Author Notes

This is my first piece of fanfiction in years. It is also the first time I have written any Sherlock fiction. Constructive criticism very welcome.

Just a heads up before you read, this might take a while to complete, my life outside of fanfic writing is busy at the best of times and manic at the worst.

John strode out of the cemetery the one and only time he visited Sherlock's grave. He didn't look back; he just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The ground crunched quietly underfoot and a cold breeze glided deceptively softly over his skin. He pulled his coat tighter around him and straightened his posture a little more in an attempt to drive out the cold that was seeping into him. It settled in his chest and he could feel the wall of ice begin to form around his heart. His lips pursed, as his expressive face gave away the thoughts crossing his mind before he let out a deep, cleansing breath and pulled back his shoulders. He nodded once to himself and his face cleared of all expression.

Mrs Hudson was waiting for him at the gate. He greeted her with a small smile and put an arm around her slight shoulders. He knew now what he had to do. He couldn't allow his grief to overwhelm him; he couldn't forget his duty. John had seen good friends die before but that had been different. Then he'd had an enemy to blame; he'd had a way of fighting back, of getting retribution. Now he didn't have that coping mechanism to fall back on, nor did he have his colleagues around him to lean on and to support. That didn't mean he didn't have an army to look after, people who would now need his care. John was still a doctor, a very good doctor; it was time to put his skills to use again.

He had known from the very first case he had worked on with Sherlock that this could happen. He'd seen the way Sherlock had looked at that pill and known that one day he would be unable to stop the latest criminal mastermind from convincing Sherlock that risking his life to play a game was a good way to relieve the boredom of daily life. John had seen the signs in Sherlock of a man with a dangerous disregard for his own life. As both a doctor and Sherlock's friend he had tried to do everything in his power to prevent it but John hadn't been blind to his friend's increasingly erratic behaviour and the way he had, towards the end, been pushing John away. He had realised only upon seeing Mrs. Hudson standing unharmed in Baker Street that the time had arrived. John didn't understand why Sherlock had continued to play Moriarty's game after the criminal consultant had killed himself but he was sure that, if Sherlock was here, he would look at John with an incredulous expression and explain it to him with a tone that quite clearly said 'duh!'

When their taxi stopped at Baker Street, John got out to see sure Mrs. Hudson safely inside. He gave her a hug and promised that he would be back the next day and that he would deal with the rest of Sherlock's belongings. He took the taxi back to the travel lodge he was staying at, got out his laptop and opened his blog and Google. He did a quick search for a video of the news feed from the day after Sherlock jumped. His duty began here and he typed a single sentence and embedded the video below it before disabling comments and closing his blog for what he assumed would be the last time.

He was my best friend and I will always believe in him.

John packed the few belongings he had with him into his bag and checked out of the travel lodge. He got the bus to Baker Street deciding it was time for a change of transport. As the bus wound its way through the streets of London, John realised that now he wasn't going to be chasing Sherlock around the city he would need a new way of maintaining his fitness. He vowed to buy a bicycle at the next opportunity. He would need to get a better paying job too. He didn't want a new flatmate, nor was he going to abandon Mrs. Hudson, so he needed to at least double his current income.

The nearest bus stop to 221B was a short walk away. John used the walk to strengthen his resolve and to wrap his sense of duty around himself like a suit of armour. He walked the last couple of metres with the confident stride of a man with a purpose in life.

It took John a month to get everything set up. He boxed up Sherlock's belongings. The stuff which could not be easily be replaced, should Sherlock miraculously return, was placed in Sherlock's room, this included his violin and the notes from all his various experiments. The perishable items and body parts were disposed of appropriately. John had wondered absentmindedly how many people, when clearing out a loved one's belongings after their death, had to consider the appropriate way to dispose of boiled eyeballs and frozen human heads. Not many he would have wagered. The science equipment was donated to a local comprehensive school and the rest, including Sherlock's bed was donated to the Shelter charity shop in Camden.

John filled the living room of 221B with extra chairs, turning it into a waiting room, the sofa he replaced with a sofa bed. Sherlock's room, he turned into an examination room, much like the ones found in GPs' surgeries all over the country, except for the boxes piled high against one wall and the skull sitting on the desk.

