Year 1

Day 1
He finds the note in his coat pocket when he goes to check for his mobile, crushing it with his fingertips before his brain realises what the crinkling noise belongs to. It is the edge of a lined page stolen from one of John's notebooks, marked with a delicate spidery handwriting in black biro, elongated, arching self-assured flicks to the tails of 'g' and 'f'. Contrasting from the usual penmanship however, the individual letters huddle together, their curves retaining more of a spiked structure, the sides of each grapheme squashing up close to another as though to gather some strength from the nearness, and regardless of the rushed speed in which this had been written, there is a concern in the words that shows that the writer had considered carefully what he was going to write down before rendering it into a scrawl scribbled on a scrap piece of paper.

John,

Believe me when I say that if there had been any way other than this, I would have taken it without thought. I know you might be angry at me, and you are right to be. I apologise however, for deceiving you, for now you might have realised that the call that brought you away from the mountain was one of my devising. Or rather, I knew that Moriarty would do something to separate you from me, for he wishes our final meeting to have no audience but his own. I doubt I will survive this, yet I have lived a good and full life, and the defeat of such a dangerous man I see to be the culmination of many years work, and the fitting conclusion of my own career.

To you, John, all I feel for you has already been spoken aloud between us. I would have given up all I valued in a heartbeat should you have wanted it, and my only regret is that I am not able to say goodbye to you properly. And although this is necessary, I am well-aware of the pain it will cause. You deserve better than this letter, and I am sorry. There is little I can do to make this farewell easier, so let me just say that you were the greatest case that I never solved, and that I leave you having loved and been loved by the most remarkable man it was ever my fortune to meet that day in Barts.

Yours faithfully,

Sherlock

John slumps down on the bed next to his packed suitcase, fist clasping around the paper, the words bleeding off it, dark ink transferring through his pores, his cells, widening and stretching the hollow gaps inside him. He thinks there might be the beginning of tears behind his eyes, so he composes himself a corner of space in his chest to shove all the things he can't bring himself to think on, not yet, what he can't deal with right now. On the other side of a grimy window in a country he does not know, a landscape that is alien, the clouds overhead are devastated, and John's heartbeat sounds thundering, all-compassing in his head.

For a moment, he is thinking of a grassy precipice crowned in light, tries to imagine the edges of horizon in his memory, whether there is something after Sherlock, after the frothing water and the barren sky that confronts it, or whether everything stops there.

He is thinking whether he'll ever figure out the answer to that.

There is a knock on his door, a timid taptaptap, the signal that his taxi has arrived to take him to Bern airport; to be met with the bustle of travellers, the swamp of people all with their own path-lines. The plane that will take him home. Somehow, that prospect doesn't sound as appealing as it did before. In his head, he's not even sure Baker Street is still standing; as though it was a physical manifestation conjured up with shear will out of Sherlock's head. And now with him gone, John feels he has little entitlement to it.

"Are you ok, sir?" An accented voice enquires of him, and John stands up, forcing the weight to rest on his good leg, plastering a smile over the dark patches, calling out;

"Yeah, I'm fine"

He's not. He's really not.

Day 3
He takes the plane on a Monday when the sky is twisted with storm clouds and tells himself he's not running away, not really. He returns unaccompanied, his ticket folded into his palm, a reedy smile of thanks to the hostess who gestures him off the plane that fools no-one. It is convenient and a tangible relief like the nick of a knife blade that Anthea is already waiting in the arrival's lounge, her sharp eyes that don't hold their gaze, the uncomfortable manner in which they flick away quickly. Mycroft must have known via certain channels that John would be coming home without his brother. The doctor couldn't bring himself to call him. The phone rested in the palm of his hands, innocuous enough, with unsteady fingers he'd managed to key in the correct number. But like the coward he was, he bottled it at the last second.

Anthea asks him where he wants to go, tone soft, limp sympathetic words with all the fire in them drenched out, and he replies in a voice oddly calm, untouched by chaos, running a hand through his hair and smoothing out the spots of rain like shards of glass that he finds there. It is raining in London too. John wonders whether the weather followed him here, or whether it's always been raining and he's just never noticed.

"Home" he says, and sits in silence for the rest of the journey; gazing out of rain scarred windows, seeing nothing, remembering everything. Kisses like biting, long sensuous things that disregarded the whims of time, slender and elegant, taut as cord and sharp as teeth and the hisses the streamlined man made of angles and eyes that rarely blink made though lips pressed into a line when John moved like that, put his hands there. The softer things, punching him like a mortar shell onto sacred ground, will come later. It hurts to linger on what he can no longer have, but it's an improvement on the numbness that holds council over his grief.

