John bolted upright in bed as a muffled scream escaped his lips. His heart was pounding, his head ached, and he was covered in sweat. He tried to slow his rapid breathing and suppress the tears that always tried to accompany his terrifying nightmares. He wasn't really sure what he was trying to hide. There was no one here he hear his screams or cries. Sherlock wasn't in the next room and he wasn't in 221B.

He couldn't remember what this dream was about but he felt the terror of it. Sometimes he didn't remember the dreams upon waking. Other times he remembered the nightmares so vividly they haunted him throughout the day. Some of the nightmares were memories of the battlefield, something he hadn't dreamed of since before he had met…Sherlock. But more often than that, he dreamed of that day, of the fall. Over and over again he saw his best friend lying dead on the concrete, looked into his vacant eyes, felt his life less hand, saw the blood-so much blood. Over and over again he relived that last conversation. Thinking about it all made it even harder to calm his pounding heart.

He glanced at the clock and his heart sank even farther. It read 9:30am, which meant he was late for work…again. He should have been at work at 8:00. He threw back the covers and dragged his worthless right leg over the side of the bed. He hated that stupid leg. It ached, even now, taunting him. Shortly after that day, his limp had returned with a vengeance. And the worst of it was now he knew it was all in his head. Before, he had been able to try and fool himself into thinking it really was injured. But there was no fooling himself this time. There was obviously nothing physically wrong with his leg. But even though he knew that, it hurt as much as if it actually was injured. He hated the sight of the walking cane that sat beside the bed, the one he needed to get around now.

While reaching for his cane his feet hit the glass bottles that littered his floor and he remembered why he had overslept, though his pounding headache was a good clue too. They were the reason that he kept oversleeping time and time again but then again they were the reason he could sleep at all. The dullness of his days and the past that haunted him drove his mind crazy to the point where he couldn't sleep. Not that he was in a big hurry to return to the sleep that, almost every night, involved frightening dreams. Many nights he just didn't sleep. But he couldn't stay up forever and on those nights he needed to sleep alcohol made it possible.

He looked around his small cluttered bedroom and let out sigh. It was so different from 221B, so different from the life he used to live. He took a deep, shaky breath and prepared for the day ahead. It would be a day full of doing things he didn't care about, a day full of trying to act like something he wasn't. Another day full of hiding who he really was, of who he had become.

When he arrived at the small clinic he now worked at the waiting room was full of patients, his patients. He'd seen this sight more times than he cared to admit. Restlessness and agitation was clearly written on their faces and he knew they'd been kept waiting. He had kept them waiting and he instantly felt guilty. He really hated doing such a poor job. As he walked in he tried to ignore the girl at the front desk. He flashed her a brief smile and tried to just walk quickly to his office so he could start on all the work he had to do. But she stopped him. "Dr. Watson. Dr. Bryant would like to speak with you."

He gritted his teeth because he knew what that meant and it wasn't good. He put on a friendly face for her and said "Thanks-"but he stopped because he couldn't remember the girl's name. He hadn't bothered to find out. He didn't make small talk with co-workers or try to get to know anyone these days. And, honestly, he hadn't been here long enough to find out much of anything anyway. He just walked away and left it at that.

He waited in Dr. Bryant's office for a long time, while he, no doubt, cleaned up the mess that John's tardiness had created. The wait only gave him time to think, which he hated. He knew was what was coming. He'd been in this position more times then he to dwell on. He was embarrassed when he thought of how many places he had worked in the past three years. But every time he got himself let go. He was always late for work and even when he was there he was careless. The quality of his work was less than outstanding and he often nodded off at his desk. He couldn't make himself sleep at his flat but he had no problem finding it at work.

Sometimes he really despised himself. He used to love being a doctor. The work use to thrill and excite him and he had been so good at it. But after the war things were different. After all he had experienced during the war, coming back and being a 'normal' doctor hadn't felt right. Sherlock had been the answer to his dilemma. After Sherlock had…gone, John was hopeful he could find some renewed purpose in his previous profession but that hadn't been the case.

