Stray pigeons and wandering strangers chattered around him, filling the air with exclamations and calls and gossip. The crisp wind welcomed this chatter, embracing it like a mother and carrying it to and fro as if to proudly show off its noisy child. These sounds were likewise born to John Watson in an attempt to encourage him to join in, but to no avail. Nowadays he passed through the life surrounding him like a rock jutting from a river's edge—always silent, always stoic, and never moved.

As he had a hundred times before, John mourned his transformation into this human rock. Though before he would have chuckled at a child's game or marveled at the smiling blue sky, now these events went unnoticed and unappreciated. The excitement was gone, and with it his ability to capture life's exciting moments. And this change had come so forcibly and suddenly that he had changed before he realized that he was changing. Even more frightening was the realization that he could find no way to change back.

So John was left with this: the mundane rituals of normal life, to be completed with false smiles and few complaints. If he allowed himself to be honest, he would stomp off of the street and headed for home. He would scream obscenities at every passerby for having fulfilled, happy lives. He would chuck the oh-so-valuable library books in the Thames, or in a dumpster, or at a wall.

But instead, he chose to gingerly carry the oh-so-valuable books not to the Thames or a dumpster, but to the safety of the library in which they belonged. (Because, after all, that was his duty.)

And so he arrived at the neighborhood library, the books in his hand and a well-hidden anger in his heart. Stepping through the glass doors with a sigh, John was greeted by rows and rows of neat, organized bookcases, clusters of half-filled tables and chairs, and the soft yellow light that floated in between. Immediately he felt like an intruder, interrupting the quiet, tranquil order with his anger and bitterness.

"Can I help you with something?" a hushed voice called.

John realized that he stood frozen in the entryway like a skittish child. Pull yourself together, John. He forced himself to walk to the front counter and meet the young woman waiting there.

When he did so, he received a jolt—he found himself staring into eyes he had closed weeks ago. But that was impossible. That was utterly, entirely impossible. No other eyes had that depth, that irreplaceable array of colors that shone so brightly as they examined and hypothesized and concluded. These were none other than Sherlock's eyes.

"Sir?"

The word jerked him from his reverie, and he found that, no, these eyes did not belong to his departed friend, but to a woman—a woman with an inquisitive face marked with small, pink lips, an angled jaw, and soft eyebrows framing those impossible eyes. John's mind barely took time to register the dark bangs and braid that mimicked the color of the chestnut-wood desk, or the pale blazer pulled over a printed dress. Her eyes had left him reeling, and now he stumbled to match his words to his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm just here to return some books." He vaguely held up the two, but didn't think to offer them up.

"I can take them from you." She smiled and held out a small, slender hand.

He handed them to her, grateful to finally function like a normal human being. Then, with a small nod, he began to turn away.

Her voice stopped him again. "Are you Dr. Watson?"

"John, yeah," he replied, turning around. How did she know his name? "Have we met before?"

"No," she chuckled. "But I'm Ella, the one who called you about these texts. Ella Whiting," she added.

"Oh," was all he could say with a forced smile. "Well, it's nice to meet you."

"Thank you again for returning these," she continued. "I know it seems absolutely trivial, but these books are very important to me—to the library, I mean—and I feel horrible that you had to turn them in, with your situation and all—"

"Don't worry about it," he interrupted. "No problem at all." He needed no reminder of his "situation." Feeling that the deed was done, John turned to go once again, but was held back by a small shred of curiosity. "Do you—" he hesitated, then began again. "Do you know when Sherlock, or Mr. Holmes, picked these up?"

Eyebrows furrowed, she gave him a strange look. "It must have been a few months ago… but if you like, I can look up the exact date for you."

"That won't be necessary. Just curious."

"How so?"

Her question slightly disturbed him, partially because he was asking himself the same question. "Well," began John, "they're not exactly the sort of thing Sherlock reads." Shit, he thought. "Used to read," he muttered quietly.

A strange, faraway look entered her impossible eyes. "I suppose we all have our secrets," she answered. Then with a small shake of her head, she transformed back into the friendly, polite librarian. "In fact, Mr. Holmes was interested in quite a bit of our special collection items; I remember he especially loved old law and biology texts."

"He would." The begrudging reply was nearly inaudible.

Yet, somehow, the librarian must have heard it. "Well, you would know," she delivered with a playful smile.

At that ever-so-painful reminder, John's fists clenched themselves together, and his jaw followed suit. But as years in the military had given him the ability to mask his feelings, his face became blank. At this point, with the painful reminders of Sherlock pouring in daily, the response was almost involuntary, instantaneous and mechanical.

When he chose to fix his eyes on her face again, her hands had flown to her mouth, and only the eyes remained, wide and filled with horror. He was instantly confused: had this un-extraordinary (though pretty) librarian really seen through his emotional armor? Was he falling apart that easily?

Apparently so.

"Dr. Watson," she began, "I'm so sorry." A shaky sigh, and her hands shakier still. "I've been terrible—terribly insensitive, really. And awkward. God, I need to stop talking."

He held back the sudden urge to chuckle as the librarian's polite exterior crumbled. "It's fine, really."

Her eyes filled with gratitude for his forgiveness. A slight smile grew in the corner of her mouth. "Now, I know for a fact that you're not interested in my work, but would you like to know which books Mr. Holmes looked at?"

No. His mind immediately supplied the answer. He would not fall apart—not here, not now, and certainly not with her. Thus avoidance was absolutely necessary. "Actually, I'd like to hear about your work."

While surprised at first, she transformed herself into a library tour guide, and things quickly became a blur to John. Although he did retain that she was both a research specialist and a well-known book curator, the librarian might have spoken for hours on the process of caring for and preserving ancient texts or on the library's plumbing system or, for all he knew, on the various types of tobacco—he lost track after the first minute. It didn't matter, anyway; the sound of her soft, lighthearted voice engulfed the misery and the memories that had flooded his thoughts for far too long.

And so, after some indeterminable amount of time, John found himself turning once again to leave the library, now with a fragmentary peace of mind. Smiling at the young woman, he offered his hand. "Seeing the library has been a very nice change of scene. Thank you very much, Ms…."

"Whiting," she supplied. "Or Ella. You could call me Ella. It's my name too, I suppose."

He chuckled. "Okay, Ella. Have a good one."

With that, he spun on his heel and strode outside, just missing her very sad reply: "I hope you do too, John."

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