"Yes, yes Harry. I understand.
Calm down. Calm down, bloody hell woman! Speak clearly.
No, no I'm not saying you're drunk.
No, I'm not Harriet. God dammit. I'll hang up.
Okay, I believe you, you saw him. Yes, I'll tell someone.
Yes, yes. Ta, Harry. G'bye."

John was officially emotionally exhausted. Drained of every last bit of any emotion he could muster. He had been rung dry as a bone the past two days. Phone calls, text messages, notes, visitors. Not to mention emails and blog comments suddenly pouring in. He had nothing left to give.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES: Fake Genius Faked Suicide?"
The newspaper headline had done nothing to quell the unease growing in John's stomach. None of this would have been an issue, except that bloody Sally Donovan had been the first person to report a 'Sherlock sighting', as they were now being coined. Of course, John had thought he saw Sherlock enter that shady bookshop. And there was Molly's encounter. But those had been dismissed as tricks of a grieving mind. John knew about grief. Oh do you know about grief! Sally Donovan was a trusted agent of the government, who had not been particularly fond of the consulting detective. For Sally to claim she saw Sherlock, well, she had no alternative reason other than she had actually seen Sherlock. Or someone who looked similar.

He strode over to the sofa, crumpling into the cushions with a defeated moan. If he tried hard enough, some days John could smell Sherlock on the fabric of this sofa. Today was not a day he felt like exerting energy to smell anything, including the detective. His mind was racing with thoughts. He couldn't come to terms with the thought of Sherlock being alive. Simultaneously, he couldn't come to terms with the thought that Sherlock was rotting in that grave. His conflicting emotions, along with the constant assault of information on sightings, surfaced some frightening PTSD that drained John of any productivity. John turned on his side, facing the back of the couch, and stopped resisting the fatigue that threatened to pull him under.


A blaring car horn woke John out of his slumber, mumbling words about 'deduction' and 'unreasonable'. As the foggy haze of sleep slowly evaporated from his head, he glanced at his wristwatch. Nearly dinnertime. His stomach protested it's recent neglect. Sherlock would have force-fed you food from that Chinese place down the block by now. John hauled himself into a sitting position, rubbing the sleepy stiffness from his neck and shoulders. Resolved to feed himself, he rose, snatched his jacket from the back of the desk chair, and headed out the door. As he reached the bottom of the staircase, he gave a half-smile to the memory the place produced.

The first adventure Sherlock had given John had ended right here in this hall. It was the first time Sherlock had shown John how free he could be. How could John ever forget? The thrill of chasing that cab through the streets of London. The exhilarating rush of watching Sherlock calculate the route second by second as their feet carried them across the pavement. The dawning realization that he was running. The boyish laughter they shared at what they thought was an embarrassing mistake. "Welcome to London" John muttered as he absentmindedly traced the patter of the wallpaper. And lest he forget, the look of pride in Sherlock's eyes when Angelo showed up at their door holding John's forgotten cane.

John splayed his hand across the faded wallpaper, leaning in, steadying himself with the one outstretched arm. He let his forehead rest near his hand. Without warning, he began to cry. Slowly, at first, large tears welled in his eyes, tracking their steady path down his cheeks. His licked the salt from his lips, a small gasp escaping from its stronghold. Unable to keep up appearances, John allowed himself one fleeting moment of pure, unadulterated pain. He allowed it to burn through his ribcage and bubble like acid in his gut. He allowed his chest to constrict until it felt as if his heart wasn't beating at all. He allowed a small, strangled cry to emerge through his cracked lips. He allowed his skin to go cold and his hand to shake. He allowed the scalding tears to stain his bristled cheeks. He allowed all of the hurt to flood his lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he drowned in the waves that never ceased.

