All the characters in Sherlock belong to the BBC and the amazing Steven Mofat and Mark Gatiss, thank you guys for creating this wonderful twist on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock story after falling back in love with the series while re watching it while off work sick. I am not sure if this will be a proper fiction or just drabbles I just have to see how it goes...anyway enjoy.

Chapter One

'All the tea in China'

Dr John Watson sat nursing a stone cold mug of milky tea for about an hour. He stared blankly through the red gingham draped windows watching the early morning world bustle past but not really taking anything in. The quaint little cafe was situated roughly ten minutes walk from the flat in Baker Street and a further five minutes from the tube station which was just fine with John, he still couldn't bring himself to go any closer to number 221B, not without him. It had taken all his courage and yet another blazing with his sister 'Harry' for him to make it this far, to come back to London after all this time. And judging by the unwelcoming return of the pain in his leg and the way his left hand had started to tremble again he wasn't dealing very well with his decision to visit the capital.

John was just contemplating whether he was going to order a fresh mug of tea or pay his bill and wander down the street in search of a florist when his phone that lay upon the table in front of him chirp into life. John looked down at the battered but now treasured phone as the scratch screen lit up with a message. The caller ID had been withheld but John had a pretty good idea who had sent him the message. Snatching up the phone John thumbed the button to open up the message, his stomach tightened and his hands shook violently as he read the text. John slammed the phone down onto the table, rattling his mug and drawing unwanted attention to himself from the other customers. Two words, it had taken only two words to cruelly reopen the wounds of the past, to have him trembling with rage and on the verge of tears. John ground his teeth, fighting the bile rising, burning his throat, if he had somehow managed to force down the full English breakfast that now lay untouched and congealing upon the white china plate before him, he would have certainly lost it.

"No phone call, no text, no communication at all since the funeral and now he graces me with merely two blood words..." muttered John harshly under his breath as he just gazed at the message from Mycroft Holmes until the screen darkened.

'Remember him'

"How could I ever forget him?" John whispered as he covered his face with his hands, unaware the pretty blonde waitress that had taken his order was slowly making her way from behind the counter towards his table. John had never hated anyone in his life as much as he hated Sherlock's older brother, his short almost accusing message torn the doctor's grieving heart to shreds. How could he ever forget that socially awkward, infuriating, arrogant, fascinating, exciting genius of a man? And to even doubt that he could forget this day, a date that would be forever engraved upon his broken heart because watching his best friend...no...his only friend, the man that he owed so much jumped from the roof of Bartholomew's Hospital to his death would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even with the unspeakable horror, suffering and pain he had witnessed during his military service, all the comrades and pals he had lost nothing could have foretold just how deeply he would be traumatised by the suicide of the world's only consulting detective, his friend, Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you okay sir?" asked the waitress as she gently placed an anxious, comforting hand upon John's hunched shoulder. John startled by the sudden, unexpected human contact bolted upright in his chair knocking his mug over, the cold tea spilling over his untouched breakfast and soaking into the red gingham tablecloth. "I'm so sorry" gasped the waitress starting to redden with embarrassment. "I...I didn't mean to startle you...here let me get you another breakfast...on the house."

"No...I am fine honestly" replied John his cheeks equally as coloured and flushed. "I don't know why I ordered it in the first place when to tell you the truth I am really not that hungry"

"Well at least let me get you a fresh mug of tea, you look like you need cheering up and my grandmother use say things always seem better after a nice cup of tea" offered the young woman with an affectionate, hopeful smile.

"Thank you...that is very kind but no..." replied John sadly shaking his head as he rose from his chair, the legs scraping noisily across the tilted floor. He fumbled in depths of his jacket pocket, pushing out a crumbled twenty pound note and tossing it onto the table away from the spilt tea. It was more than enough to pay for his uneaten meal and the mess that his surprised clumsiness had caused. John headed towards the door and pulling it open he turned to glance back at the pretty blonde waitress. "Your grandmother was right and usually I would agree...it is just on this particular occasion I doubt even all the tea in China would help make things seem better..."

And slowly turning his back upon the bemused young woman Dr John Watson walked out of the cafe into the busy street and sadly set his mind upon finding somewhere he could purchase a fittingly beautiful, unique bouquet of flowers.