A year later, John's small surgery was serving him well. He saw patients in the mornings, and spent his afternoons either in his lab, or reading medical articles. He had also managed to get a few papers of his own published. He had realized, slowly, that he was going to be fine. There would always, always, be a shadow over his life because of his friend's death, but he was as content as possible with his life, sans Sherlock.

He had bad days, of course, and they usually came with idleness and loneliness. John had managed to get through the darkest time of his life without the aid of medication, and he was grudgingly proud of that. He probably wouldn't have had such a time of it, however, if he had listened to Ella's advice and taken antidepressants and antianxiety medication for a short while to take the edge off.

He lived alone, and he had found that he liked to listen to violin music to fill the silence, above anything else. When he was upset, he yearned to hear it. He had one recording that Sherlock had made of his last composition, and he played it often. The music comforted him, and it eased his mind after a busy day.

As his reputation as a doctor grew in London, his days became busier. He had to admit that it felt good to stand in his own light, and to be recognized for his own accomplishments and skills.

John visited Sherlock's grave once a month, and today was his day to go. He always cleared that day from work, because he was never in a mood to see patients when he returned. Even though going always caused him pain, he never missed his day to visit his friend. He felt like it was some sort of abandonment to stop going just because it upset him. He knew Sherlock would say that his visits were stupid and sentimental, but he also felt like maybe he would secretly appreciate them.

He stepped out of his office, having finished sending the last of his necessary emails for the day. He walked down the hall, towards the nurse's station. "I'm heading out, Amanda," John called, slipping on his jacket in the waiting room.

"I'm not to disturb you for any reason. I'm to take messages and give them to you tomorrow." She informed him, smiling sweetly at him. He grinned back.

"Yes," he acknowledged, grateful. "Thank you." He turned to leave.

"Doctor Watson, who is this friend of yours? The one you dash off to see every month?" She inquired suddenly.

He turned back around, and shrugged a little.

"He must be important," She mused. "Sorry," she exclaimed, blushing. "I'm not meaning to be nosy. It's just that you have these days you take off scheduled six months in advance and you never miss one . . ." She trailed off, looking a little uncomfortable.

John smiled, putting her at ease. "It is a bit mysterious, eh? He's just a good friend, and I," He stopped mid-evasion. "I just feel like I literally never get to see him." With that, he turned and left.

Grass had fully covered the once fresh dirt of the grave site with the gradual elapse of time, and indeed, time continued its forward march, indifferent to the fact it was leaving Sherlock behind, placing him ever further in the past. It was still difficult for John to accept that Sherlock was now eternally a fixture of the past, and that he became more a part of it with each moment, slipping away into the oblivion of history. The world was less bright without Sherlock's luminance, and John felt the truth of that constantly.

He sat cross-legged in front of the looming grave marker, and gazed longingly at the name there. He picked up a flower from the pack he had purchased on his way, and twirled it idly in his hands. Roses reminded him of Sherlock. Not only because they had fascinated him, but also because he recognized a familiar duality in their existence and the late one of Sherlock Holmes. Roses, as he had noted to John once, were complex, and stunningly, hauntingly beautiful. Just as they are appealing to the eye, they are dangerous to the touch. Sherlock too had possessed such a mysterious duality. He too had been stunning—brilliant and beautiful, with his burning intelligence and captivating appearance; however, Sherlock also had a certain darkness about him. It was a darkness that had simultaneously entranced John and worried him, and it was most apparent in his unpredictable moods and the threat of drug use that had constantly loomed over him. And Sherlock, like the roses he had so admired, had often been intangible.

"You can't tell me the flowers are stupid," John started, shaking himself from his musings, "because I know you liked them. You appreciated them—their beauty." He studied the flowers again. He was silent for another moment, and then sighed dejectedly. "I still don't understand it, Sherlock," he started, and then stopped, taking a deep breath. "I don't understand why you did it." He wiped his eyes miserably. "I don't understand, and I'm not you, but I know you! I know that you weren't a fraud. And so there's something else." John realized the futility of his one-sided monthly conversations, yet he continued nevertheless, "You had a reason. You always had a reason, for everything you did, even if it wasn't apparent to me. And you are such a bastard," he exclaimed, then continued, "You are such a bastard, because when people leave notes, they usually detail out the real bloody reason for why they are offing themselves. But no! Not you. You lied to me, with your dying words. And it kills me, Sherlock," he said in a low, soft, raw voice, "It kills me, because I'll never know why. I'm not you, and I can't find out. Because god, I've tried. I can't understand it. I don't understand it, and I can't ever forgive you for doing this." John ceased speaking aloud, and buried his face in his hands, dropping the rose on the ground.

Mycroft showed up. One hardly needed to use the word unexpectedly, since an appearance from Mycroft was almost always unexpected, as well as almost always dramatic. When John had returned from working in his lab one afternoon, he walked into his flat to find Mycroft Holmes seated in his living room, one leg crossed casually over the other, perusing a massive book.

"John!" He greeted him cheerily, marking a spot and closing the book. John had stopped in the doorway, in the middle of pulling his jacket off.

"Hi, Mycroft." He regained his composure quickly and hung his jacket up, and moved to the kitchen. "Tea?" He called over his shoulder.

"If you wouldn't mind at all," Mycroft murmured.

After John had been seated, he gazed around his living room uncomfortably, wondering why Mycroft had come, but not really wanting to know, either.

"John, there has been a murder," Mycroft announced suddenly. He hardly seemed put out by it. John thought he could almost spot a gleam in his eye, and inwardly sighed. He regarded Mycroft, as he consulted the file he had pulled out of his briefcase. Mycroft began speaking again, "Last week –,"

"No," John interrupted him, "I don't care. I don't do this anymore, remember? The guy that solved the murders is dead."

Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows. "Yes, of course. It's just that this particular murder concerns you intimately." He laid the file in his lap, and picked up his tea with an air of righteous patience, one that closely resembled how adults treat exasperating children, and one that annoyed John instantly.

John sighed, and decided to take the plunge. "How? Why?" He demanded.

"The murderer has left a message for you," Mycroft answered, seeming bored.

John was disbelieving. "A message, for me. . ." John exhaled loudly. "Right, so what'd it say?"

Mycroft smiled and pulled an evidence bag from the briefcase, and leaned over to hand it John. John accepted it, not taking his eyes from Mycroft. When he eventually glanced down at the contents of the bag, he felt the bottom of his stomach drop.

He suddenly ripped the bag open, and took out the photograph. It was a black and white of Sherlock, and John could place neither the location nor the time it had been taken. In the image, Sherlock was standing on a street corner that John didn't recognize, alone, in the snow. He was gazing intently at something, his brows furrowed, with a sharp glint in his eyes. His face held its characteristic pallor and his hair its characteristic darkness. There was something weird about Sherlock, but John could not place what it might be. He unconsciously traced the outline of his dead friend's face. The photo was crumpled and appeared to have been tossed out. Scrawled in sharpie across the top was a note that read: "Where is John Watson?"

"Where was this found?" John asked, shakily.

"In the victim's mouth," Mycroft replied, nonchalantly.