Six months after Sherlock jumped, John was starting to make a name for himself at Bart's as a good doctor and a great teacher. His friend Mike Stamford had helped him get the job. He kept in shape running the 3 miles to work each day or cycling a longer route. In the evenings he would walk through the streets of London, the trenches that Sherlock had shown him, and tend to her forgotten wounded. Before Sherlock John had been so lost but Sherlock had shown him the battlefields of London and John was an army doctor; he couldn't turn his back on wounded soldiers, especially when they had fought under Sherlock's command. He had been slightly surprised to learn how many had also fought on other battlefields in hotter sandier places.

A year after that all of London's homeless knew that if there was a blue scarf in the window of 221B Baker Street then the doctor was in and anyone who needed him would be seen. No-one would be turned away or turned in to social services or the police. Runaways, immigrants, desperate parents, addicts and ex infantry men made up the majority of his patients. At least once a week a green scarf hung in the window instead. At these moments teenagers, children and some adults too could be found learning new skills at 221B. Some were learning how to make traps to catch rodents and how to cook on an open fire, others were learning first aid. Some were learning to read or getting help from the doc to get qualifications that would help them out of the streets and into work.

Only three groups of people were not welcomed at 221B Baker Street and no-one from any of these groups tried to come within a 100 metre radius of the address any more. No government agents came near John after he sent Mycroft Holmes packing with a broken nose, four cracked ribs and a black eye and Mycroft did nothing in retribution. No journalist approached him after he had invited the group that had been gathered outside his home in for tea and they woke up in underground stations across London, stripped to their underwear and with the word 'murderer' written in permanent marker on their foreheads. There had been numerous witnesses who testified to the fact that they had seen the journalists leave Baker Street under their own steam hours before they woke up and no drugs were found in any of their systems.

After the incident with the journalists, the police had started pressing John for information. They had thought to bully John into co-operating with them in the same way they had Sherlock; they had forgotten that John had been an officer in the British Army and had a wider breadth of experience and expertise in dealing with bullies than Sherlock. Three unsuccessful 'drugs raids' in three weeks gave John all the ammunition he needed to file a harassment claim against the police. Many heads rolled when his claim was successful.

For 18 more months John's life continued in this manner. By day he taught the masses of young adults fortunate enough to have gained a place at St Bartholomew's to read medicine; by night he lent his hand to the forgotten army of London, Sherlock's army.

Mrs Hudson frequently visited, bringing with her cups of tea and plates of cake. Together they would sit for hours and talk, often of Sherlock and their favourite memories of time spent with him. It was on one such night that a frantic knock at the door came.

"Doc! Come quickly! Doc!" called the voice of Tom, a young runaway who was frequently found studying at Baker street and helping John with his clinic.

John threw the door open and gestured for Tom to lead the way. His bag flung over one shoulder, he raced behind the gangly youth as he ran down Baker Street. He hadn't needed to ask what was wrong; it was clear from the tone of the boy's voice that someone needed his help. Tom turned into an alley, John following closely behind. Slumped against one of the walls was a tall, thin man. John ran up to him and felt for a pulse. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he found one but his brow furrowed in concern at how weak and thread it felt.

"Tom he needs a hospital."

"I know. Won't go though; nutted Baz when we tried to take him. Crawled 'ere, he did before he passed out." There was a tinge of respect and awe in Tom's voice.

"Who is he?"

"Dunno, he's new. Showed up a couple of days ago like. Think he's been on the streets somewhere else before though coz he don't act like a newbie. Got a hell of a habit too." John nodded at the information, no judgement only acceptance of the facts.

"Ok. Help me get him back to the house."

Between them they were easily able to carry the man. No-one blinked an eye at them; the people of Baker Street were used to the sight of someone being helped to the doc's house. This man wasn't in as bad a state as some of the people they'd seen carried through that door either. He wasn't leaving a trail of blood in his wake, nor was he fitting and frothing at the mouth.

When they got to the house, the found Mrs Hudson had turned the sofa into a bed, there were fresh sheets on it and a pile of blankets at the end. On the table sat a bowl of warm water, some cloths, a bottle of TCP and a set of clean clothes (tracksuit bottoms, a t shirt and a jumper). On the table next to John's chair sat a cup of tea, a can of coke and two slices of cake. Mrs Hudson though was nowhere to be seen.