The bullet ends up gathering dust in the small porcelain dish where Mary had kept her earrings.

One month becomes two, becomes a season of dull sunshine and days with no distractions that's outlived its welcome long before it's over. At first, John makes an effort to get out of the house, to socialize with the few people he calls friends. But their well-intended sympathy grates on his nerves, until he finds himself wanting to tell them exactly how he feels.

Angry, he would say. Devastated. Gutted. Heartbroken.

Alone.

A dozen different words that all mean the same thing; and as the monotonous months pass, John slowly slips below the surface of normality and into murkier waters. His thoughts get trapped in eddies of mortality and despair, pulling him into a quicksand darkness that deepens the more he struggles. He goes through the motions, pulls himself from bed every morning to do the things he's supposed to do, but only John knows the careful calculus that goes into his untroubled facade. He's learnt he can go a full four days without showering before its effects are noticeable, that people can't tell he's been wearing the same clothes for two (three, if his lab coat is in play). He sates himself on cold, canned veg, then naps on the sofa at night before dragging himself to bed. An undifferentiated slide from light to dark, day in and out - ceaseless, until the late summer Sunday when Annie arrives to find him unshaven and in bed in the early afternoon.

She stands in the doorway to the bedroom he and Mary had shared, the weight of her gaze just one more burden John is unable to bear. He says nothing and hopes she'll do the same; but she's his daughter and she cares, and isn't that how they raised her?

"Have you eaten?" Annie asks, her words leaden in the silence. John hears her approaching footsteps and closes his eyes. She won't be fooled, but he'll save himself her shock at his appearance.

Or not, he thinks when he hears her soft gasp.

"Oh, Dad," she says, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed and laying a gentle hand on his arm. "I should have… "

Nothing, he tells her, though only in his mind. There's nothing she could have done - it's simply how it is. John feels a trickle of heat slide over the bridge of his nose as he lies there on his side - he knows he's crying, but he can't seem to muster the strength to care. He'd tell her he has days like this, but they're not all the same. He'll be fine, John would say, if only the words would come.

Annie's hand slides over the the duvet, stroking the arm underneath as though calming a child. The irony doesn't escape him; he remembers long nights by Mary's side, taking turns soothing the baby until exhaustion had finally accomplished what neither of them could. Then he remembers other nights with Mary, and John turns his head and buries it in his pillow, the trickle a hot, sudden river he can't seem to dam.

"Dad, why don't you speak to the doctor?" Annie pleads softly, resurrecting a frequent refrain. "Medication could help - you've prescribed it to patients yourself."

John breathes into the pillow, a deliberate in and out that slowly quells his tears. He's had this conversation with himself a dozen times before; it never stops feeling like failure.

He stirs. Annie removes her hand and he clambers slowly to lean on his elbow, picks up his phone and squints to read the time.

"Go make us a cuppa," John says, his voice gravelly with disuse. Annie's lips tighten (like Mary), but she gives his arm a quick squeeze and goes downstairs to the kitchen. Eventually, John rises and turns to sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, listening to the muffled sound of children playing next door. They're a nice family - kids are polite, parents unobtrusive - but John knows all of this awaits them, too. They're happy now; it doesn't last.

Another sigh, deep and disgusted with himself for the melodramatic turn of this thoughts. Then John rubs his eyes, puts on his glasses and bathrobe, and makes his way down to Annie.


September, 2038

It's gone eight o'clock on a chilly evening, and John's still filling out paperwork at his desk. He'd never realised how good he'd had it under the NHS until it had been abolished back in the 20s. Now it's more paper in exchange for fewer and fewer resources, and he's been thinking lately it's time to get out before he loses faith altogether.

The sound of the door opening breaks the after-hours silence. Mary, John thinks instinctively; she'd been the only one left most evenings, waiting until John had finished for them to go home together.

He whips around to find Sherlock blowing into his office, a blustery cyclone of activity. Without a glance at John, Sherlock pulls his jacket from the hook by the door and holds it out to him.

"Here," he says, his voice as sonorous as ever. "Put this on and -" he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, silver bubble pack. "Take one of these."

John's mouth falls open in the way it always seems to when Sherlock's involved. He spares a glance at the scattered papers on his desk, then stands and takes the jacket.

"What's that?" he asks, pulling it on as he juts his chin in the direction of Sherlock's hand.

"Zyban," Sherlock says with a small, lopsided smile. "You're quitting smoking."

"I don't smoke," John retorts.

"I'm quitting smoking, then. By proxy."

John takes the packet. He knows its off-label use.

After a moment spent warring with himself, he grumbles, "I don't need this." His words bring Sherlock to a halt, meeting John's bloodshot eyes for the first time since he arrived.

"You do," he says, glancing down at the packet and back up at John. A moment later, he adds, "Please."

Perhaps it's Sherlock's plaintiveness, the tinge of sadness around his eyes. It's a rare enough sight that it snags on John's fleeting attention, and he finds himself pushing a small, white pill through the foil, taking the proffered paper cup of water, and swallowing the medication.

"Is that all?" he asks irritably, expecting some flash of Sherlock's impatience in response. Instead, Sherlock shakes his head, the still-thick waves of his lightly greyed hair bouncing with the movement. If John didn't know any better, he'd say Sherlock was nervous.

"Not... quite," Sherlock replies. "I've packed a bag. You're coming home with me."

John's eyebrows rise, almost of their own volition.

"Like hell I am," he says; but inside he's torn between familiar tears and drunken, giddy laughter. Sherlock pins John with his sharp gaze, the old sensation of being deduced pulling strange delight even closer to the surface.

After a moment, Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Of course you are," he says. "It's all been arranged."

John's threatened laughter turns quicksilver ire.

"I have responsibilities here, Sherlock," he says. "I can't just drop them for a holiday."

"A long weekend," Sherlock counters with a tilt of his head. Then he bites his lip, worrying it with his teeth before quietly continuing, "I'm… concerned."

Suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted - with work, and mourning, and the terrible burden of life - John lets pretence fall. He and Sherlock stare at one another, John's gaze hollowing out until he hits the bottom of his despair. He closes his eyes and huffs out thin breath, once, then twice, seeking the equilibrium that's abandoned him.

"All right," he says after a moment. "I'll come."