It was Valentine's day, and John Watson was feeling anything but romantic. It wasn't as if February 14th had been very important to him in the first place, but after his most recent break up, it felt more like a slap in the face. And for some reason, the emptiness inside him that he thought had begun to fade had returned with a vengeance. It had been over a year since he left the unbearably silent flat. While he was able to bury much of his grief beneath his work, he was still unable to walk around his old neighborhood or pass by St. Bart's without feeling dizzy, his breath hitching in his throat. Instead, he had moved to the other side of the city and had gotten a job in a small, quiet family clinic. He'd briefly dated the receptionist, then one of the nurses, but neither relationship worked out. He and Sarah had given it another go at some point, but that didn't work either. Mrs. Hudson checked up on him infrequently to see how things were going. Occasionally he went to the pub with Greg and laughed about old times, but always left feeling hollow. He even began spending more time with Harry. At least they now had something to talk about: they were both hopeless with women. The one person he refused to speak with was Mycroft. John wasn't sure if he blamed Mycroft, or if he just couldn't bring himself to talk about it with him. Still, it wasn't as if John didn't have friends. He was lonely in the midst of a crowd.
He couldn't figure out, though, why Valentines day had suddenly evoked the sadness he'd been attempting to keep at bay.
"Why now?" he thought to himself, "Why today? It's not even a real holiday, for christ's sake, and I'm suddenly sentimental about it." As he walked through the park—the same park, incidentally, where he'd run into Mike, though he preferred not to think about that—he noticed all of the happy couples sitting together. It made him a bit nauseas, though he wasn't sure why. His thoughts kept going in the same direction—the exact direction he was trying to avoid. Of course, John remembered it every day. How could he not? But he was usually able to redirect his thoughts elsewhere, to thing about anything but that, anything but him, and it worked most of the time. Today he was not so lucky.
He sat down on a park bench, leaning his cane against it, and watched the birds. Was it the couples that made him think of Sherlock? Why should they? It's not like he and Sherlock had been in a romantic relationship. They were just flatmates, friends. Right? Eventually, his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
That was when he saw it.
Coattails, flowing behind a very tall man with dark, curly hair. Unmistakable.
John stood up, his heart hammering. Without thinking, he cried out.
"Sh-SHERLOCK!" The man kept walking. John leapt off the bench and chased after him.
Sherlock Holmes watched from a distance as John chased after the stranger. He had to admit, the man did look quite a bit like him from the back. He watched as John caught up to the man and grabbed him by the shoulder, and could just barely make out the look of confusion on the strangers face. John's disappointment was visible even from where Sherlock was standing. He saw the way his shoulders slumped, the way his head dropped, like every ounce of energy had suddenly been drained from his body. John straightened up again, and could be seen apologizing (Sherlock assumed) to the man. He then continued walking, out of the park and in the direction of his flat.
As soon as John had left, Sherlock walked over to the bench where his best friend had been sitting just minutes ago. He lifted the cane with a sad smile, and gently tucked it into his coat.