End of May
Monday:
His alarm goes off.
He gets up.
He washes and dresses himself.
He makes himself a cup of tea.
He goes to work.
He returns home, cooks dinner, and watches telly before going to bed.
...
Tuesday:
His alarm goes off.
He gets up.
He washes and dresses himself.
He makes himself a cup of tea.
He goes to work.
He returns home, cooks dinner, and watches telly before going to bed.
...
Wednesday:
His alarm goes off.
He gets up.
He washes and dresses himself.
He makes himself a cup of tea.
He goes to work.
He returns home, cooks dinner, and watches telly before going to bed.
... Rinse and repeat.
...
The days drag on, minute by minute, hour by hour, and Doctor John Watson continues his ordinary, dull routine. Varying it only to have the occasional coffee with Mycroft or Lestrade, or to have that same conversation with Mrs. Hudson:
"How are you dear?"
"I'm fine."
"You're looking a bit peaky sweetie, are you eating enough? I could always make you something you know."
"I'm quite all right Mrs. Hudson, thank you."
"As long as you're sure, John. Remember, if you ever need anything..."
"I'll know to come to you, thank you."
"Good, good. Have you been to visit him yet?"
And this is where John can't say anything; he just shakes his head and continues with his daily habits, shoving down the thoughts and feelings.
Of course he's been visited by his sister, now alcohol free and back together with Clara. He knows he should be happy for them, but he just can't seem to muster the affection. He can't seem to muster much anymore. So he pulls a smile for her, congratulating her and nodding at the appropriate places, promising to call more often even though they both know it won't happen.
After all, he still needs to remind himself to keep breathing every morning.
...
It's hard to keep pretending. It's hard for him to remember.
And everything makes him remember. He knows that he should leave, make a fresh start, but that would be cowardly and he was one of the Queens soldiers, he would not run, he would not be a coward.
Besides, he didn't think he wanted to leave.
So he keeps going, and he hopes that eventually he won't have to remind himself to breathe, that the little things won't make his heart stop, his eyes cloud over and his throat tighten.
Autumn and winter both pass without so much as a glance; he didn't think he even registered Christmas or New Years, not wanting to be around the people that kept giving him concerned, sympathetic glances. He knew they meant well, but he just wanted to be left alone.
Then spring arrives, its heralds being the snow drops and blue bells that had begun to sprout in the parks, daffodils soon following, flashing their brilliant yellow in adoration to the new sun.
John had never asked why, but he remembered that spring was always his favourite time of year. They would often go for walks to pass the time through one of the many parks in London, admiring the new life and sweet, crisp air. John always thought he liked it because it meant new experiments, new exciting adventures...
John realises now it went much deeper. He always knew that he had had held a much more profound personality than people gave him credit for, and his self proclaimed title of 'high functioning sociopath' was merely a facade to protect himself from the evils of the world.
He'd truly been one of the best.
John sighed shakily as he sat on one of their park benches, the one that had the best view of the park; of people. They'd sit for hours sometimes in the spring, watching the people pass by, deducing their lives – well, at least trying to deduce in Johns case, and sometimes he would even be quite good at it.
Sherlock had even complimented him at one point.
He felt his walls begin to crumble at the memory of his name... his face, his quirks, and that smile that was so rare but so brilliant it made his heart stop.
Yet, as he remembered, and he felt that familiar ache in his chest, John was surprised to find that he didn't mind the pain. The pain bought with it so many memories that he'd thought he'd forgotten he found himself welcoming it.
He found himself smiling.
...
He made time now.
It was the end of May, almost getting up to the year mark and the end of spring, and he found himself finally ready to go and visit Sherlock.
John walked, his eyes glancing down at his limp-less gait, all thanks to that one, wonderful man; that one man who had been so full of life, so intelligent, so quirky and so damn extraordinary; the man who made John's dull, ordinary civilian life so fantastically colourful.
His footsteps led him onward, through the throngs of people and streets of London. He knew the route by heart, even though he hadn't walked it since they had scattered his ashes.
John smirked; of course they'd had him cremated and scattered into the winds. Sherlock had never been still, so they'd thought it appropriate for him to be forever drifting through the planet, always there to cast his gaze upon the people.
Sherlock would scoff at their sentimentality, but John thought that, secretly, the consulting detective would find it quite agreeable.
By the time John had reached Hyde Park, the golden haze of the sun setting had stretched its reaches across London.
Sherlock didn't have a head stone, but a tree in the park. It was just a little sapling at the moment, but it would grow and become the grandest of all the trees. To anyone else, it would remain a tree, a plant they would pass without a second glance, but to John it meant the world.
Because Sherlock had been his world.
He stepped up to the sapling, his eyes gazing at it with a soft smile. He was so lost in himself that he didn't even notice the tears spilling from his eyes.
And that was when John began to talk to the tree, talking over diagnosis ideas for some of his more troubling patients, grumbling about his day, updating the plant about Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, and even Anderson, Sally and Molly.
The stars were out on in their full brilliance by the time John had finished, finding himself lying beside the tree and gazing up at them.
He smiled. You didn't need to know anything about the stars to appreciate their beauty, or so he was once told.
John thought this to be very true indeed.
A/N: Inspired by 'End of May' by Michael Buble. Look out for the 'Sleepless in Seattle' reference. Tell me what you think.