This is my first attempt at any kind of Sherlock fanfiction. I am quite proud of it, though. Mostly, it's written out of Reichenbach ~feelings~ and yeah. I hope you enjoy it! (Oh, and this isn't meant to be slash, I swear. I ship these two like fedex, but this isn't meant to be them as a couple. Just one of the greatest friendships in the history of fictional characters.


It had been six months since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

John liked to believe that he was moving on. Really, he did. He'd moved on from deaths of loved ones before, same as anybody. So why was this so difficult?

Sherlock was fantastic, absolutely fantastic. His closest friend, and the biggest enigma he'd ever known. It wasn't as if Sherlock had been particularly mysterious, he hadn't gone out of his way to be all that interesting. Mostly, John wondered how a man could go through 30+ years of life without knowing the simplest of things. And that was fascinating to him.

But he was gone. It'd been two months since he'd even gone to Sherlock's grave, four since he'd said anything to the dead bastard, and five since he'd shed a single tear. And that was how it should be, wasn't it? He wasn't forgetting Sherlock Holmes. He was just learning to live without him.

Which was definitely a struggle. His life had come to revolve around Sherlock. Around his frequent texts, summoning from the other side of London simply because his tea was slightly out of reach. The cases that kept him occupied and interested, that had built a bond between the men stronger than anything John had ever encountered.

And after six months, John should be able to cope with that. He should be able to smile without struggle, to walk around the flat without a lump rising to his throat and choking him with the stark reminder that Sherlock Holmes was gone.

He couldn't even bring himself to look at the deerstalker still sitting on the end of the mantle.

But it'd been six bloody months! He'd been a soldier, for Christ's sake. It wasn't as if Sherlock's death was the most gruesome he'd ever seen-not even close-or that Sherlock's was the first corpse he'd recognized. He wasn't the first person he'd known to commit suicide, either. Life of a soldier, as it was.

But Sherlock was different. Sherlock wasn't a soldier, or a saint. Half the time, John hadn't even been sure he was human!

Sherlock was just Sherlock.

The most interesting man in the world, he thought with the slightest chuckle, so small that it resembled a cough, really. He felt the muscles in his face pulling his lips into the faintest hint of a smile, but his mouth refused. It remained set in a firm, grim line.

"Damn you, Sherlock," John muttered. The clock on the table informed him that it was ten at night. He should probably get to sleep sometime soon. He had yet another job interview in the morning. Another hospital position he'd no doubt be fired from within the next month, told that he was a great doctor, but his current preoccupation prevented him from working properly. Maybe, he could come back when he could manage to focus on the work?

He was certain he'd never go back to any of those places. But he was qualified, and he needed the money. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had given him a slight discount on the rent, but she never let him forget it, and it was spreading him a little thin in the monetary department.

"Did you hear me?" he murmured. He was aware of the fact that no one was listening. It didn't really seem to matter. "I said, damn you, Sherlock Holmes!" He rose to his feet, shouting the words, and then sank back down into the cushion, suddenly exhausted.

"I don't know what to do anymore," he confided to the open air. "Why can't you just be here? Why can't you just…not be…dead?" And he wept. He'd been bending to his breaking point for more than a while. His closest friend was dead, and the world had kept turning. How was that even possible.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated, bringing him back to reality. He quickly wiped away his tears and composed himself. No one could see him, he knew that. It didn't matter, though. The moment of weakness had passed. Time to face whoever was texting him now.

He pulled out the phone and flipped it open, then gasped, staring at the message in shock and disbelief.

"Hello, John. -SH