Panting in desperation, John placed both hands on his knees, taking great gulps of the stale air in the hallway. In an attempt to quell the onslaught of emotions, he slid down the wall, sitting in defeat upon the bottom step he had been standing on. Curling his arms around his bent knees, he cradled himself, huddled against the wall. He knew he needed to gather his wits about him or risk Mrs. Hudson finding him like this. John couldn't bear that thought. He closed his eyes and focused on slowly, repeatedly, inhaling and exhaling. He focused on controlling his breathing, focused on relaxing his tensed muscles, focused on recoiling the unraveled parts of himself that had just spilled over the dam he had been building for almost two years.

What am I supposed to do Sherlock? Stupid bastard. I can't decide if I want you back or I want you gone forever. You. Left. Me. God knows I don't understand. Do you even understand anymore? Christ. Bloody fucking Christ. You've ruined me. Here or gone, you've ruined me.

John tilted his head back and took a deep, cleansing breath. His lungs filling with moist air, his chest expanded in glorious freedom. He rolled his shoulders, straightened his back, and stood. His stance suggested John had made a decision. A purposeful choice regarding his feelings on Sherlock. He took a sure step forward towards the front door of the building, then another, then another, until he was standing on the walk. Hailing a taxi, John's confidence lasted him until his cab reached the closest bar he could find.


John had never been successful at keeping long-term lady friends. He supposed it had been caused, in part, by living with a man like Sherlock. Before sharing a flat with the detective, he hadn't had much time for steady relationships. University, medical school, Army medic; none of those things quite permitted John to hold down anything resembling a relationship. Of course he had sexual encounters with various women, all perfectly respectable ladies who found comfort in his bed for a night or two. John wouldn't say he was a frequent lover, but proficient nonetheless. He had kept that in mind as he sat at the bar, drinking lager and scoping out the other patrons.

His eyes met hers in the cliché way that every woman hopes for. He tipped his head towards her, indicating he saw her across the bar. She smiled, coy in her advances. He returned the smile, however his was bold and brash. John was making no inclination to be coy tonight. He needed human contact that didn't remotely revolve around Sherlock Holmes for one night. He ordered another beer and walked around to the other side of the room. Excusing himself, he parted the crowd next to his intended, slipping into the empty seat beside her. Her cheeks flushed slightly at his forward advances, and he smiled at the reaction. He had forgotten how invigorating this part of life could be. He had been dead inside for almost two years, void of nothing but sorrow and loneliness. He was tearing down the veil between himself and the outside world.

"I'm John." He extended his free hand towards her. She took it with a firm but soft grip, giving him one solid shake of the hand.

"Mary. Come here often, John?"

She gave him a sly wink, accompanied by a breathy laugh that made the hair on John's neck stand on end. He replied with a throaty chuckle.

"No, actually. Needed a change of scenery. Mary, huh? That's a pretty name."

"As pretty and common as a wildflower on the moor. But thank you, John, you're kind."

"Can I buy you a drink then, wildflower?" John found himself winking at Mary, a move he had learned from Sherlock, which he found only too ironic. He kept that tidbit to himself and focused on the beauty beside him.

John found Mary delightful, her conversation flowing from one topic to the next. Before he knew it, hours had passed, and John was thoroughly drunk. Mary held her liquor well, and John was certain she would be tucking him into his bed rather than crawling into it. He had come to the bar with a purpose, and fully intended to attempt to fulfill that purpose. Head swimming, he took Mary's hand and looked her in the eyes. The large blue eyes had become slightly bloodshot, but her ruby lips pulled back in a wide grin. John was delightfully shocked when it was Mary who proposed leaving.

"Wanna get out of this bloody awful place?" She giggled that breathy giggle John had come to enjoy.

"Oh, God yes." Instantly he wished he had chosen different words, and he tried with all his might to focus on the tilt-a-whirl room before him. He gave a huff and vaulted up out of his bar seat, dragging Mary behind him.

Out in the crisp night air, John's head cleared slightly. He took a moment to examine the woman still clasping his hand. She was pretty, a girl-next-door charm about her. She was shorter than John, however she had shed her heels halfway through the night. He took stock of her willowy body, her firm hand, her ruby lips and bright blue doe eyes. He found himself very proud of his accomplishment at picking out the most acceptable bed mate for the night. Mary hailed a cab, and they tumbled in together, a drunken mess of arms and legs and giggles. John slurred the address a few times before the cabbie understood.

