Two: White Lilies

Early morning was always a fleeting moment of bliss for John. The moment the doctor woke, he was briefly unchained from his pain. For that small period, Sherlock wasn't dead, John wasn't alone, and life wasn't bleak. That is, until the memories breached his mind anew. Throughout the night, John always woke several times, sweat drenched, and woeful. Eventually, he would fall to a deeper sleep, a dreamless one in which he could rest properly. This is what allowed him to wake to the calm.

As reality set in, John's face fell, and with a sad sigh, he heaved himself out of bed. Time to drag himself through yet another bleak day, except this one was different. It was infinitely worse, as this day marked the third anniversary of Sherlock Holmes' death. For the upteenth time, he would re-visit the grave, wishing it was himself beneath that polished stone instead. John was ordinary; the world would have been no different without him, but to deprive the planet of Sherlock was a true crime. He would gladly take his friend's place any day.

John did not attend work that day, as Sarah had elected to cover his shift for him. The woman had been extraordinarily accommodating in terms of John's healing process, or lack thereof. As a matter of fact, she had been one of many to suggest he returned to therapy. More than once, John had found himself curled in his chair, his gun held shakily to his head, and his eyes blinded with tears. Grudgingly, he'd gone back, acknowledging the fact that he was unable to cope on his own. Everything seemed off since Sherlock's death. His life was cloudier, and John found that he could not escape the fog alone. Though, he could not quite bring himself to seek the companionship of a significant other again. In fact, his last successful date had been just before that fateful day. Instead, John had settled for the shrink, and people like Sarah and Molly Hooper, both of whom had been a tremendous help to the army doctor.

The doctor had seen many men die in battle, and even a few had by his own hand, though this was different. This was not him fighting for his country, though he was an army doctor, he was no stranger to the battlefield. No, this was far worse. This was his best friend. The first person he'd seen each morning, and the last before retiring to his room for the night. He was the closest person to John, and he had not been able to save him. It was that thought haunting John's conscience each day.

John buttoned up his shirt, smoothed out the creases in his trousers, and he was out the door. Minutes later, he at the florist, meeting up with Mrs. Hudson.

"John," she whispered. She was misty-eyed, as she had been last year. Mrs. Hudson had loved Sherlock, possibly even as much as she would have a son, but she'd still been able to move on, and gotten on with her life, something John had failed to do. Still, as was expected, she was emotional on this day.

John made a feeble attempt at a smile, but grimaced instead. He pulled her into a secure embrace, her petite frame lost in his grasp. Pulling back, he avoided the elderly woman's shining eyes, and stepped over to the shop keep to purchase his usual bouquet. White lilies. The flowers which symbolize purity, John thought Sherlock would have gotten a kick out of it. With a sad sigh, he stood tall, looking to Mrs. Hudson for affirmation before limping forward, ready to pay homage to that polished rock once again.

The pair stood before the headstone, staring blankly at the name carved into its smooth black surface. Each time he saw it, it was like a punch to the gut. As though he were realizing it all over again. Sherlock is gone. Sherlock died. Pain lacerated his chest.

Hiding his tears, John bent down, removing the old dried-out bouquet, probably one Mycroft had sent out weeks ago, to place down the new. It was then that he noticed the folded slip of white paper. It had been placed beneath the dead flowers very recently, as it was completely clean. Hastily, he pocketed it as he laid down the fresh lilies. He rose, smiling wanly at Mrs. Hudson. After many minutes of silence, speaking, tears, and silence again, Mrs. Hudson excused herself. She kissed John briefly on the cheek and insisting that he come around more often for tea, and then she turned, hurrying away. She always left before John, likely to give him time alone, and for that, he was secretly grateful.

Sinking to his knees, John wept. Three years, and it was not any easier. It never would be. "You bastard, how could you leave me like that?" he managed between sobs.

John collected himself, wiped off his face and stood, rolling back his shoulders until he fell into his habitual military stance. With that, he spun on his heel, walking off toward the taxi. He extracted the mysterious paper from his pocket, unfolding it, and read with bated breath. In a typewriter's font, it read: Three years, John, and you're still breaking. Is it not time to move forward?