Author's Note
This is my first published story! I know that series 3 will be coming soon (!) but I have been thinking about what might happen, and what I want to see happen, for a while. I know more-or-less where this is going, but I'm away a lot in the next few weeks, so updates may be irregular. As I haven't written fics before, I would appreciate any advice, criticism... feel free to hurl your insults at this!
Disclaimer - obviously, whilst I wish I was smart enough to think of something like that, I do not own Sherlock, or any of it's characters.
There had been 1095 days since the unthinkable had happened. John didn't count them, he told himself, but it wasn't difficult to see that since he had been alone for 3 years exactly, it had been 1095 days.
The first year had been the hardest. The first year was the one when the press swarmed all over Baker Street looking for a quote, the one when he had been assaulted in the street by a man who was furious at him, since it was too late to be furious with "the fraud". The first year had been the one when a man with Sherlock's eyes had walked into the clinic and he had broken down, right there in his office, Sherlock's bloodied face flashing before his eyes, with a nurse and a patient looking on, and had shouted at them to leave as tears dripped from his cheeks.
The second year had been a little easier. It was at this time that the graffiti appeared – "I believe in Sherlock Holmes". At first he'd just tried to ignore it, finally taking his therapists advice to move on. But the bright yellow paint that appeared all over London was getting impossible to ignore. Before long he'd worked out that Raz, the graffiti artist who Sherlock had consulted about the Black Lotus case. He'd kept quiet though. People had only just stopped accosting him in the street and asking whether he missed Sherlock, whether he still worked on cases, whether he'd find their cat for them. Perhaps people would forget him, leave him to his grief.
By the third year, life without Sherlock felt almost normal, although he still felt a pang of guilt when he realised that he could go a whole day without thinking about Sherlock. He was settled into his work at the clinic, which was quietly rewarding. There was no way, he had concluded a few months after The Event, that he could ever recreate the sheer adrenalin-fuelled joy that he had experienced working with Sherlock. Instead he settled for mediocrity and peaceful comfort, a commonplace world; the air of an old man, weary with the world and just looking to get through it without being in anyone's way.
He did still read the papers carefully, scanning any crime that took place in London, for though it brought back memories still painful to the touch, it felt right, like his own personal connection with Sherlock. On one murder case he had been so interested that he had actually rung Lestrade (they had kept in touch occasionally, though John couldn't shake off the feeling that Lestrade was only doing so out of deference to Sherlock's memory). He had asked a whole bunch of questions – did they have a motive, where there any blood-stains found in the bathroom – until Lestrade had finally lowered his voice and reminded him what happened last time Scotland Yard had talked to someone about cases. That had shut John up.
Yes, it was a quiet life. A dull life, by his own standards. But, physically unfit for service, mentally unfit for any detective work of his own and weary with the world that seemed to crash and burn whenever he found a pleasant space, maybe, he decided, a quiet life was the best.