Why couldn't he just get over it? Why was it still a problem after nearly 3 years? Why couldn't he get a job and keep it? Why couldn't be just be satisfied with a normal life? But here he was again, waiting to get fired.

Finally, Dr. Bryant walked in the room, looking tired. He smiled at John but it didn't even get close to his eyes. John knew he was trying hide what he was about to say but John knew. This wasn't new to him.

"Good morning, John" he said, sitting down behind his desk.

"Good morning," John managed to reply even though it wasn't one.

"John" he said with a sigh and a pause. He looked down. "This is your fifth tardiness."

"I know, sir"

"That's quite a lot of times."

"I know and I apologize." John was trying to be polite but he knew there was nothing he could say. He knew that no matter what he said now, Dr. Bryant had already made up his mind. But John tried, at least, not to be a jerk about it. He knew that people didn't like him that much these days. He was quiet and kept to himself and most people took that offensively.

"John, when you came here I didn't ask about your employment history. I knew that you had had a tardiness problem before but I wanted to give you a chance. And, frankly, I needed help bad enough that I didn't ask you to explain it. But I don't think this is going to work out. I need someone who can be here and on time."

John knew it was coming but it still didn't make this any less painful. He didn't feel much these days but he did feel the blow to his ego. He'd been fired again. And he hated it when people looked at him like Dr. Bryant was looking at him now. He was looking at him with pity. This was the reason that he didn't talk with people; he didn't do a very good job of hiding the mess that he was and he didn't want people to see it.

"John…I don't know what it is you're going through but I think you're going to need to get some help."

Heat flooded John's face and he stood up. He wasn't about to talk to this man about what he was "going through." John had tried to get help, but there was no help for John and his problems. No solutions, no miracles to be found. "Thank you for the opportunity. I'm sorry that it did not work out," was all he said as he turned and walked out of the office as fast as he could.

When John left the clinic he didn't feel like going straight to his flat and sitting there a lone for the rest of the day, so he wandered to a nearby park. There were lots of people in the park today. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year and it was a rare sunny day. A normal person would say it was nice a day but if John knew anything, it was that he was not normal, and hadn't been for quite some time.

When he finally found an empty bench he sat down and thought about his day. It wasn't really the loss of the job that bothered him. Dr. Bryant was arrogant and John hadn't liked him from the first time he met him. John also knew that he was being grossly under paid there. But with his recent employment history, he didn't have a lot of options. When most places found out how many times he had been let go in the past three years they he never heard from them again. Dr. Bryant had been glad to have John, not out of the goodness of his heart like he had claimed, but because John willing to put up with him and accept the meager wages he was willing to pay. No, come to think of it, John was glad to be rid of the job and that whole place.

But being fired again did bother him. He hadn't been able to keep a job for more than a couple of months. It bothered him that he couldn't move on. He'd turned into something he never had thought he would become. He'd never been much of a drinker. He'd drank from time to time but it was for enjoyment not for survival. Now he drank every day and it was interfering with his life. He'd always been a pretty good doctor. Now he was a pretty lousy one, if he was to be perfectly honest with himself.

He was lost. He didn't know who he was or what his purpose was. Nothing brought him excitement or contentment. He never felt like doing anything and he was so tired, tired all the time, in body and mind.

As he sat there and thought, he watched people in the park. Mothers were out playing with their children, people were walking by or riding on bikes, a few couples walked hand in hand. They were all so happy, enjoying the nice day. John couldn't remember the last time he was happy or had enjoyed something. And he almost never did anything with anyone else. He spent most of his time alone which he knew didn't help but he couldn't seem to help himself from keeping everyone at a distance.

