John put on his coat, leaving the hospital for the day. The air was still a bit cold and the sun was raising already, a promise of a clear day sky. He tried to remember the last time he had seen the sky outside of the confines of the hospital. Two days ago, maybe? He had asked for a few extra hours. He was having trouble sleeping anyway, so might as well do something usefull to fill the hours of his day. The last shift had been a little heavy. A school bus had crashed and even though it hadn't been a serious accident, some children needed medical care and the other had to be checked, mostly to quiet down all concerned parents. It had been hectic, anyway. Still, the smile on the children's face had made it all worthy. Nothing heals a broken leg better than a balloon and a box of chocolates. John had lost count of how many coffees he had drank those two days and he wasn't sure how many hours without a break he had worked. He felt stiff, needed to stretch a bit. Sleep could wait now. And, to be honest, going to bed was the time of day he dreaded the most. The nightmares were constant and more than once he had woken up, calling Sherlock's name to an empty house. Going to the hospital everyday didn't help forget. But it was not as if it made it worse. He would think about the day of the fall at different times, in different places, for various reasons. And it had been Molly who had helped him get that job. St. Bart's was a nice place to work, and the memories would always haunt him, working there every day or not.
He crossed the street, deciding to go for a walk. He had always liked to walk by the Thames and lose himself in thought. The questions that came to his mind were always the same. Why did he do it? What on earth had gone through his mind to kill himself? He was not a fake, he could not be a fake. Sherlock was a genius, of that John had no doubt. So, why did he say those words while standing on the top of the roof that day? Why did he claim to be a fake? John had gone through the process many times before. Putting pieces together, but all seemed to lead to the fact that Agent Donovan was right. That Sherlock was indeed a fake. But that, John could not accept nor believe. He knew very few things in life, but of Sherlock's authenticity he was certain.
It had been so long now. Hope had started to vanish somehow. Even after the funeral John was sure Sherlock would show up and help clear all this mess, his name, that Sherlock would come back and make everything okay again. But months had passed and not a sign of his friend. John had tried to talk to Mycroft many times but the older Holmes seemed to be always too busy for him and would always give him the same answer. 'He's dead, John. You have to accept it. Get over it'. As if getting over someone's death was something that one could get himself to do. He had tried. Only God knows how he had tried. But it was always there, like a shadow that you could see but never grab. Of course hope was a thin line, ready to break at any second. If he was alive, like John believed, wouldn't he have shown up already and say it? And if Sherlock had pretend being dead, wouldn't know be enough, couldn't he at least give him a sign that everything was fine?
John shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Tired enough maybe to go home and fall asleep right away, without filling his head with bad thoughts. The nightmares were always worse when he did that.
A homeless man, covered in ragged clothes, hats and a dirty blanket spoke to him as he approached him.
"Got some change?"
John looked in his pockets and placed some coins by the feet of the homeless man, thinking about which route to take home. He walked a few steps, wondering that maybe he could have something to eat at Speedy's, they always opened soon and had the best cakes in London. Something popped in his mind, something that stroked him as odd. Even though he could not see the face of the homeless man he had noticed something on his wrist that was left uncovered when the man reached to grab the coins. A watch. A good watch, a good brand. He could have found it in the garbage, it was certain, but there was something else. His voice. A deep, low voice. He knew that watch, and he knew that voice, he should be able to know it anywhere. John turned around, his heart racing as if he had been running miles and miles. The homeless man was nowhere to be seen. John looked around but nothing, the streets were desert, not a single soul moving. He closed his eyes. No, it couldn't be. John smiled, half-heartedly, feeling sorry for himself. He leaned against the iron fence, looking at the Thames, slowly dancing down there. He bowed his head a little and cried. For Sherlock, for the man that had disappeared and was lost forever, for the detective and brilliant mind the world has lost. And mostly, he cried for himself.
Far away, hidden behind a wall of a desert alley Sherlock Holmes watched his friend. He saw first the recognition, then the confusion and disappointment and finally, the defeat. Sherlock held the coins John had given him in his hand, closed in a fist. He sighed. It was time to let go. It was getting too dangerous and he was getting too close. John needed to be safe. And, no matter how much that could hurt him, safe he would have to keep him. If at least he could tell him how sorry he was. But he couldn't. He turned around and disappeared before allowing the tears to fall down his own face. He was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes didn't care. If only believing the words was as easy as saying them.