Author's Notes: We are getting closer to Sherlock's return. Chapters 10 and 11 will finish this story, but I will follow up on it with a return fic called "Homecoming". I have started on it, and it should be ready in 3-4 weeks.
I chose to switch John's and Sherlock's chapters here at the end, because I want Sherlock's chapter to end the story. So this here is another chapter from John's POV.
...
He is Gone
Chapter 10
24 months after the fall
Beams of sun streaming through the two living room windows revealed dust clouds and created an almost magical atmosphere. John admired the sight briefly as he stood in the doorway. Then he went inside, casually tossed the keys to the flat on the coffee table, and sat down in front of his computer, and switched it on. Another day at the new clinic was over.
For two months, John had searched for a new job, before he found one only a few weeks ago at a recently built health care facility, making him one of the first doctors there. It was new, it was challenging - it was exactly what he needed.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
It was at least as close to what he needed as it would get.
Before the familiar and unwelcome pain could settle on him, he turned his thoughts back to his memoirs. Working on them every day and - sometimes - night for five months, there wasn't much new to add, but John couldn't really let it go, and he did not wish to yet. He kept re-reading his notes, adding to them when he was reminded of something Sherlock had done or said. Often, to his great grief, the doctor could not remember the circumstances related to a specific incident, so he just wrote it down as a note on the side. Even worse was that as he re-read what he had written so far, he wondered if some things had actually happened as he remembered them. Certain memories were not clear. As a doctor, he knew something of how the mind worked; how it could toy with one's memories. If possible, he would check details from his old blog, long since put aside, or ask Greg or Mrs. Hudson when relevant.
John flinched at the memory of one such time recently when he had approached Greg for details about the case with the speckled blonde. Greg had shrugged his shoulders casually. "That was ages ago, couldn't tell you". Then he had gone on to talk about the results of a football game.
For a moment, John had actually wanted to punch the detective inspector. Could he not see how important this was? Was John the only one who still cared? But no, he had to be reasonable. Life went on for everyone. It had been two years. What made it so hard for John was that his life had been so intertwined with Sherlock's that after his friend's death he had hardly known what to do with himself. He still didn't know.
...
One morning a few days later, the sun didn't shine so brightly, and the voices of colleages and patients at the clinic came from far away. John was in a trance, brought on by a depressing anniversary. While he was giving a patient a routine check, his thoughts drifted to the first anniversary of the kind, one year ago. It had been horrible; so horrible that he had just wanted to disappear into a black hole and feel nothing. His friends, Greg, Mike, and Mrs. Hudson - even Mycroft - had tried to help him through the day in each their way. A talk, beer, tea, more talk. For once, the beer had won out. Mike had taken him home to his place afterwards.
This year, there would be no getting drunk. He didn't need it. Sadness was such a natural part of his life now that it rarely overwhelmed him anymore.
Back from work, John got changed and headed downstairs with slow steps. He knocked gently on Mrs. Hudson's door. The older woman appeared shortly, wearing a black skirt, yet, John noticed, a pale green coat. It suited her. John smiled appreciatively. It was better than black. Better than last year. Much better than the year before that.
They took a cab to the cemetary where John got out and subsequently extended his hand to Mrs. Hudson who took it gratefully. Quietly, they walked towards the grave, each of them deep in thought.
Mrs. Hudson placed a bouquet of daisies in front of the gravestone. John stared at the name like he had done so many times before. Neither said a word, simply leaning on each other for support. There they stood for a long while. Mrs. Hudson eventually let her hand slide away from the crook of John's elbow in order to give his hand a gentle squeeze before she turned around and walked away in silence.
It had been pretty regular lately; John coming to Sherlock's grave and having a few words with his friend, which wasn't so satisfying when he couldn't get an insult, or a look that said 'I know something you don't',in return. However, he had persistently come to talk to Sherlock about the things they had gone through together, mostly in order to "keep Sherlock alive".
John did not know what to say this time. Grief settled on his heart, unwillingly, but almost expectedly.
When he finally spoke, it was with a thick voice. "I miss you".
He swallowed hard, once. Then again.
A few minutes later, he slowly turned and walked towards Mrs. Hudson who was waiting for him by the chapel. She took his arm again, and they walked together towards the road.
"I'll make us some tea when we get home".
That sounded like a good idea to John.
...
6 months later
A light rain fell on the pavement, and John strode along the road, his eyes darting around. There were cafés filled with people warming themselves on a cup of coffee, a park where children played and people walked their dogs, and shops that were just closing for the day. Since when had he started to notice those things again? It had come so gradually. A small sigh of relief mixed with the ever-lingering sadness escaped his lips. Today, it was just a little bit easier to push gloomy thoughts aside.
Immediately upon entering the café, he spotted her. A pretty blonde, her hair elegantly styled, wearing a knee-long, pale-blue dress, her eyes bright and studying the environment. John smiled. Then her head turned, her gaze locked on his, and she smiled ruefully in return. Pushing himself past the people standing in line, he reached her table, a few butterflies in his stomach making their presense known.
"Hi Mary", he said warmly, his eyes still fixed on hers, as he gave her a peck on the cheek and sat down on the seat across from her.
The rueful smile had not left her face. "Had a nice nap?"
John looked at her quizzically. "How did you know?" I didn't know, I saw. An image of a man with dark curls and high cheekbones came to his mind, but vanished again in a split-second.
Mary reached across the table to John's head and attempted to lay down a few stubborn strands of hair standing up. "Your hair. And your eyes are still bleary".
Smiling, John let out a puf of air through his nose. He could swear that sometimes it seemed like he had met the reincarnation of his best friend. Except that she was a woman. And blond. And had an undeniably much warmer personality. He smirked at the thought.
...
Weeks later, John visited Sherlock's grave again. This time, he had something on his mind. He wanted to share it with his friend.
"Hey. Hm... I... wanted to tell you something. Something really great. Except... you'll think it's boring. Don't worry, I promise I'll make it short". He smiled and carried on. "I met a girl some time ago. Mary. She is something special. I think... you might even have liked this one. She is smart. Not like you. Who on Earth is like you, anyway, but she is clever. I... I think this could be something. This could be it".
John sighed deeply. "Anyway, I just wanted you to know".
The big letters on the gravestone were staring back at him. John looked at them for a minute. Then he cleared his throat.
"I miss you".