He'd never really had many friends before. He'd had acquaintances but not friends. Sherlock really was his one and only true friend. John wasn't good at making casual friends and he didn't really trust people. It was rare for him to make a friend but when he did they were good friend. Stamford had tried to reach out him a few times but after a while he gave up and now John never saw him. He really couldn't blame Stamford; John knew he had driven him away. John hadn't wanted to talk to anyone about what had happened and he really just wanted to be alone.

John had felt this way to some degree when he had returned from the war. Back then he had been lost and didn't know what the purpose was in his life. His life had been missing something and he had been terribly lonely. But Sherlock had changed all of that. He'd changed John's life for the better in so many ways. He had made things exciting and had given John purpose. Life was better with him around. John was better with him around. John had never met someone who motivated him and brought out the best in him the way Sherlock had. A lump formed in John's throat, just thinking about it. He quickly chocked it back because there was no way he was going to lose it here, in such a public place.

But John knew that this time was so much worse. The time after the war had been somewhat brief. He had been depressed and lonely but he did not have the burden that he lived with now. Before, he had not known the burden of watching with your own eyes, your best friend, your other half, kill himself right in front of you. He knew that this was why it was so hard to move on. Sherlock had not died of natural causes. He had chosen death. He had decided, for some reason, that death was preferable to life. He had chosen to give up, to just stop everything. He had chosen to leave John. How could John live with that? When he had met Sherlock, Sherlock had given him a new reason to live. He'd given him a mission, a purpose, companionship. He'd filled a hole in John's life. But if Sherlock, who had been John's reason not to give up on life, had given up on life himself, what did that mean for John?

"Why did you leave me?" John whispered softly to himself. "I needed you…I still need you. I'm a mess without you" Not only was his throat a burning fire now, but his eyes sung with the tears he held back. He usually did not indulge in such thoughts in public for this very reason, but for some reason he almost didn't care. He was so tired of being alone, of hurting, of feeling like a drunk and a failure. Why couldn't he get past this? He'd seen buddies of his die before. In the war it was an all too common occurrence. But they had not chosen death. Life had been stolen from them; they had not thrown it away. And he had not been nearly as close to them as he had been to Sherlock.

The whole of it felt unresolved. He felt betrayed by Sherlock. Sherlock had decided to give up on life. He'd decided to give up on his work. He'd just given up on it. And he had given up on John. But it wasn't just that he'd chosen to put John in this lonely position that bothered him. It also bothered him because he knew, with certainty, that there was more to this whole thing than he knew. He knew that Sherlock had lied to him.

There was more to this than John knew and he had spent three years racking his brain to figure it out. The whole thing didn't make sense to him. Sherlock wouldn't commit suicide. Sherlock wouldn't have given in to anyone. He wouldn't have given up on his work. He wouldn't have given up. But then, why had he?

He figured that Moriarty was involved in this somehow. John had thought at the time that he knew what was going on but now he knew that Sherlock had been keeping a lot from him. He knew that Sherlock had had someone to call him and tell him that day that Mrs. Hudson had been shot just to get him to go away. What had happened between the time that he had left Sherlock until the time that he had seen him again on the roof? Why had he sent John away, kept his plans a mystery to John? He wished he knew, but he was no closer to figuring it out than he had been that day.

John put his face in his hands. He felt so tired and the day wasn't even half over. He somehow just couldn't believe that Sherlock had wanted to kill himself. He didn't believe for one second that it bothered him that people would think he was a fraud. Sherlock knew he was brilliant and he was arrogant enough that that was enough for him. So, what had happened to his friend? What dreadful thing had happened to make him do such a terrible thing? He felt like such a failure for not knowing what had been going on and for not being there when Sherlock needed him.

John grabbed his cane and slowly stood up. He braced himself to head back to a flat that wasn't home. He braced himself for the loneliness that waited for him and the drinking he was sure to do and the nightmares that would undoubtedly visit him. He had just started to walk away when he stopped. He got that strange feeling that someone was watching him. He stopped and looked around. There were lots of people around but none of them seemed to be looking directly at him. He shook his head. Now he was starting to lose it. He'd been so worried that someone would see him that now he was imagined someone was staring him down. He continued to walk back to his flat but the feeling did not leave him.