John avoids Mrs Hudson when he gets back – to Baker Street, he can't quite title it 'home' anymore – and retreats upstairs, one step, two, up to seventeen. He sits himself down on the sofa, bag abandoned at the door, rooms musty from the absence of the occupants for so more weeks. Brushing his fingers against his cheek – like it's smarting, like someone has slapped him hard with intent to wound, and when blood comes back from a split lip, he'll stare while his heart shutters closed – he stares at the wetness he finds (he'll tell himself it's the rain) like he's not sure what it's there for.

Day 29
He's awake, his heart hammering in his chest, an organ turned world-weary sparked with a sudden hope, his mind half still trapped in dream while his hands are already working in real-time, grabbing his phone, keying in the number; this whole moment coming down to the one ideal he wants above all others, and the one person who can cement its truth in his head.

He's wild-haired and wild-eyed, and it's three in the morning, but if the person on the other end doesn't pick up, he's so fired that he would shrug some clothes on, buttons popped into the wrong holes, socks inside out and shoelaces dangling untied and walk to where he lives; such is his fervent belief in what he needs to share, such is his need for verification.

He hugs his duvet to him like another body, the two of them chest to chest, the motions of comfort all one-sided.

The phone rings, then – click – a connection hangs in the air, open-ended silence before a voice finally conjures up words for the blankness.

"John?" The man on the other end knows who is calling, and his voice is not as sleep-riddled as the doctor had expected, and for a second John half imagines that he was almost expecting this call before he disregards the absurdity of it.

"He's not dead" John blurts out, his words gone wrong in the saying off them, off in the middle, because now they sound stupid even if they're right, and he stumbles in his haste to back up his exclamation with proof, and it sounds every bit like this is just the latter end of the loop that's been running round and round, zigzagging through his mind. "He can't be. Look, there was no body right? They would have found a body, it would have been swept out along the river. Sherlock probably imagines there's still elements of Moriarty's groups out there, and if he wants to take them out his being dead would be a foolproof ruse. I mean – " He's almost babbling in the frenzy of sound, the culmination of thought processes all delivered together " – they'd never expect a dead man to go after them, so they'd lax their security, make it easier for – "

"John – "

"No, listen. If he was going to pretend to be dead, he'd need you. He'd tell you, because you've got connections, you'd be able to make it look real. I just want you to tell me Mycroft, just one word, because I'll wait, I'll wait as long as it takes for him to come back, because he's alive, I know he is, he can't be dead – "

"John" Mycroft's tone is gentle, intentionally firm, the saying of his name like it's something final, but interlocked with something else, something grieving and fathomless and hating itself "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but Sherlock's gone"

"But he can't be."

John sounds pathetic, sitting on the side of his bed, a crooked angle of powdery light from the street outside making it's way into his bedroom (their bedroom), his hands shaking, something crowding at the bottom of his eyes that he pushes away, and understanding and acceptance are so far out of reach like a door that is always locked, painted the colour of slate with the knob broken so it rattles and falls out when someone turns to try and get through.

"I'm sorry John" Mycroft speaks again, and he sounds it, honestly sounds like he's despicably torn between wanting to tell the truth and wanting to lie, and whichever one is easier today, and when morning comes maybe he'll want to say something different. But in the dark John can't hide because he's already hidden, and so Mycroft delivers the words he has to say for reasons that wont be clear until later, when John has accepted certain truths. A pause, like a stretch of sky where there are no stars, then; "Do you want me to come over?"

It's such a gesture of kindness, of solidarity between two men who have lost someone they loved in their own ways, that John suddenly feels small, filled with an essence of shame that is not distilled by tiredness or grief.

"No" he stutters "No, I – I'm sorry I disturbed you Mycroft, I mean, it was a stupid idea, completely stupid... I – I'm sorry" He's not quite sure what he's apologising for this time, but he clicks the phone off, working on stitching up open-wounds in his chest that screech and hurt in the air and the dark, fighting to level out his breathing. He tells himself it's not crying if no-one else is a witness to the smothered hitching of his chest and the hot lines that crawl down his cheeks.

Day 61
Daylight confronts his eyes, something basic that separates the days out into the mess of stuck together instances they've become, and John squints, eyes throbbing, light crushing, haemorrhaging white against the pink fleshy lids that he snaps shut against the glare. He groans, wants the gloom of twilight back, wants tender dusk and not the day that starts without his say-so, turning onto his side and pushing back into the comfortable heaviness of a gangly arm draped over him to wrap round his waist.

