This was written before series 3 of Sherlock aired. Chaper 6 hasn't been published/updated since then and probably won't be for a while...

21st of June - Summer Solstice. The first day of Summer and the emotions that are supposed to be attached to it. Light. Warmth. Joy. Happiness.

He felt none of these. He thought that as time passed- and "time heals all wounds" as he'd been told so many times- that these emotions may return. No. Every summer solstice since that day brought the cold, the dark, and the pain. Oh, the pain. That was the most surprising. He always questioned why he, of all people, felt the same pain of those closest to him. The questioning made the pain worse and the pain caused more questioning. A never ending cycle like the earth rotating round the sun and the winter and summer solstices that came and went with it.

Oh. The solar system. Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, the cleverest man he'd ever met (though he'd never admit that) did not know that the earth went around the sun. Anderson let out a small laugh for the first time in days. Yes, Sherlock Holmes may have been extremely clever but his knowledge was appalling in certain areas.

"You okay, Anderson?"

His head snapped up to see Lestrade walking past his desk.

"Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah"

"Good. Okay"

How long had he been lost in thought? The Yard was busy today and the office was full of noise from workers chatting away whilst busy solving crimes or workers groaning about the amount of paperwork they'd been left with. Anderson internally groaned too on remembering that's what he was supposed to be doing before he'd read Sherlock's name and got lost in his memories.

Lestrade gave him a worried glance but decided that the police officer hovering by the office door and tapping his foot impatiently was more important. Anderson wondered how Lestrade was coping today. It was hard to tell; he was always so busy running around NSY that you never had a chance to catch his emotions or even have a conversation of more than 10 words. Maybe he'd find out later. Maybe this year they'd stay and talk about it. Maybe he could just ask him how he was now. He watched Lestrade dash back past his desk to retrieve a file. Maybe not.

He dropped his head back to his own file and the paperwork of the last case that himself and Sherlock had worked on. The last case. He worked through it quickly trying to make it as mundane as possible. It wasn't unusual for old cases to be pulled back up and for the paperwork to have to be gone through again but Anderson thought it was extremely cruel of fate to make him have to work through this case on this day. He tried desperately to detach himself from it. S. Holmes and P. Anderson were strangers to him. They were just a name to go in a file which would collect dust for another few years until they needed another signature somewhere.

It wasn't working. As he read the case over again he could remember it so clearly like it was happening right now in front of him. Sherlock had been in a particularly bad mood that day and Anderson felt that him being on the case too had caused that bad mood to increase. Sherlock definitely made sure he knew how much he hated him being there. In fact, looking back, Anderson was positive that Sherlock had gone out of his way to follow him around and remind him of how stupid and utterly incompetent he was.

"Well done, Anderson!"

"What? What did I do?"

"You've just proved that you are dumber than this man at your feet who's managed to kill himself with a teapot!"

"No, he was murdered..."

Anderson cringed at those four words as he replayed them in his head. Those four words- and everybody at that crime scene thought them too before Sherlock was called over- earned him 30 minutes of particularly painful humiliation as Sherlock reenacted the whole event of how Mr X. managed to kill himself accidentally and that Mrs X. was not a murderer.

Acting out the role of the teapot because "that's the highest your IQ would ever achieve. Don't give me that look, I am being kind here because a teapot is extremely useful...unlike you" was not the high point of his career, Anderson decided. Yes, Sherlock had definitely gone out of his way to prove his hatred of him on that case.

Anderson sighed as he read on. He would suffer through that day again and again if it meant it would bring Sherlock back. Bargaining. The third stage of "the five stages of grief". They'd all had the talk by the on-site counsellor. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance. Of course, 'grieving is different for everybody and not everybody will experience all, if any of these stages, and they may not be in order'. The counsellor had drilled that into their heads at every point she could manage.

Anderson had experienced them all apart from acceptance. He could get through four and back on a bad day. He thought today would be one of those days considering it was the 3rd anniversary. Maybe time was healing him. He glanced up as Lestrade rushed past again. "Yeah. I'm okay. Yeah" had he replied to him? Denial. He'd woken up crabby this morning and taken his rage out on his toothbrush after a 5 minute (one sided) argument about why it wouldn't work properly. Anger. '3 stages so far. So time is a slow healer' he thought as he sighed heavily. Depression. Definitely depression. And there it was. The four stages and it wasn't even lunch time. The longest day of the year was definitely making a point about its length.

He slowly got to the end of the paperwork after several more trips down memory lane and countless insults he remembered Sherlock sharing with him. With another heavy sigh he signed the paperwork off and got up to file it in Lestrade's office. He hoped Lestrade was there just so he could see what mood he was in and what it looked like he was feeling. It had to be worse for him. He was closer to Sherlock. He /liked/ Sherlock and Sherlock in his own Sherlock way liked Lestrade back. Had Lestrade gone through the five stages of grief? Had he managed to achieve "acceptance"? Anderson wondered why he couldn't reach this last stage and why he was even experiencing the stages of grieving anyway. It was no secret that he disliked Sherlock.

He barely noticed any of his fellow colleagues on the short walk past their desks to reach Lestrade's office. Did one greet him? Did one ask him how he was? Did one call his name? He wasn't sure. He saw the paperwork file on the table left outside the office. Anderson's depressed mood increased slightly. That meant Lestrade's office was locked so he wasn't in there. He'd gone to lunch early. Sherlock would have sniggered at that basic and rubbish deduction. He put the files down and was thinking about going to eat lunch somewhere alone when a familiar voice at one of the desks behind him made him jump slightly and all thoughts of dreary cafeteria food leave his mind. He discreetly turned around and made it look like he was checking the time on the large clock on the wall opposite Lestrade's office.

1pm and John Watson. John Watson was at the Yard. John Watson was at The Yard and sat 4 desks away from him talking to one of Anderson's colleagues and Lestrade. He'd walked straight past them and not even noticed. Sherlock definitely would have berated him for that.