When John returned to his flat he was surprised to find that he was not alone. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around the kitchen humming softly to herself. He saw that she had already done an enormous sink full of dishes which were drying on the newly cleaned counter tops. He thought of quickly going to straighten up his bedroom but he saw that the bin was full of glass bottles which suggested she had already been back there and cleaned up; he usually tried to get rid of them at least, for her sake, even though knew he wasn't fooling her. She was filling a bucket with water and soap to mop his floor when she noticed that he was home. She turned around with a look of surprise on her face.

"What are you doing home so early, dear?"

She'd been doing this every couple of weeks since he'd left 221B. He hadn't stepped foot in his old flat since the morning of Sherlock's funeral. After he'd watched them place Sherlock in the ground he just couldn't force himself to return to the home they had shared. He'd ridden a cab back from the funeral with Mrs. Hudson and had gotten out, but when he looked at the door he couldn't go inside. He couldn't face the place where they had lived now that Sherlock's life was over. He couldn't see Sherlock's things lying around never to be returned to. He'd gone to a hotel just long enough until he could find a somewhat decent enough flat in his price range.

Mrs. Hudson had been nice enough to send his things to him but she had been strongly against him moving out. She'd nearly begged him to stay. She'd said many times over that she didn't care about the rent that she just wanted him to stay. And he knew he should have but he selfishly couldn't. She naturally thought his new flat was not good enough and he had thought nothing of it when she showed up the day he moved in. She'd given the whole place a good scrub, complaining the whole time. He hadn't been able to make out much of her mumblings but thought most of it had something to do with a "good-for-nothing management." She'd been a great help to him that day helping him get everything moved in and settled.

But when she had shown up a couple of weeks later with cleaning supplies he had been angry. He had been in bed at the time, even though it was early afternoon, and he had had a hard time dragging himself out to answer the door. It had only been a month since Sherlock's funeral and he had spent most of that time in bed. The kitchen was nearly empty, the entire flat was dirty, and there were signs everywhere of his newly acquired drinking habit. His limp had also returned in that time and he had to hobble to the door with his cane. It was obvious that he had not been taking care of himself.

Her unannounced visit had made him angry because he was not prepared for nor did he want visitors. He didn't want to let anyone in, to see how much he was struggling. He had really wanted to be left alone with his suffering. He was embarrassed to have her see the state of him and his new flat. He felt weak at the way he was handling things, with his psychosomatic limp back and his turn to alcohol as a coping mechanisms. He knew when he opened the door that she would see it all and would know how poorly he was doing.

When he opened the door he had been less than friendly with her. "What are you doing here?" he'd nearly barked at her and she bustled in.

She looked at him with surprise. It probably had more to with his tone of voice than his appearance, but it made him feel self-conscience all the same. He couldn't remember how long he had been wearing the rumbled pajamas or the last time he'd showered. He hadn't shaved in weeks and he knew his breath must smell like alcohol. "I'm here to help, which by the look of things, you need," she said giving the flat of look.

He knew she hadn't meant to be hurtful but it still felt like an insult. "Well, I don't need your help. You're not my housekeeper, remember?"

He knew he was being cruel and he didn't know why. Her face sank for a moment, then she clutched the bag closer to her and raised her chin. "You've never needed one before but apparently you do now," she said and then turned for the kitchen and began rummaging though his cabinets and refrigerator.

John couldn't believe this. How could she have such nerve? He followed her in quickly to the kitchen where she had her back to him, busying herself with some activity. "I don't need a housekeeper."

"Oh really, and your flat looks this way because you're so good at this yourself?"

John cheeks burned. How dare she come in here and mock him in his own flat. This was his flat, his life, his pain. If he wanted to make of mess of it all, it was his own business and he wasn't going to let her come in and insult him this way. "Mrs. Hudson, I don't want you here."

