The clinic was welcoming, a tiny piece of John's life handed back. He was a doctor, he healed people. Never mind that he was unable to heal himself. Helping the people who trudged in lifted his spirits a tiny bit. Sarah looked out for him here, too. It was nice to see Sarah again. Sometimes he remembered their first date, at the circus, when Sarah had almost died. How he'd been mistaken for Sherlock. John had to laugh at that – he was nothing like Sherlock, not even a little. Of course, the memories would flood in when he remembered this. Various Sherlock things, the arrogance, the brilliance, and the soft spot he would sometimes show. The determination.

Images of Sherlock's fall would cloud John's head. He grounded himself in medical charts and procedures, curing sniffles and coughs. He handed out prescriptions and fought off the memories. His therapist told him to let them in. He had to let them crowd him so that he would stop feeling their pain. "It will get better," she'd told him. He responded, "Bullshit." John stopped going after that. Sherlock had been right about the therapist, she stunk. If he let the memories in, they debilitated him. He barely trusted himself to go for milk without having a nervous breakdown now.

"Hi Mr. Doctor," a young girl said. She looked about seven. "Are you gonna cure my booboo?"

John smiled at her. He had a soft spot for kids. Probably why he could put up with Sherlock's childish behaviour, Mrs. Hudson had joked. Now, John peered around the corner, looking for the girl's mother. He saw her rushing down the hall, headed for the toddler. "Yeah, sure," he told her. "What sort of booboo have you got?"

"I fell," the girl sighed. "Mummy says my arm bone's broke. She says you gonna put plaster on it."

"Okay," John motioned the girl into the exam room. Her mother ran up. "Broken arm?" he asked her.

"Yes, so sorry, she runs off like that all the time," The tired woman gazed at her daughter and sashayed into the room. "Don't you ever do that again!" she shouted. "If you ever run off again, you won't see sunlight again!"

John shuddered. He felt sorry for the worried mother, but he knew she was being harsh. Quickly, he stepped in. "Let me just take you to the plaster room, then," he said, taking the girl's hand. "By the way, what's your name?"

"Amelie."

"Amelie. That's a nice name. Like a storybook princess. I'm Dr. Watson."

"Nice to meet you," she giggled. "I like to play princess, but Mummy always tells me it's not real and I shouldn't be playing."

John sighed. He was liking the woman less and less. Carefully, he wrapped the girl's arm up and gave her a sling. She held up the light blue plaster, marveling at it. John gave her a pat on the head and let her pick out a sticker. A grin split her face. "I wish all my patients were as cheery as you," John laughed. A laugh! A real one!

Amelie looked up at John. "You're handsome when you smile," she whispered. "Will you sign my cast?" A marker was held in her tiny fingers. John took it and tentatively wrote, Dr. Watson on the blue material. "Thanks!" Amelie skipped off the her mother, who was scowling and tapping her watch.

Sara tapped John's shoulder. "She's right, you know. You're handsome when you smile. Should do that more often." Before John could respond, she was back at her desk shuffling papers and making phone calls.

John shook his head. He could feel the sadness creeping up on him, ready to pounce, but he held it at bay. Today had been a good day. He wasn't going to let it be taken.

….

John was just leaving the clinic when his mobile rung. Lestrade's tone was urgent, telling John where to meet him. "I know this is usually Sherlock's thing, John, but this one's asking for you." Sighing, John hailed a cab and related the address Lestrade gave him. Part of him was excited; he had missed this, catching criminals, going to crime scenes. But the other part knew it wouldn't be the same without Sherlock, without the deductions – and that part was only sad.

John stepped out of the cab onto a street washed in police lights, crawling with crime-scene tape. Anderson and Donovan were arguing near the door as John stepped through. He could see Lestrade ahead, bent over a body on the kitchen floor. A bright crimson pool spread around the woman's head. John stepped carefully around her splayed limbs, keeping from contaminating any evidence. He looked down at the woman's face, then at Lestrade in surprise. "Oh, God. I saw her, just this morning…She was bringing her daughter in…"

"I know," Lestrade replied.

"You – what? You know?" John's puzzled look turned back to the woman.

"Her daughter was the one to call police. She hid when we came – poor thing's traumatized, seeing her mom shot. Before she hid, though, we saw her cast. Dr Watson."

"Where is she?"

The stairs protested John's ascension. The house was old, in a neighbourhood of old houses. Amelie's mother would be just another ghost haunting this place. John was almost creeped out, looking down the dim hallway, lit only by the red and blue police lights. He pushed open a few doors; bathroom, closet, guest room...With a creak, the old door swung open. The blue walls were the shade of a robin's egg. A patchwork quilt adorned the bed, covered by stuffed animals. A few random articles of clothing littered the floor, a rocking chair stood in a corner. Police lights slipped in through the curtains. He didn't see the girl.

Peering around the room, John saw her. Curled in a shaking ball on the bed, squeezed into the corner. She clutched a stuffed animal in her small hands, eyes red from crying. Looking up with a catch in her breath upon hearing John, she breathed, "Doctor Watson?"

"It's me. The Detective Inspector, Lestrade, called me." He paused. "Amelie, you were so brave to call the police. I'm so sorry you had to do that." He knew he wasn't doing wonderfully with comforting her, but he didn't know what to say.

Looking at her, so small, so lost, John knew one thing for sure. He wasn't going to leave her.