"Sherlock, what did I say about shutting the curtains?" he mutters, voice throaty with sleep, the detective not stirring. He raises his head, turning his neck to glance at the man next to him... and then the illusion vanishes, reality sweeping in like a backslash of cold air, and the light is cruel and harsh as it catches his eyes, pounding through glass, streaming through without shattering it but still like a bullet when it hits him. And the weight next to him is merely his own duvet, suffocating him, smothering him not in a soft hold but in a tight grip and he kicks at it violently, pushing it off and away, throwing off the weight even if he's left with the sensation of it still on his fingertips.

The room is empty.

Of course it is.

Day 113
Wake. Shower. Tea, toast. Dress. Go to work. Come back. Tea; milk no sugar. Go through mail, bin junk, file bills and bank statements. Dinner. Plate for one. One knife, one fork. Wash up, put away. Sit in front of the TV, channel flick, watch other people's miseries. Set alarm. Redress in pyjamas. These rituals are mechanical, predictable as clockwork. Sleep. These are the things he knows, this is the default setting of life, this is the station he stopped off at, and no train is coming to help him move on.

Wake. Repeat.

Day 189
A meeting with a grief therapist is set up for him, most likely by Mycroft. He gets the appointment card, clear white card and a business-like font, shoved through his letter box. Nine o'clock on a Monday. He finds all his appointments have been shifted to later on that day, freeing up his morning.

He still does not attend.

Day 203
The image is ratty, scarred and crumpled at the edges, like a photograph thumbed and folded over too many times. Sherlock is in the centre of the image, staring right at him. He himself is on the other side of the Falls, and the sideways glance his partner shoots at him is regretful, frightfully so. He stands tall, straightening every inch of himself into a dark-haired idol, limbs highly strung, his coat whipping around his ankles, dampened by the spray.

And then he inexplicably leans backwards, his arms reaching out as though featherless wings, and the falling motion is sickening, like Icarus as his hands suddenly scrabble at a purchase that is not there, and his eyes don't leave John as he drops, plummeting with an expression of such fear, and John's vocal cords are released from their frozen bondage, and he screams a wordless sound that should be a name, only it can't be heard over the rushing, grinding, whooshing of the waterfall that swallows up Sherlock whole...

John snaps his eyes open, seeing the morning before him, the shallow reassurance of his own room, his own empty room, his nightclothes drenched in sweat, the bed covers thrown off to the floor, letting the cold air creep up his skin. He doesn't have to tell himself that it was a nightmare, because it's the same one every night.

With a sigh, the sound of screaming and the rush of water in his head, he sits up with a resigned sigh, hands balancing on his knees before he stands up and makes his way slowly, not bothering with his cane because it's a symbol of everything he's come to despise; dependence, a constant reminder of what vital thing he's lacking, into the kitchenette to put the kettle on. He's not going to get any more sleep tonight.

Day 261
Christmas is bad. He tries not to think about it.

Day 338
Lestrade stalks into the hospital room, badge still clutched in his hand that he's probably used to get past nurses asking for his clearance, his eyes flicking until they catch sight of the man he's looking for. John glances up, shifting on the table he's got his legs dangling over while a nurse digs stitches in through the deep cut above his eyebrow.

"It's not as bad as it looks" He offers as a greeting to the DI, meaning the cut, which being a head would has bled down the side of his face in a sluggish drip, encrusting in a reddish stain that makes this whole scenario seem more macabre. He winces as the nurse applies antiseptic to the area. There are some superficial bruises to his face, mottled shapeless blotches that trace his jaw and a graze where a knife glanced off his cheek and split the skin.

"They called me at the office," Lestrade responds brusquely, torn between two warring emotions of worry and anger, arms crossed to shield some of his concern. He sighs, loosens the stripy tie he's wearing today, obviously just rushed over from the Yard, and his forehead creases at the intersection between his eyebrows, drags them down into a frown. "Said you'd been involved in a mugging"

"S'alright, I'm fine"

"Fine? John, have you seen yourself?"

"I told you, it's not as bad..."

"Why didn't you just give him your bloody wallet?"

"Jeez, I got you the guy, didn't I? That's got to count for something"

Lestrade, with his hands planted firmly on his hips, is giving him an approximation of the exact look he used to give Sherlock when he was being particularly obtuse. "It was bloody reckless, that's what it was! You put yourself in unnecessary danger, and don't you dare try and tell me it wasn't intentional."

John diverts his gaze to his feet, suddenly finding interest in the stitching down the side of his shoes, and there is shame in the way he doesn't meet Lestrade's eyes.

"I just needed to do something" he murmurs quietly, and they both pretend that it's still the mugging he's talking about