John hated violin music with a passion when he had had his notorious roommate. Now, he began to stare at the violin tucked away in the corner of the room. He longed to hear Sherlock play a song, just one song, anything. John was sitting up on his bed, trying not to think too much about anything, his mind would just stab him in the back. He slept two hours, more than expected. He took a short shower and got dressed, then Speedy's Cafe greeted him good morning. He went off after that to work.

That's right, we haven't covered that yet.

John's new job was his old job.

St. Bartholomew's hospital was where John worked as a part time doctor.

John thought he was ready, six months after the fall, to reclaim some of his old life, but couldn't make it to the block next to the building before he got queasy and began to think those torturous thoughts again. He tried to tell himself that his imagination was just poisoning his judgment but when he looked back at the building he couldn't help to look at the roof and at the ledge. John tried and tried and every day he worked on getting just a little bit closer, just a few steps towards the impossible truth that his life had to move on.

Moving on, moving on, Moving on.

Everyone else had moved on, for Christ's sake. Why not John? John thought he was moving on and forgetting everything and his therapist told him that he wasn't moving on, he just wanted to believe that he was.

"You're wrong," John said, trilling his fingers on the arm of her chair. He didn't realize that he wasn't meeting her eyes while talking.

"You're wrong because the last time…the last time you told me something you were wrong, I wasn't traumatized by the army, I missed it-" He was raising his voice and his therapist had tried not to make it too obvious that she was scribbling a lot down in her notebook. He pointed his finger as if accusing her of something and declared, "Sherlock said I missed it and he was right."

One more step each day, John, she had told him. Take it slow.

John made it to the door the third day after he first attempted. No, he didn't get over it at all, he only accepted (during the time being) that his life was over, and if he wanted a place to stay he would need an income to support it.

Now you're making some sense, John.

But John wondered. What if? What if he is alive? What then? It was a queer feeling he got when he walked to the building every day. Looking to the ledge and thinking maybe if he was alive he'd go back there.

If only John thought more about such an idea, he could have held onto it. He could have grasped onto it and believed and maybe things would have turned out better for him. Maybe he wouldn't have been such a wreck, two days before the anniversary of the great fall. Now, he looked to the ledge on his way into the building and it hurt his eyes, so he turned away and shunned it.

{ { { } } }

"How was work, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John stopped at the bottom of the staircase to respond.

"Fine. It was fine."

"Anything exciting happen?"

John opened his mouth but then closed it. Nothing came to his mind, nothing exciting, nothing boring. Nothing at all.

"Actually, I don't really…remember"

He trailed off and went up the stairs, into his flat and thought to himself.

How the hell do I forget everything I did at work? The last thing I remember was looking at that ledge…

John looked at the skull on the mantle.

"Look, I'm not crazy, just because I forgot my work day."

He paused, like he was waiting for a response from it.

"That's normal, right?"

Another pause.

"I just get so many patients and sick people, and damned hypochondriacs crammed into my schedule, I have to work through lunch usually and my God." John looked around the room and sighed. "I'm talking to a human skull."

That's when a trip to Sherlock's grave was decided upon.

It was only a cab ride away, and John figured he'd rather talk to a gravestone than a skull.

Standing in front of the grave, rain poured down on the umbrella covering him and the gravestone. He had to move from the dirt patch he made himself from so many visits; the umbrella didn't reach very far so John stood unusually close to the gravestone.

"Two days, Sherlock. Two bloody days. Boy, have you missed out on some crimes."

John looked at the gravestone and dragged his eyes across the date of death, the same date to come in two days.

"Seems like Lestrade is having lots of trouble solving them, you know, without you-" his voice cracked on the last two words and he cleared his throat. He looked past the gravestone to the ground by his feet, which turned to mud and grass in the rain, flooding to form a pool around his previously good shoes.

"I hope you appreciate me taking care of that God awful skull of yours."

The rain began to stop, and a light drizzle turned into no rain at all. John folded the umbrella up and pulled out a cloth from his pocket and he began to wipe down the gravestone. He wiped down the engraved letters on the stone block and brushed the wet strands of grass and mud off of the base on the gravestone. He put the dirty rag carelessly into his pocket when he finished.

"I'll talk to the grounds keeper about keeping the grass trimmed."

Drops of rain leftover on the leaves blew towards John in the wind. He brushed his hair to the side and smiled delicately at the gravestone.

"I can just picture you, telling me that it's only a block of stone."

John looked up at the other gravestones. It made him think; so many people that could change his life, so many people to meet, but he only wanted one person that he couldn't have.

He never liked to think that Sherlock was different, and he especially cringed when people called Sherlock a freak or a liar. It stung even more after the fall. John was always told, even by Sherlock, that he cared too much.

Why worry, John?

Why worry about me? Why are you so concerned about me, I don't understand!

John was glad that he had worried, now that Sherlock was gone. John thought about this as he stared at the gravestone.

"If only I could have saved you the way that you saved me."

He touched the side of the gravestone, then hobbled off to Baker Street to cross his fingers and pray for some way to ease his mind into peace.