John made it out of the flat with relative ease, if one discounted Mrs. Hudson inquiring as to why he was going to therapy with a laptop, and Toby making desperate attempts to escape out of the front door. As he had been doing for the past 16 months, he had tucked a flask of whiskey away for later, in the inside pocket of his warn-out military jacket. A fleeting thought had crossed his mind that straight, sober tea would have been better for his health and well-being, but that thought went by as quick and passive as a bit of paper in a windstorm. He remembered suddenly that he really, truly, didn't care, to put it quite bluntly. He sat down then, finding himself at an old and familiar spot. As he set his day bag down next to him, a conversation replayed in his head that seemed next to ancient.

No one would share a flat with me. He had said, shrugging the idea off without a second thought.

Funny, you're the second person to say that to me today.

Really? Who's the first?

If that had gone differently, he thought. If that conversation never would have happened… I would have never known him. I would have been spared the pain of losing him.

He dammed himself for following his friend that day. Funny how a single choice could affect one's life in so many ways.

Sixteen months, he thought with sad wonder. The flat still seemed deathly quiet. Mrs. Hudson had adopted Toby with the hopes of the atmosphere becoming more loud and boisterous like it had been when Holmes was there, playing violin at ungodly times in the morning and randomly deciding to have target practice with the smiley face and a pistol. Unfortunately, except for the mornings, Toby could have passed for the quietest bloodhound in the whole of London.

John supposed he would have to move again soon. London wasn't quite a place for a single man with a retired army pension. He never preferred the country; it was always too quiet and lonely, but if he kept on in the city, he'd have to downgrade more than his comfort zone would allow. So he'd move out to a small cottage in the country and find another way to cope – like he always did. Whether it be liquid therapy or something else, he would find a way to keep living his dreadfully lateral life.

As he seemed to sink further in to the park bench, he pulled out his flask and decided he didn't, in fact, want to enter anything on his blog. And he didn't want tea at all. Instead, he wanted to continue to drown his constant sorrows in the brownish solution in his flask.

He raised the container to his mouth and very nearly spilled it on himself as his pocket suddenly buzzed with a text. Swearing at himself, he pulled out his mobile and glared at the screen. Two words stood out on a white background.

Keep Quiet.

John glared venomously at the caller ID after an initial spike of adrenaline. It very clearly read "Holmes". Mycroft had stayed his distance ever since the fall, like he should have. Johns' stomach got sick every time he thought of the things Sherlock's' older brother had revealed to Moriarty, and now definitely wasn't a time for Mycroft to be trying to reconcile, or whatever the hell he was trying to do. Keep quiet? Maybe it was the wrong number. John highly doubted it; British governmental authorities usually don't tend to make mistakes that could possibly cost them their jobs. Maybe it was his idea of a sick joke. Nevertheless, John flipped the keyboard back and locked it. He was in no mood to talk to anyone, especially not Mycroft. So he tucked the mobile back in his pocket and took a large swig from his flask.