Nothing happens to me. . .
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Do you want to see more?
Oh god yes.
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How many friends do you imagine he has?
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I'm not his date.
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Don't make people into heroes John, Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.
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Nobody can be that clever.
You could.
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Goodbye, John. . .
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Yet it all can't go away. Those memories have such an affect on Dr. John Hamish Watson. He just won't, no, can't let them go. Having it make him who he is today, he just can't let go of Sherlock Holmes, the younger. 3 years. . .John thought to himself. 3 years? That is such a long time, yet it passed by John so fast like a blink of an eye. He never forgot the man who changed his life from hell all the way to maybe heaven. But now he is back down. Farther down. Below hell, in his eyes.
He visits Mrs. Hudson sometimes, gets his mood up at times. What a nice lady she is, always with a smile. Her smiles make John smile. Usually they would have a cup of tea and chat about what's new toward London. However, John goes inside 221B Baker St. He left a weeks after Sherlock's death. All of his usual things are at the same place it was left the last time Sherlock touched them. The skull, his books, tables and papers, but not his lab equipment. Mrs. Hudson did what she said, donate it to a school. It didn't really felt the same way to John though. It felt like it was empty without it.
We all know Mycroft, he watches everyone. He watches John a lot though, yet John doesn't know it, until he gets picked up by a black car.
"Oh god. . ." John whispers to himself.
"Hello, John. Been a while. Get in." Anthea says monotonically while texting.
John gets inside the car, only scratching the surface of what may happen during his meeting with Mycroft.
"Hello there, Dr. Watson. How long has it been since we had a little chat like this one?" Mycroft Holmes, the older says to John, getting tea ready.
"Three. Three years. . ." His voice turns low and soft near the end.
"I can see that you have been depressed. You should really stop crying though. That really isn't you."
John's eyes widen about how Mycroft knew about him crying over Sherlock's death. How can it surprise him though? He knows Mycroft. . .
"How- Nevermind. Why did you bring me here?"
"You miss him. Don't you?"
"Don't change the subject. Why did you-"
"That is the reason. Him."
John's hands twitch the same time Mycroft made a weak, little smile.
"It has come to my attention that you have a serious, loyal, and true bond with my brother. Well, you had one. You seem as though you have almost forgotten him."
"I haven't. Not one bit."
"Yet you try."
Mycroft gives John his tea and sits on his usual leather chair with his newspaper on his small table. Crossing his legs, he has his tea in hand and looks seriously at John. Deducing me, yet again John thought.
"You want to forget about the genius that lived in 221B, you just won't tell anyone."
"Maybe I do. Maybe I do, because of all the hell Moriarty did to us, but that does that mean I want to forget about the person that cared about me and-"
"Caring is not an advantage." Mycroft interrupted. "I even told him that. You do realize John that forgetting the hell part of your life with my brother means that you are just forgetting him entirely, don't you?"
John thinks about that last statement for a moment or two. Looking at his hands, and downward to the floor, his thought process being exceeded tremendously. His mind can't calm down from the fact that he is trying to forget Sherlock. All of him, because his life with Sherlock might have been just hell with the Moriarty VS Sherlock. Mycroft takes a few sips of his tea while John is still thinking.
"Have you finally realized what has happened? You miss, yet you want to forget. It's quite human to everyone, John. So don't get all depressed about it."
John looks up at Mycroft with a serious and semi-angry look.
"What should I do then, huh?"
"Forget. Everyone else has. Maybe should you, Dr. Watson."
Shaking his head slightly, John stands up from his chair and leaves the room, leaving Mycroft alone. Walking outside of the building, getting a cab, John notices the London sky, full of stars. Ah, yes, it is beautiful Sherlock might have said. Must be around 8:00pm right now. . .John thought. He gets inside, only to see a blur of his friend, Holmes, the younger. He sits down, eyes widen.
"Sherlock?" He calmly asks. But the driver only asked his address and John snaps from his vision. Only realizing sooner that he said his friends adress instead of his own.
Looking up at the flat, he just walks inside saying hello to Mrs. Hudson, and sitting in his chair inside the flat. What good, yet bad memories he has about Baker Street, the home of a genius and Consulting Detective. Refusing some tea, John just sits there, looking around the flat. He turns his head over to fireplace, again, only seeing Sherlock in his usual coat and scarf outside of the window next to the fireplace. With confusion, John rapidly stands up and fastly paces toward the window, minding Sherlock's violin on the chair next to the window. He moves the curtains a little for a more accurate and closer look, only to find his deduction and observation wrong again. What's with me today?
Nothings wrong with him though, after all, he had dinner with Mrs. Hudson on Baker Street and a nice chat before he left. He decided to walk home though, it wasn't that far.