John entered the flat, feet pressing against the creaking staircase. He could hear Sherlock's violin as he entered the room.

He was wearing his purple button-up shirt with black pants, standing in front of the window. His slender fingers danced from string to string as the other ran the ebony bow back and forth. Without turning his head, Sherlock acknowledged John's presence, "Did you get in a row with a machine this time?" He could hear Sherlock smirk.

"No. I didn't." John said, matter-of-factly. "Any cases?"

Sherlock put the instrument down, shaking his head, "Only the boring ones."

John sighed, "Figured." He muttered, putting the milk in the fridge. He took off his coat and draped it over the chair, checking his buzzing phone. "Your brother is still calling me. Why does he keep calling me?"

Sherlock sighed and sat across from John, steepling his fingers under his chin, "Because, John, Mycroft likes knowing. He likes feeling...in control." He drank his cup of tea and sighed, "I need a case. How do you do this, John? Sit all day, write on your blog? It's extremely dull."

John sighed and opened his laptop, looking at Sherlock, "Here. I got these in an e-mail."

He handed the computer to Sherlock, who scrolled through the pictures of the crime scene, "The sister did it." He said, casually restoring his previous position. Sherlock groaned, "I need something real. Something...worth while."

The phone rang and John picked up, "Hello?"

"We need your help." Lestrade.

"We'll meet you at the office." John put the phone back on it's cradle as Sherlock was putting on his coat.

"Finally." Sherlock whispered as he hurried down the stairs.

That's how John's schedule was, daily, before the...accident. Now, he would still hear the violin playing, or Sherlock ruffling paperwork. It was weird. Hearing things that weren't there. His flat-mate's death was splattered across the front page of every magazine and newspaper. It was a constant reminder of something that John felt guilt for. He felt like it was his fault for Sherlock's suicide. Even if it wasn't about him.

Maybe it was.

John quickly dismissed the thought as He sat on the couch. It still smelled like Sherlock. Nowadays, everything in the flat did.

He couldn't sit still. His feet would tap or his fingers would rub against his palms. Eventually, John grabbed his coat and left the flat, heading towards the graveyard. Sherlock's black headstone was still there, reflecting the image of John's sad, hesitant figure. He stood in front of the grave and smiled, "Morning..." He said, leaning against the tall grave stone behind him, "I know you wouldn't care if I said this, even if you are dead, but Happy Birthday." The wind blew john's hair to the side and the trees rustled, adding to the gloom. Grey clouds were already gathering in the sky and droplets were already hitting his coat, soaking his hair, running down the headstone.

John's hand was resting on top of the memorial and He smiled behind the sadness growing inside of his head, "Please don't leave. It's been 2 years, Sherlock. 2 years." His smile vanished as he gave in to the depression, "I can't get over this. You can't just...leave. You were my only friend. You saved me."

His head dropped back to his side as he faked another smile, "Goodbye, Sherlock." With that, he left the yard.

Little did he know, that Sherlock was there. He'd always been there. He had heard every word and seen every emotion that came from John's fragile mind. He would stay here. Always.