too, now. Only sometimes. Because he was never in Sherlock's shadow, and people need to remember that. He hasn't enjoyed eight out of nine cases he's been on.
The one case he loved, more than anything else in the world, was on a Sunday afternoon.
"What, so, no broken bones?" John asks, scratching his head, "No sign of damage at all?"
"None." Greg sighs, looking at his watch. He points out that it's been two hours now, and they still haven't found any clues onto who the murderer is.
John nods, giving the body one last look, before beginning to walk away.
"All right, lads, lets pack up. Get the body secured." Greg announces, and everyone begins to fidget about.
John has a long walk home, and no money for the tube. With any luck, he'll be back after dinner. It's winter, so as it begins to get darker, it gets much colder. He shoves his hands deep down into his pockets and begins to hum softly to himself, thinking about the body he'd just seen. Found at the bottom of a building. Blood everywhere. No sign of any injury. Obviously the body had been placed there. But John doesn't dwell too much on the thought. Strangely, he'd rather not think about people falling from buildings.
John thinks about what Sherlock would do in a situation like this.
"He was poisoned, John. Obviously." he hears Sherlock say.
He's slowly hearing Sherlock's voice clearer in his head nowadays. It scares John, makes him thinks he's going crazy. But with a sudden realisation, he can hear Sherlock's voice saying his name, begging forgiveness.
But he's not. He's not hearing it in his head, and John's heart is starting to pound, and he's starting to sweat. Then he spins around, looking at him. Not a ghost of Sherlock Holmes. Not a whisper. No, the real thing. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, is standing there, hands in his pockets. He's waiting for the oncoming storm. John knows he's not crazy. He flings himself at the man, wrapping his arms around the tall figures body. And he starts to cry – both of them – sobbing into each other, in each others firm hold. The harder John squeezes the more he knows the man is real, and the more he knows things will get better.
No words are spoken, not until John's emotions change in a flash, and he hits his brother in bond. Sherlock doubles back, clenching his nose. Blood trickles down his face and his lips quirk upwards in amusement.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the only two consulting detectives in the world, laugh, for the first time in a long time.
It was going to get better.