The candlelight felt heavy and absolutely wrong. Sitting across the table from John, a young woman sat within the halo of the light, her slender legs against his under the table. She smiled at him but it looked distant- some kind of signal beaming in from another part of the world; fuzzy and muffled. "The food is delicious," She told him, all soft-voiced. "How did you know I liked Thai?"

"I didn't." John muttered into his drink. Sherlock had liked Thai. In fact, Sherlock had introduced him to this restaurant, within weeks of meeting him. "But, it was a lucky guess." He added after realizing how rude he must've sounded. He mentally slapped himself- he should know better by now; it had been three-hundred-and-two days since, he ought to know better than to frequent places he and his flatmate and frequented together, especially in company. Especially in the company of women he was attempting to hold a dating relationship with.

But, you know it's not going to work. Don't be an idiot. He could still imagine the way Sherlock would react to this- still hear his voice in his head as if it was just coming from a few feet off. He had always been able to hear it- from the first day since onward. It had gotten to the point where he had stopped psychoanalyzing it: yes, he heard the voice of his dead best friend- only in his thoughts, of course. He even responded to it, mostly silently, but sometimes out loud. And, honest to god, he stopped caring how crazy it sounded.

And why won't it? Angie is nice, you know. And a model. He held back a laugh at the imagined look on Sherlock's face. John- dating a model. Certainly, he'd have something to say about that.

Because she's boring. Completely and utterly stupid- all eyelash batting and bumping her knee against yours. Mating tactics. She's just thinking about tonight: she's so pathetic, afraid of being alone. You can see it in the way she leans in- desperate. Her smile, it's too tight; her laugh, too high-pitched. She's under pressure to find a nice guy to bring home to mother. He would be sneering, if this was reality. But it wasn't, and John simply imagined him sighing, a neutral expression on his face.

John hissed. Alright, that's enough. I don't have to listen to this.

Oh, you don't? Fine, then stop listening. - It's not that easy, is it? The truth is: you don't want to stop listening. You don't want to stop listening because, no matter what you try to tell yourself, you're not done with this. You're not done with me. You can't accept that- if you stop listening- you'll have nothing left of me. It was unnerving. Even when his conversations with Sherlock were all in his head, John was still left speechless. He groaned. If Sherlock hadn't been so- idiotic; hadn't gone and offed himself, this wouldn't be happening. He would be sitting back at 221B listening to Sherlock's manic violin playing and constant muttering. He would still be spending sleepless nights under lamplight, running the streets, chasing crimes.

Yes. This had been all Sherlock's fault. John could still remember watching the man, feet half on the ledge of the building, half off, his phone pressed against his ear. John was on the receiving end of that call, listening to a hollow admittance of guilt- he was a fraud, he claimed (John would never believe it)- but his eyes; his eyes said something different. They had been locked with his flatmate, almost a life or death staring contest- definitely some sort of desperate challenge, in his very last moments. His eyes were pleading with John, as if they were trying to tell him something his mouth could not. But, John was not a mind reader and the most painful aspect of this whole ordeal was the notion that he would never know what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

He had tried to find the truth. His mind still incredibly raw, he had tried to probe Mycroft for information just after the funeral. "You have to know something." John had begged- he wasn't above it.

"John," He had spoken with that voice- the one people take on when speaking with the prime recipient of grief, "I know how hard this is for you- I do. But I know nothing more than you; in fact, I probably know considerably less. I was just his brother. You were his sole confidante, you were everything to Sherlock." In that moment, John had just wanted with every fibre of his being to hit him. He didn't want to be reminded that he had been this genius' everything. He knew that. God, Sherlock used to be his everything- and now he wasn't.

"You- you bastard. You sold him out, Mycroft. You sold him fucking out! You have to know something- what did he mean?" When he just received a quiet, pitying look, he expelled a breath. He lowered his voice. "At least tell me this; tell me that you don't believe Sherlock was a fraud."

Mycroft actually laughed- loud, but quick. "Sherlock was many things: he was too cruel, perhaps he may have even been a borderline sociopath- he certainly could be an arse. But, he never was a fraud. I don't know what he told you during that phone call, John, but just remember that you were his last call. Sherlock spoke in riddles and rarely ever said the truth outright. But whatever he was trying to say- he wanted you to hear it." And he had left John standing there, feeling numb, drowning in the realization that he would never know.

Even now, three-hundred-and two days since, he still needed to scream- to yell at Sherlock for ruining his life. But, he managed to keep his thoughts measured. This is all your bloody fault.

So?

John could not explain why his blood was boiling. He knew it wasn't real. He knew it was completely his imagination, a coping mechanism. But, grief personified or not, Sherlock still managed to make him so fucking angry. "Jesus Christ, can't you take some responsibility for once!"

It took him roughly five seconds to realize he said that out loud.

John was curled up in the foetal position on the sofa when Mrs Hudson finally forced her way in. "John, Dear, I thought you had a date tonight?" She shut the door softly behind her and sat on the very edge of the cushion- a hand on John's shoulder.

"I went. We didn't- well, we didn't hit it off." He replied blandly. He decided to leave out the fact that he had shouted aloud at his dead best friend in the middle of the restaurant and left swiftly in embarrassment after admitting to having a relatively severe case of Tourette's syndrome. He exhibited not prior signs of Tourette's, he had thought to himself, but Angie wasn't a doctor.

"You know what? Sherlock was a good man, he really was. But, he had such a problem with being bossy. He's still bossing you around, even now." She gave him a sympathetic look that John just wasn't in the mood for.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean."

"All I'm trying to say is that you need to live your life. You can't lie around here all day waiting for him to turn up and give you directions on how to move on. Though, he'd probably be the only person on Earth who could've given you a scientific formula for letting someone go." She gave his shoulder one final pat and headed down the stairs. John told himself he was listening to her soft footsteps fade, but he was really straining to hear any echoes of those heavier ones that used to trample up and down.

"You really fucked me over tonight." He was alone, so he said it to the ceiling.

For the best, John. She wouldn't have entertained you for too long. I believe I've done you both a favour.

John exhaled sharply. "You really fucked me over- period."

There was excruciating silence. John never understood why he put himself through the same social torture as if Sherlock was actually alive. But, finally, after a few moments: I know. I'm sorry.

"You should be." And then, for added effect, he grabbed the gun off the coffee table, aimed steadily, and fired it at the smiley face in the wall. "What are you so fucking happy about?"