His friend's hand stretches out towards him. He raises his own hand. His friend's arms lift out to either side. He shouts. His friend falls.

...

He sat with his morning coffee and tried to forget about his dream. Again. He didn't read the paper. He didn't visit Mrs Hudson on his way to get the mail. He didn't go outside, instead climbed back up the stairs, leaning on his cane, before sitting back in his chair.

One year on exactly. Life just passed him by.

If you were to walk into 221B right now you would boxes stacked high, filled with things that were no longer his. Much like the first time he walked into the flat. You would find the bathroom medicine cabinet open on both sides, a nice view of the medications and cough tablets and sleeping pills. The kitchen, filled with kitchen things rather than cluttered with science equipment, still had a strange and foreign emptiness.

There was a knock on the door. Mrs Hudson peeked around the corner. "How are you, John?"

"Terrible." Is what he didn't say. "Not too bad." Is what he did.

She looked at him with sympathy and discernment. "You know you don't have to lie to me to make me feel better." He looked up apologetically, but she gave him a small, sad smile and said "We both feel terrible today, so we may as well feel terrible together." He couldn't disagree. "How are your dreams going?"

"They're not." John joked bitterly, and then wondered if it was something he shouldn't joke about. "They're really about the same as ever." He held the coffee mug in his hand and watched the surface ripple as he felt his fist tremor.

He'd dreamt of it a lot, like his dreams of the army. But these were silent dreams, empty and cold. No roaring machines or racing around, no fire and no one aiming a gun at him. No one attacking him at all. Just the inability to speak or move, just watching. Absolutely everything is silent, even through the fall, even, most times, when the body hits the ground, all is still and silent. And nobody does a thing. That's the worst part, nobody even moves.

John and Mrs Hudson talked for a while. She did talk try to about him, to remember him well, because it was important to – especially today. But she could see John withdrawing into himself a bit, and dropped it. Instead she made small talk about the papers that John hadn't read, about politicians he didn't care about, about a daytime tv celebrity who he had only seen once or twice. Then he thanked her for the tea and went back upstairs.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Hudson. How is he?" The voice said, wreathed with a grave but grandeur tone.

"Much the same as ever, I'm afraid. Worse today, as you can expect."

"Yes. Has he gone out at all?"

"Not for a few days, now. Only to get groceries."

"Mm. Thank you, Mrs Hudson. Make sure he's not alone."

"I can keep him company but I'm afraid his loneliness isn't due to lack of my company. I hope you understand that. It's his personal battle, poor man. This can't be fixed by either of us by ourselves."

"No." He was silent for a moment. "Thank you."

He hung up the phone and typed a new message. He stood for a moment, leaning against the wall, his short round glass in his hand. He pressed 'send' and pinched between his eyes. Oh, brother. He thought. What will you do?

His friend raises his hand to him. He has to do it. His friend shouts his name. That can't matter now. A long way down. Are the calculations right? Of course they are. It is a rush of air, then a rush of movement, then lifelessness. His friend reaches for his wrist. His own arm remains limp, his body unresponsive as he is turned to face him. It is all he can do to keep his eyes open, his chest still. His friend's face breaks as he sees the blood, the dead eyes, and he leans weakly into the crowd. He watches. His friend falls.

...

The phone buzzed on the table beside him and he was pulled out of thought for a moment. He welcomed the distraction and picked it up with one swift grab, glanced over the message and tossed the phone back on the table beside him, sighing.

John looked at the calendar. Damn. Another meeting tomorrow. He had to go this time, no putting it off. He just grabbed his jacket, got in the taxi and went.

"Okay, here I am again. This is supposed to be good for… Grieving. The therapist thinks so, at least." He sniffed and stood straight, feeling a little awkward, his hands making fists. "Not quite sure what to say. I haven't spoken to Greg recently, or Lestrade, as you may remember him, you clot. So I don't have any interesting cases to tell you about. I'm afraid I'm going to be boring." He stopped and looked around, but there was nobody else there, just headstones as far as he could see.

"I hope you don't mind, I didn't get you flowers. I didn't think you'd fancy them. But I, uh. Well I found this in a 2 dollar shop." He brought a tiny replica of a skull out of his pocket. "It's, ah…" He snickered self-consciously. "It's stupid but I'm going to put it here anyway." He leant forward quickly, embarrassed, and placed it on the grass in front of the black headstone. And suddenly his eyes began to sting and his throat began to tighten. Damn it. He was supposed to do this properly, not supposed to lose it again. "I would say I hope you're liking it up there but I really can't imagine it." He said quickly, his breath sharpening in his lungs. "And I don't want you to be there so I'm sorry but I hope you're having a terrible time." He nodded at the headstone and walked swiftly away before his eyes got any redder.

Another text. I'm assuming you're still alive, brother, but I would appreciate knowing your location.

He let his breath out slowly as he stretched his legs to the end of the couch, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He was losing control. Again. He didn't search for problems. He didn't reply to Mycroft. He didn't go outside, instead breathed in the unfamiliar air of another empty flat. He didn't move for over an hour.

One year on exactly. Nothing was familiar, nothing stayed the same.

Hello! Hope you liked the first chapter. It's a LOT shorter than the others will be, because it's really just an introduction to it all, and less happens in this chapter. It's my first proper go at writing fanfiction (at least, it's the only one that's got as far as it has!), and I'm thinking of editing this a bit later, because I think there are things I can fix up. But I would love any kind of feedback that you'd be so lovely to give me. :)

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