A bit of a time jump here, but it shouldn't be too confusing :)

Chapter 11: Celebration

John awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat with the sheets and quilt hopelessly twisted around him. There was no sign of Mary, which wasn't uncommon. She preferred to flee rather than attempt to wake John from a nightmare-addled sleep. He always felt a little bit guilty knowing he'd driven her from her own bed, but he was too emotionally and physically exhausted to dwell on it for too long. He untangled himself and sat up on the side of the bed, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder. The first time he'd had this particular dream had been the night Mary finally noticed the tattoo. It had repeated itself several times a week since.

Each time was slightly different but equally devastating. Sometimes moments from Afghanistan were thrown in beforehand, sometimes the water in the shark tank turned to blood and suffocated him, and sometimes his mind added an alternate—and ultimately more explosive ending—to the altercation with Moriarty at the pool. But the two times he'd watched Sherlock die always replayed themselves in gloriously high resolution. He'd told Scott about this, had even tried all the techniques he recommended, but nothing helped. Each night, he dreaded going to sleep for fear of what his subconscious might cook up. Some nights he purposefully abandoned the scarf quilt and lay awake for hours rather than subject himself to further emotional torture.

"John, you up?" Mary's voice broke him away from his thoughts. It was a welcome respite; they were rarely positive nowadays.

"Yeah," he called. It was a Saturday, so neither of them had to work. Unlike most people, John didn't prefer the weekends. Going to the surgery gave his mind something to focus on besides his own grief. And Sherlock's apparition—whose existence remained a well-kept secret between John and Molly—never followed him there. Anywhere else, John was potentially subject to his commentary and had to resist replying lest Mary hear him. Slowly but surely, he was adapting a more negative attitude towards the illusion. It served as a cruel reminder of the friendship he used to have, and it was growing gradually more difficult to hide from Mary and Scott. Yet it seemed the less he wanted Sherlock around, the more often he made an appearance.

"John, you're not seriously considering getting rid of me, are you?" Sherlock asked. John sighed in defeat, knowing the detective would probably remain by his side all day and drive his stress levels through the roof.

"Do you have to bother me this early in the morning?" John asked.

"It's already nine o'clock."

"John, Rosie's asking for you!" Mary called from the other room. John dragged himself into the bathroom and got ready for the day ahead. When he finally wandered into the living room, Rosie greeted him from her spot on the floor.

"Dada!" she chimed. He sat down across from her and said good morning. She immediately returned to playing with the skull, as she did nearly every day. John watched her little fingers slide over the alabaster surface and marveled at the fact that his daughter was so attached to this particular toy. He wondered if she could somehow sense who it came from and deemed it so important because of that. John reached out his own hand and placed it next to hers on the parietal region. She moved her hand on top of his and looked up at him with eyes that so closely resembled his own.

"John, what are you doing?" Mary entered the room and glanced at the two hands perched on top of the skull. John then realized just how long they'd been sitting here like this, gazing at each other intently. He broke eye contact first, and Rosie giggled.

"I don't really know. Apparently it was some sort of staring contest, and I lost," John said.

"Well shake hands, say good game, and then help me get ready," Mary instructed.

"Ready for what?"

"Don't tell me you forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"What today is?"

"Clearly I have, so please enlighten me."

Sherlock chose that moment to interject, "John, this is a big one. You're going to regret letting it slip your mind." John resorted to literally biting his tongue to avoid spitting a retort at the figure in the corner. He knew it wasn't their wedding anniversary, nor was it yet a year since they'd lost Sherlock.

"John, it's Rosie's first birthday today," Mary sighed with poorly-disguised disappointment in her voice. Oh God. How could he have forgotten such an important date? The first birthday was one of the most important milestones in a child's life, yet he'd just thrown the date out the window of whatever sorry excuse for a brain he possessed. Sherlock wouldn't have forgotten something so crucial. He would have it tucked away neatly in a new wing of his mind palace dedicated to Rosamund Mary Watson.

"God, I'm sorry. It totally slipped my mind," John apologized. He braced himself for a scolding, but it never came. Mary just sighed again and said, "I guess it's alright. She's too young to even recognize what today is either."

He was a terrible father, and a terrible husband. This was the type of thing that Mary would claim she forgave him for but never actually did. He wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself. He remembered the events leading up to Rosie's birth vividly—nobody could wipe that from their memory if they tried—but somehow the date slipped his mind. Hopefully the reminder of this slip-up would ensure he never forgot it again.

Mary had returned to the kitchen, and John followed her to catch up on the day's plans and attempt to make amends. Before he could say anything, she cut him off, "I don't want you to embarrass yourself further by asking questions about plans I've been talking about for weeks."

