A/N: There was a note to self on this fic that it was inspired by Breakaway by Kelly Clarkson. Do with that what you will.
A week of silence, and a call comes for Doctor Watson.
It's Lestrade, wanting help on a case.
The next best thing, he says. John knows he needs a distraction anyways. Alone with thoughts of a dead man, Watson knows he can't last much longer like this. He takes the case.
His former partner in crime must have rubbed off on him. After the first few mysteries solved with fumbling observations, chance guesses, wild assumptions, and a few mistakes he gets the hang of it.
After a year, he's nearly as good as Sherlock.
They all admire him. The good doctor has all the intellect of his old comrade, and all the humanity and kindness of the man he used to be. Donovan is rather fond of him. Anderson begrudgingly admires him. Lestrade looks on him with sadn oess in his eyes, seeing the emptiness and the hollow look in his eyes that the others don't notice.
He hides behind a smile and a laugh, but it never reaches his eyes. The feelings never go away, never fade, never disappear. It's all he can do to try and overshadow the pain with distraction.
He's skating through life now, trying to not trip and fall.
Some cases hit too close to home.
Mycroft only makes things worse. The cold, calculating eyes and wry humor are much to similar to someone else.
He doesn't text.
He catches himself making a second cup of tea when he's he only one home.
He still lives in 221B.
His nightmares are back again, with a torturous addition. More often than naught he wakes up screaming into the night. He has dark shadows bruising his eyes, and they grow darker every night.
The break time between cases was the hardest. Haunted by memories still sharp with clarity and pain, he is useless. Hollow and depressed without something else to concentrate on other than the past.
Despite being in the same job as Sherlock used to be, Watson had learned his) lesson on the dangers of pursuing(literally) such a career. He was less reckless than the old detective, if only slightly. He got shot at not quite as frequently as he had been, and rarely got himself into a fight from being rude and/or insensitive.
A year after the day Watson found himself standing at Sherlock's gravestone. He had no idea how he had gotten there; he had just been walking around London. He stared at the stone unfeelingly, emotionless. He looked at his hand numbly, seeing he was holding a bouquet of roses. He vaguely wondered when he had bought them.
He tossed them on the grass in front of the headstone.
"You bastard."
The grave didn't reply.
"I loved you. I bloody loved you and you go off and kill yourself. But what should I expect? You're as insensitive as they come. Even if I bloody hate you, I can't help but miss you. Because I love you." Watson suppressed the urge to kick the stone, and turned to leave. He paused, his back back to his dead friend.
"I suppose you don't have any friends after all. Just an idiot who's fallen love with you."
He limped away, wishing he had remembered his cane.
Time passed. Another year and he found himself at the cemetery again. He had a handful of white roses bound together with a string. He left them there after saying his piece. "Daft git. When someone loves you, you're not supposed to die before they can tell you. It's not proper etiquette." He turned on his heel and marched away, his constricting throat telling him he was dangerously close to crying.
One more time. One more year. One more visit. John walks slowly to the gravestone for the third time. It's been three years. He's made himself a fine sum working as a consulting detective and part time doctor. Sherlock is still there, a constant presence in John's mind. He isn't as depressed anymore, but it still hurts to think of him too much.