She stopped what she was doing and turned to him. To his surprise tears were running down her face. "You're not the only one who's hurting you know…I loved Sherlock too." It was hard for her to get her words out between sobs.

John was taken back. He hadn't expected this. He was ashamed to say that he hadn't thought about the way that she had been handling things at all. He had just thought about himself and his own pain. He'd never stopped to look at those around him. "I know its different for you" she said, "I know how close the two of you were. And I know that you're hurting terribly…but so am I. I miss him…and I miss you."

She looked him in the face now and he didn't feel embarrassed anymore. He didn't mind that she could see what he was now, see the extent of his pain. "Sherlock just took his life and threw it away. But I'm not going to let you do the same thing if there is anything I can do about it…I might not be your housekeeper…but we're family."

She wrapped her arms around her let the sobs overcome her. Tears sprang to John's eyes and he didn't even try to blink them away. He let them spill over as he looked at her. All this time, he'd thought he'd been a lone in his feelings. He'd been so wrapped up in his pain he hadn't even bothered to take notice of Mrs. Hudson and what she was going through. He hadn't bothered to think that Sherlock's death had affected anyone but himself.

He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back and continued to cry. "Please John…I don't want to lose you too."

Even on his darkest day John had never thought of killing himself. He would never consciously decide to end his life. But the course of action he was on until that day may have very well led him there anyway. He'd been wrong; he did need her. And he saw that she needed him too.

"You won't. I promise you won't."

Since that day he had tried his hardest to survive. He wasn't what you would call living, but he was surviving. And since that day, about every two weeks, Mrs. Hudson came to his flat. She cleaned and made sure he was taking care of himself. She made sure he had food in the house and made sure he actually got around to eating it once in a while. At first it had bothered him to take the help. But it was just his pride that got in the way; he really did need the help. He'd hate to think what the flat would look like without her help.

He'd given her a key and she usually came during the day, when he was at work. She knew that it bothered him to need the help so she made sure she came and did the most of the work while he wasn't there, though she always stayed long enough that they could have some tea or a meal when he got home. It was rare that he should come home so early and find her still at work like this.

He sat down in his chair and let out a sigh. "Well, its happened again. They've given me the boot." He was trying to make light of it but neither of them was laughing about it.

She came and sat in the chair across from John and gave him a sympathetic look. "John, I'm sorry."

"Its my own fault. I showed up late numerous times. They had the right to let me go."

"What are you going to do John?"

"I really don't know."

"Maybe doctoring just isn't right for you right now." Mrs. Hudson had been the one to encourage him to enter the medical field again and she had been right to do it too. He'd needed something to occupy his mind, to give him a purpose. It just wasn't working the way he had thought it would. He needed to find something new. He just didn't know what that would be.

"I don't know," he said with a sigh, looking down. "I'll put the kettle on."

"No," she said getting up "Let me. You've had a rough day."

She was off to the kitchen bustling about, when the doorbell rang. It was so strange that his doorbell should be ringing that it almost didn't register that he should answer it. "Are you expecting a visitor?" Mrs. Hudson called from the kitchen.

"No, I'm not," he answered. I don't get visitors he thought. He walked to the door and to his surprise he saw Greg Lestrade standing.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Greg. What can I do for you?" John figured he might as well get to the point. He hadn't seen Lestrade since Sherlock's funeral. It wasn't that he harbored any ill feelings towards him; he believed that Lestrade really had been on Sherlock's side. He just hadn't had any reason to see him. Without Sherlock there were no cases to solve.

"I have something that you might want to see."

"I don't solve crimes anymore."

"I really think you should see this. Its about you."

This caught John's interest. "About me?"

Lestrade held up his phone and on the screen was a picture of Lestrade's office. Written in big bold letters on his window were the words "GET JOHN WATSON."