John's stomach did a somersault inside his abdomen. He knew he hadn't been totally with it since it happened, but he never suspected he was so lost that he'd tune his own wife out. Evidently, he was far less coherent than he thought. That was a problem. Mary continued, "We're having a few friends over this afternoon, nothing huge. Mrs. Hudson's making a cake, Molly and Greg will probably bring something or other. I asked you if you wanted to invite your sister, and you said no."

John had no recollection of doing any such thing. But whatever state of mind he'd been in when Mary asked that question agreed with his current state; he didn't want to see Harry today. He maybe didn't want to see Harry ever.

"John, she's your sister, and Rosie's aunt," Sherlock said solemnly. But she's also a hopeless alcoholic who can barely hold her own life together. John sat down at the table and ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He decided to change the subject to hopefully diffuse the situation.

"Did you get any sleep?" he asked Mary.

"Once I left the earthquake simulator you turn out bed into, yes," she replied cheekily. John's cheeks instantly flushed with guilt.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's really not. We should at least take turns on the sofa."

"I fear you'd fall off and hurt yourself. And you know sleeping on the sofa bothers your shoulder." She was right (of course) but that did nothing to lessen John's remorse. His wife was suffering because he couldn't keep his emotions under control.

"I appreciate your concern, but it still seems so unfair, me kicking you out almost every night."

"John, life isn't fair," Mary retorted. "I think having the occasional kip on the couch is rather mild compared to what some people have to endure." It took a second for John to register the true meaning behind this comment.

"She still blames herself," Sherlock told him. "For what happened to me. You have to remember that she's suffering too. Apparently, when it comes to friends, I haven't just got one." John exhaled deeply and tried to look at things from Mary's perspective. She was awoken nearly every night by her husband's nightmare-induced tossing and turning. She knew the only plausible cause of the dreams was the absence of the man who'd been killed by someone from her past. She'd seen him in the wake of Sherlock's death once before and been the solution; now she considered herself a part of the cause. Sleeping on the couch was rather mild compared to the pain she knew burned inside John. Both of their issues paled in comparison to their friend's untimely demise at the hands of a madwoman.

"Okay," John relented. Some of the tension leaked out of the room, but not enough. It was never enough.

~0~

Poor Rosie was a tad overwhelmed by all the attention. Mrs. Hudson had taken so many photographs that even John was dizzy. And, of course, all five pairs of eyes in the flat were trained on her when she was faced with the first piece of cake she'd ever seen in her short life. John didn't think she even recognized it as something edible, so he broke off a piece and offered it to her. After deliberate consideration, she shoved the small, fluffy piece against her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. The next few bites she managed herself, before she decided it would be more fun to just smash it around the plate. Everyone thought that was rather adorable.

"Ah yes, making a mess is adorable in infants, yet unacceptable in adults," Sherlock quipped from his position over John's shoulder.

"Shut up," John muttered under his breath.

"John, did you say something?" Greg asked. Apparently he didn't mutter discreetly enough.

"No, just clearing my throat," John quickly defended. Greg easily accepted this answer, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

"You almost got caught there, John. You ought to be more careful," said Sherlock. "The last thing you want is to out yourself in front of all these people." He was right; that was certainly the last thing John wanted, which is why he didn't retort.

A short while later, Rosie was contently playing with some of her new toys while the adults sat around and chatted. John noted that Sherlock's chair remained conspicuously empty. None of their guests had even considered seating themselves there. John presumed they thought he would react negatively, and they'd be right. That chair was ubiquitously Sherlock's; having anyone else sit there would taint its essence. Rosie was the only exception.

"Why is that, John?" Sherlock asked. He plopped himself down in the chair in question and folded his hands in that same manner he always did. "Why is she the only exception?" John didn't know how to answer this question. Even if he did, he wouldn't have, because that would mean speaking to Sherlock. He could only do that when he was alone.

Rosie was John's daughter; maybe that's why he was willing to give her preferential treatment. Sherlock had always seated Rosie in John's chair when he'd been alive, but that was because she was a Watson, and because he himself used the other. John's deliberations were interrupted when Molly asked the dreaded question, "How are you, John?"

"Given the circumstances, I think I'm alright," John lied. He spoke the sentence slowly and deliberately, hoping they wouldn't see through him. Mary eyed him knowingly, but made no move to correct him. "Everything's going slowly, but it's going. How are you liking the chemistry equipment, Molly?" John asked.

"I can't thank you enough for allowing me to have it. I know he would've wanted it put to good use. It's already helped me decipher many causes of death. There were even a few instances where the police assumed one thing and I proved them wrong," the forensic pathologist explained. John could hear the pride in her voice, and knew it was justified. Across from him, Sherlock's apparition was smiling.

