Standing on the sidewalk outside the hospital on the 6th of January to have a one-sided conversation with his dead friend was not something John had intended to make into a ritual. The first time, only months after Sherlock had plummeted to a gruesome death, it had been a coincidence that John had chosen to walk by Bart's, realising when he stopped to solemnly nod at the building that it was Sherlock's birthday; perhaps he had done it subconsciously. In any case, John had crossed the street to stand near to the spot where Sherlock died. And he'd spoken to his friend, discreetly as possible—no reason for anyone around to think he needed to go inside and get a psych eval—then wished Sherlock a happy birthday and moved on.
Today marked the third birthday Sherlock didn't get to see. John took a deep sigh, putting his hand against the building to lean there while he let himself get lost in his memories. It would always be sad, not having Sherlock around, not seeing his face twitching with a dozen emotions, running all over London and nearly killing John with his science. It did get easier, though, as the years stretched across the experiences and moments of unrestrained happiness John had. Going out with mates, talking about days at uni, grumbling about women and football—sometimes John felt as if 'normal' had crept back into his life. Even when he was alone, he could be watching telly or looking at websites and something would remind him of Sherlock, of some idea he'd had or the bizarre way he'd solved a crime and John could laugh and shake his head, saying his old flatmate's name out loud with fondness.
It seemed that the rest of the world had forgotten Sherlock; he no longer saw the colourful papers that said "I believe in Sherlock" blowing across the sidewalk or stuck to shop windows. It saddened John because Sherlock should have been remembered forever, should have been a legend, an archetype of valor and courage. Sherlock wouldn't have minded, though, if London forgot him, so long as the people who knew him could still remember him for who he was.
John sighed. He'd been standing there staring at the ground for a long time. "I keep saying I'm going to write you a letter," he began speaking, "but I know how you felt about my 'poetry'." He smirked, giving a little roll of his eyes. "You liked it better when what I said was unscripted, didn't you?" Sherlock had always seemed to find luminance in John's words when he spoke without thinking, or said his thoughts out loud. Those were the instances when John had been the 'conductor of light,' when he said something off the cuff. John nodded to himself. "You never responded to any text messages with 'Brilliant, John!', so must have been something about me talking to myself or stating the obvious. I'd like to think some of what I said was helpful just because it was some knowledge you didn't have, but who knows?"
John pressed his back against the cold bricks, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to keep from freezing. The messages on his website requesting help from Sherlock Holmes' blogger were getting more and more infrequent. John was no detective and cases that Sherlock could have solved by reading the first sentence had him stumped. He supposed people were beginning to realise that John had not gained Sherlock's level of brilliance simply by being around him; true, some tricks and skills had improved through watching his flatmate work, but he couldn't be Sherlock for the people who looked for his help. No one could be Sherlock, even the man who'd known him best.
John kicked a pebble into the street, as if brushing debris off Sherlock's grave. He swallowed painfully, knowing he should start to leave soon. "It was...interesting, being your friend. It was good. Knowing you was an adventure; knowing you for only a few years was adventure that could have filled lifetimes. Some days when I get home, I feel like I'd give anything to walk into the flat and see you sitting on the sofa having a strop about the lack of murder in the world, like there was anything I could do about it." In the weeks that had followed Sherlock's death, John had expected his flatmate to be there when he got home, or to be in the kitchen when he woke up. And a thousand times, he was disappointed and heartbroken when Sherlock was never there. "No matter what you thought or what people said, Sherlock, you were good." A simple word with thousands of complexities. Sherlock was brilliant, of course, and he was strong and he was passionate. He could even come off as kind if you were patient enough to catch him in the act. So caring and so remarkable. If Sherlock could have ignored all those qualities people saw in him and just see that John (and others) saw him as good person, John suspected the great detective would have been honoured.
John nodded once. "Happy birthday, Sherlock," he said softly. John postured himself rigidly and walked away from Bart's, feeling like he was connected to Sherlock again, just for a few minutes.
The doctor had no idea how soon it would be that he would be connected completely again.
XX
This story is brought to you in part by Moonblossom's brilliant Prompt Generator. The prompt was Sherlock and John, Gen, Angst, St. Bart's, and Holidays.