It's not until a few days after I visit him that I discover Sherlock has left me everything. He had more money than he ever let on – to tell the truth, I don't think he ever needed a flatmate. I start to wonder if perhaps he just wanted the company, but I cut myself off before I go any further.

I take a few weeks off from work, since it appears I'm comfortably set for a while. I go out. See a few movies. Meet up with some friends. I try not to look for him every time I hear sirens.

One night I'm alone at the flat with nothing to do. Mrs. Hudson is out for the evening, and I am BORED. I find myself looking at the smiley face that covers the bullet holes and suddenly I'm on the floor with a hole gaping in my chest.

It takes me longer than I'd like to regain some shred of composure, but when I open my eyes there's a file lying next to me.

I pick it up, sit at the desk. Turn on the light. And I start to read.

I hear him in the words.

Three weeks later I've read every file in the house and have even started organizing them. All the notes he'd ever taken on any of his cases, on any cases he'd ever even read about.

I've stopped answering the phone. I stopped checking my email a while ago. Something drove me to devour everything he'd written, and though I'd like to claim I don't know what it is, I can't.

I need to hear his voice.

My phone rings as I'm putting away the last of the files. The flat is cleaner than it's ever been, though I refuse to touch anything of his beyond his notes. Mrs. Hudson hasn't tried to touch the lab he set up in the kitchen, though she did finally take the head out of the fridge.

I'm almost to the point where I can laugh at that.

I pick it up, answer. "John."

It's Lestrade's voice that comes back, and I'm suddenly reminded of why I've been avoiding the phone. "Thank God. We need you to come in."

I'm tempted to stay silent, but there's something in his voice – and another tells me to go on. "What is it?"

"There's been a murder, nothing like what we've seen before."

There's silence. "I'm not him, Greg," I finally force out.

His voice is soft. "I know. But you're all I've got."

More silence. I look around the flat, and the emptiness crushes me. There's a vacant coat hook next to mine.

Go, John.

I blink, clear my throat. "Where do you need me?"

Donovan stares at me when I walk into the morgue alone, and I almost turn back. There is a conspicuous lack of a dark clad figure at my side, and I must look odd. But Lestrade has seen me now, and he's walking forward with a look almost like gratitude.

"John, thank you-" he begins, but I cut him off.

"Let's just do this."

He nods, waves a hand at Sally to stop her comment, and leads me into the room.

I freeze when I see the body. I don't know why they think I can do this. I'm not him.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. When I open them, he's with me.

Let's take this slowly, John. Look at his clothes first.

I look. And I see.

Lestrade thanks me for my help as I leave, asks me to call him if I think of anything else. While I know I didn't see as much as he would have – as his chuckle forces me to realize – I did catch a lot. More than the police would have.

At home, I settle into the chair, flip through the files. I find the case I'm looking for quickly, open it, and toss it onto the table.

I look at his chair. He looks back.

"Night guard, hospital from the badge, confirmed from a missing persons report. Given the wounds on the back, I'd say he fell on a box of needles." I point at the case, something similar that Sherlock had covered before I'd met him.

Fell? he replies. Really, John. Do try to observe.

I grimace, stop and think. "You think he was pushed."

He raises an eyebrow. Wasn't it obvious?

I frown, glance at the notes I'd taken at the morgue. "Same beat every week, he knew the ground. You're right, he wouldn't have fallen."

He nods. So…

"So…he was pushed. No evidence of a struggle on him, so it was someone he knew?"

Another nod. I press on.

It takes me longer to work it out than he would have needed, but I get it. I call Lestrade.

"The coworker, the one who was on the shift with him and reported him missing – he's the murderer."

I lay it out for him, the same way he did for me.

Lestrade calls me again the next week, and twice the week after. Sally starts muttering freak when she sees me. I take it as a compliment.

I get faster. I get more thorough. I start to notice more.

He walks me through it all.

Lestrade stops me as I go to leave the most recent case. There's a slip in his hand, and I look at it, recognizing it as a check.

The inspector fidgets, and he laughs behind me at Lestrade's discomfort. "Thought you might want the pay," he finally says. "I hear you haven't been back to work – thought you might want to keep doing this instead."

I look at him, at the hope in the detective's eyes. No, I'm not him. But I'm all they've got.

I take the check. I tell him I'll think about it.

He and I sit, discussing the latest case over a cup of tea back at the flat.

"I'm impressed, John," he finally says.

I smile. "You'd never say that if you were really here."

"I am wounded by that accusation. You've done well."

I close my eyes, fight the ache that I feel coming. Seeing him helps, but in too many ways he's not the same. Too tactful, for one.

"I miss you," I force out.

He doesn't respond. He never does, when I talk about it.

I blink, clear my throat. Look at him again. Meet his gaze.

"So. The Wilson case."

Three weeks later, I resign from the surgery. A week after that, I get new business cards made.

John Watson, M.D.

Consulting Detective.

Officially, still the only one in the world.