"How are things at work, Greg?" Mary asked.

"Well, you know, they're different," he hesitated. John could tell he was deliberating how much to divulge. "It's certainly calmer, a bit more organized than it was… before. But, I have to say it's less enjoyable. A little chaos is good for you, you know? We're struggling a bit to pick up the slack, but it's helped people appreciate… everything he did for us."

"I'm sure Anderson's at a loss without a bickering partner," John joked. "Did he find a new punching bag, or has he given up entirely?" John didn't recognize the level of suppressed rage in that comment until he saw the reactions of everyone else in the room. He immediately regretted opening his mouth at all.

"Actually, Anderson's really stepped up his game. He's always asking to take on extra cases or work overtime. I've had to deny him a few times just to force him to go home and sleep."

"Really?" John was honestly shocked that he'd react in such a manner.

"Well, last time he went a little off the deep end with his conspiracies and theories as to how he faked it. He even roped in a bunch of other people and made a little club, called it the 'Empty Hearse.' At the time I thought guilt had driven him mad, but as it turned out he was right all along. Apparently Sherlock even told him how he did it, if Anderson's bragging is based in truth. He never even told me."

"Did you honestly want to know?" Mary inquired.

"Yeah, I did. I am a detective, though you lot seem to forget that, so I've always liked learning the answers to mysteries. Did he tell you?"

"No," John stated. "He wanted to, but I wouldn't let him. I couldn't care less about the how, I wanted the why."

Molly remained uncharacteristically silent throughout this conversation. Of the people in the room, she was the only one to know the truth about the suicide at Bart's. John knew she felt terrible about keeping such a secret from them, but Sherlock and Mycroft had forced her hand. Not too long ago, John had heaped another big secret on her poor shoulders: the existence of his delusion. John noticed that she kept looking at him to follow his gaze, which landed on Sherlock's empty chair more often than it should.

Molly met John's eyes and mouthed the words, "Is he here?" John only nodded solemnly, and she looked again to the vacant black armchair. She looked back at John, and then at Mary. He knew she was silently asking if he'd told her yet. He shook his head no. The poor pathologist had been forced to be the sole confidante far too many times.

"Why don't we talk about something a little cheerier," Molly suggested shyly.

"Sounds like a great idea. This is supposed to be a celebration," John added.

"Dull," Rosie declared from her spot on the floor.

"When did she pick that word up?" Greg asked huffily. "I've never heard someone so young complain of boredom. She's got a piece of her godfather in her after all."

John stood up and fetched the skull from where he'd placed it on the mantelpiece earlier. He set it down in front of his daughter and explained, "That's her attempt at saying 'skull.' I told you it was her favorite toy."

"Yes, well hearing it and seeing it are two very different things."

"I just hope she doesn't ask for a complete set of bones once she's old enough to realize that most of them are missing. I think that would be rather difficult to obtain," John said.

"Unless Molly's willing to pull some strings," Mary chuckled.

The pathologist looked petrified before she realized Mary was kidding. "No, not even I could manage to get away with that. A corpse without a skeleton is rather distinguishable from one that does have one." This comment elicited a much-needed laugh from everyone in the room. The rest of the party eclipsed with idle chitchat. John's perception of the conversation was punctuated only occasionally by a scathing remark from the Sherlock illusion. If one were to simply look at this group of friends, they'd wonder how on Earth they became close in the first place. Each was so fundamentally different, but they'd been brought together by the unstoppable force that was Sherlock Holmes.

~0~

That night, while resolutely ignoring the figure of the detective as he stared from across the room, John wrote his second letter to Sherlock:

Rosie turned one today. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I had no idea it was her birthday until Mary reminded me. I guess I've been too busy missing you. I know that's a lame excuse, but it's the only one I can think of. I see you almost every waking hour, and you talk to me. Sometimes I'm not strong enough to resist talking back. Even though I know it's not really you, it's far too easy to pretend it is. But I can't let myself slip into believing that, because then when I finally recognize that it's not true it will be like losing you all over again. Twice was more than enough.

Molly and Greg were over today for Rosie's party, and of course they asked how I was holding up. I said things were steadily improving. Why did I lie to them? I would've been so easy to tell the truth, yet I lied. If you were here for real you could've told me why. The version of you my brain conjured up isn't nearly as good at deductions. Both Molly and Lestrade seem to be holding up fine, so why aren't I?

Not too long from now will be the one year anniversary of your death. I wish I could stop time and ensure that day never comes. After the first year, things are supposed to gradually get better, but I know they won't, at least not for me. After one year, everyone else will move on and start judging me because I can't. They won't say it to my face, but I'll be able to see it in their eyes. The only person who would truly accept my mourning, no matter how long it took, is you.

—John Watson