Dr. John Watson's life was finally starting to move forward again.
A year and a half had passed since the ….incident… on the roof of Bart's. Sure, John couldn't bring himself to walk down Baker street, let alone walk near Bart's, but that's to be expected. He had lost the cleverest, most amazing, most brilliant man he had ever known, his closest friend, Sherlock Holmes.
In the weeks following Sherlock's death, John had packed his bags and left 221b Baker street for good. He apologized endlessly to Mrs. Hudson, but made it clear that he had to go. Each time he closed his eyes in the too-big flat, he was immediately overrun with the image of Sherlock's death. When that terrible scene played out in his mind, it was often mingled with memories of the happier times in 221b. Those hurt more than the fall ever could.
The only two people from that life with whom John still kept in touch were Greg Lestrade and Sarah Sawyer. Greg had at first forced the contact, but in time had become John's closest friend. Not, of course, as close as John and Sherlock had been. John would never have another friend like that.
He and Greg would go out for a pint together every once in a while and just talk. About life, about football, but never, ever about Sherlock. That was one thing that John had made clear when they started this "friendship" of sorts. Greg would talk of work and his family. Of how much of an arse Anderson was being. Of how they all missed John and wished he would rejoin them.
Sarah was in John's life only because she had to be. She and John had long since agreed that their relationship was better off platonic. She was his boss, and that's all she would ever be. To her credit, she had been extremely understanding throughout the trauma. She allowed John more than enough time for grieving, but when enough was enough, had forced him to work again, if only to take his mind off of him for a few hours each day.
On one such day, John was in his office, completing the files of the patient he had just finished seeing. John had recognized some of the early signs of Alzheimer's in the woman and referred her to a specialist and friend of his.
Some days, John finds himself wishing to be one of his patients. That woman will forget the pain of her life. She will be numb, and on days like today, all he wants to be is numb. Other days, however, he can't stand the thought of ever forgetting Sherlock. The way his obscenely pale, blue eyes were always scrutinizing, always deducing. The way his mop of unruly curls always managed to look styled, whether Sherlock had just rolled out of bed or just come in from running around all of London chasing a suspect. The way his face looked when John could get him to crack one of his rare smiles. Sherlock's face would squish up onto itself and all worries dissolved. Those angular features all at once smashed together, making Sherlock seem much less intimidating. That smile was what John loved, and missed the most about Sherlock.
Of course he missed the man's amazing brain, and the way he would defend the good doctor until the very end. But Sherlock's velvety laugh and childlike smile could make the hardened war hero simply melt. That smile is what filled John's dreams and nightmares alike.
John smiled, shook off the memories, and gathered the last of his. He shrugged out of his white lab coat and into a large cozy jumper. There was no need for a coat in September, and a nice jumper, paired with a cuppa, could make anything a little more bearable. Well, almost anything.
He sighed as he look at the cane resting on the edge of his desk. It was simple and silver, one of the aluminum kinds distributed by doctor's for temporary use. It gave John hope that his limp would once again go away. He knew deep down that there was no chance of that without Sherlock.
The limp returned the week after Sherlock's funeral. There was no longer any denying that it was psychosomatic. John's family had bought John an intricately carved, mahogany cane and John absolutely hated the blasted thing. He hated it almost as much as his damned leg.
That cane had almost immediately found a home in a closet at John's flat. The closet that seldom opened. The day John moved into the flat, He filled this closet with all of Sherlock's things. Hundreds of medical texts, microscopes, even Sherlock's suits. Anything of his that would fit went into the closet. Anything that didn't was put into a small storage facility just outside of London.
John blinked away the mist in his eyes that reminiscing about Sherlock had brought about. He leaned down to put that last of his patient files into the metal filing cabinet on his left. As he was hunched over, trying to get the damned thing to stop sticking, the door to his office opened and closed. Before the doctor could sit up and huff that "the office was closed and honestly hadn't that person ever heard of knocking-", the figure spoke.
"Sorry, John, I know how you do hate when I don't knock, but I thought this might be of some importance." John looked up in disbelief. He would know that deep, strong voice anywhere. Sure enough, standing in front of him was a man of 6'2 with a mop of raven curls and a long black coat with the ever so pretentious collar turned up. John was looking at none other that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. And, like the flick of a switch, John's world was back in place, as if the last year and a half had been nothing but a terrible, horrifying nightmare.