As they reached their destination, John untangled himself from Mary to pay the cabbie and help her clamber out of the backseat. They spent a bit of time kissing on the front step, until they were breathless and wanton. John led her up the stairs, stumbling and laughing, and unlocked the flat door. Mary launched herself at John as he turned the doorknob, and they fell into a heap on the floor. John could wait no longer, his desire rearing up inside him like a wild beast that had been tame far too long. He stripped himself of his coat and dragged his shirt over his head, popping some of the buttons in the process. Mary suppressed her giggles with a lustful moan at the sight of John's naked chest, and she began divesting herself of her overcoat and sundress.

Amongst the pile of clothes, John dipped his head to nuzzle Mary's naked breasts, perfect domes of soft flesh that peaked in arousal. She moaned loudly, and John decided she deserved better than being taken on the floor of his flat. He urged Mary's legs around his waist, and linked together, he stood and intended to walked directly into Sherlock's room. Mary found the position pleasing, however, and began running her fingers through John's tousled hair, coursing over his taut chest, tracing his tensed jawline, dancing over his toned biceps that bulged with the work of supporting her. The sensation drove John into a frenzy, pushing his lover up against the far wall of the living room, kissing her freckled neck and shoulders, thrusting beneath her, finding no purchase. As quickly as John began, he stopped at the look of horror on Mary's face. She muffled her scream with one hand as she used the other to point to the darkest corner of the room. John's military knee-jerk reaction told him his back should not be turned. He let go of Mary as she proceeded to stand on her own. John turned, using his body as a shield, pressing his back to her, sandwiching her between the wall. His vision was still slightly impaired by the lager, and he strained to see what horrified his lover. The inky black of the flat was quietly illuminated by the headlights of a passing cab. In that brief moment, John saw what had shocked Mary. A figure was perched on the sitting room sofa, pensively awaiting something; what, John was unsure. He cleared his throat to speak clearly.

"There's nothing of import in this flat. You can look, if you wish, but I insist you leave now before I reach my handgun."

In the darkness there was a snort of disapproval. John knew the room spinning had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he consumed. It had everything to do with that noise the figure had made. Because he knew that noise. He had dreamed about that noise for months. His mouth suddenly dry, his mind blank, John had no knowledge of what exactly happened next.

Before he realized what was happening, Mary was being handed her garments by the figure, who still somehow kept to the shadows. John was standing against the wall, alone, naked, painfully aware of the chill that had fallen in the flat while he had been at the bar. As he watched the scene before him unfold, John realized he still had said nothing. He frantically searched his mind for the proper words to apologize to Mary for what was happening. To explain away this horrendously embarrassing, infuriating situation.

All John managed to croak out was "Mary, uh, sorry." She looked terrified, incredulous, and absolutely dumbfounded at what had unraveled in the last five minutes. She shook her head as she straightened herself, handing John his underwear as she stepped over his discarded clothes pile and out the door. John stood there dumbly. His motor functions seemed to have failed to work properly, keeping him paralyzed, naked and exposed. His eyes were glued to the figure in the shadows.

As his pupils dilated, adjusting to the achromatic blackness, the figure came into a blurry semi-focus. The deep chestnut curls contrasting with the creamy, pale skin of the neck. The earnest, bright, electric blue eyes focused only on John. High cheekbones offset by a rounded jawline. Puckered lips, well-defined. The toned muscles visible through the thin cotton t-shirt. The slender waist, accented by a belt. A plush behind that had no place on such a slim silhouette. John Watson found himself wishing the flat was cooler as his skin flushed. He vainly attempted to quell his rising joy as the figure moved infinitesimally closer, taking only one long-legged pace towards him. As John's emotions, varying from rage to elation, threatened to overtake him, the figure moved into the light thrown through the window by the lone street lamp, and for the first time in eighteen months John Watson had a clear view of Sherlock Holmes.