After spending his night with Sherlock, John went home and got a few peaceful hours of rest before his therapist appointment at 3:00. This time, he would actually give her what she wanted: he would go through the events of the days leading up to Sherlock's fall. He couldn't bear to do before now, though she had been asking him to do since the first session.

"John," he snapped his diverted attention back to her, "What would you want to say to Sherlock now, if he could hear you?"

"No. I can't tell you that. We're done here."

John called Mrs. Hudson, and asked her if she would accompany him to go see Sherlock again. She voiced that it was strange of him to be calling out of the blue, but she would be ready when the cab came. John needed her support, and he couldn't ask Molly since she was at work. Her presence would give him just enough courage to say what he needed to – to close his case with Sherlock.

Standing in front of the black marble, John didn't say that he liked or loved Sherlock, because hell, he had just found out yesterday that he was harboring feelings for Sherlock. But the words he did say were heavily weighted, and if Sherlock had heard them, he hoped that he would understand.

"So, are we ready to go?" John rejoined Mrs. Hudson, who had left him alone for privacy and waited at the cemetery gates for him.

John turned and scanned the field filled with random assortments of headstones, thinking about what lay underneath the grass. A man, far off to the right of where he had just come from caught his eye. John squinted his eyes and took a couple of steps forward, trying to discern whether his suspicion could be valid. His own words spun in his head now. Sherlock, please … don't be dead.

"John? What are you looking at?" He had gotten Mrs. Hudson looking now too, but the figure had gone behind some trees.

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson. Let's go." John took her arm and led her out. He shrugged off the notion that the tall, dark haired figure with a long coat moved exactly like Sherlock did. This wasn't the first time he had imagined he saw Sherlock. He knew Sherlock wouldn't appear, but yet he kept searching for him, wearily, in every place he went. It's a bloody graveyard, he thought, what did I expect?

Not much had happened in the past year. In fact, very little had changed. John was still renting out the 221 B flat with the money Mycroft had so generously given him, he still occasionally saw Mrs. Hudson, and he went out for coffee with Molly every Sunday. The receptionist at the orthopedic centre had come back, but John had found an opening in a walk-in office and was now a doctor there. The only great thing that had happened in the past year was that he had seen his sister, bitterly told her that he was stronger than she was for being able to refuse alcohol or any other substance to numb himself with, and after the encounter, found out she had checked herself into rehab. She said he had "inspired" her and made her realize she can "be better than this". He was glad for that, at least.

It had been too long since John had gone on a proper vacation. Even though he was only allowed 3 days off of work, he desperately needed it. He decided upon Edinburgh, a place he hadn't visited since he was a little boy with his family. He needed to be somewhere that reminded him of life before all of the hard things had come; all of the things that gave his face deep lines and a steely, emotionless expression.

One, at the train station, he counted. Two, on the castle grounds; three, passing outside the café beside the hotel. Even here, Sherlock didn't leave him. Four, a landscaper in Dean Gardens. Even with all of the false sightings, John still enjoyed himself as best he could. There was even a dainty brunette he almost bought a drink for in a pub, but he was rusty and decided it was best not to get involved with someone who lived outside of London. Five, a man in another compartment.

John's trip was uneventful and relaxing. On the ride home, he thought of a time when his life was full of excitement and adventure, and how perhaps it was better to take it slower now. But he also thought that if Sherlock were to come through those compartment doors, he would take back that life full of spontaneity in a heartbeat.

The train from Edinburgh got back to London at 5:00 pm, Sunday night. It was still light out, but barely; it had been drizzling all day and the sky was a characteristically murky grey. John hailed a cab, and stared out the dripping window the entire time, imagining that Sherlock was at the other window, thinking about a case, or whatever he kept his mind busy with. He closed his eyes and sent his mind reeling with imaginings that Sherlock had indeed accompanied him to Edinburgh, because they had found each other on the platform where John had first believed he saw Sherlock. No, he thought, I have to stop this. This is why John avoided taking cabs as much as possible. If there were things that he could do differently, things he hadn't done with Sherlock, he would do them to impede his suffering.

"Wait for me, would you? I'll only be a minute," he instructed the cabbie. He had made up his mind. He was tired of thinking he saw ghosts – if he was going to see one, he would go where one would actually be: 221 B, Baker Street.

He picked out the key that was still on his keychain, and quietly eased the door open. It gave its usual concise squeak, and he hoped that wouldn't be loud enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear. He closed the door silently, and stared up at the ominous stairs: almost every one squeaked or groaned in some spot. Carefully, John edged up the side of the stairs so as to not maximize such unnecessary outbursts often originating from the centre, and most worn, area of each step. It was almost painstaking, but John made it up the landing successfully without much sound. He let out a quick sigh of relief as he looked down on his first triumph, and noticed his hand was shaking. There was no point in trying to calm it, so he stuffed it in his left pocket, and taking a deep breath, gingerly turned the knob of the door that led into the rooms of 221 B.

The light layer of dust that had formed on the floor stirred with the slow opening of the door. John looked around, half aware that he was looking for evidence that something – anything – had been disturbed. He remembered the day that he left his broken coffee mug hadn't been cleaned up, but he figured Mrs. Hudson had done that for him. He chuckled to himself, thinking of all the times she protested she was "not your housekeeper," even though she had continually cleaned up after them and brought them food or drink when necessary. John was apprehensive about entering and disturbing anything – but why? He pondered that for a second, but couldn't come up with a decent reason why – apart from having to deal with dust wherever he went – so he entered and shut the door.

Home, he thought, but not quite. He ambled around, like he was a stranger examining another's home for the first time, not daring to touch anything. It wasn't for long that he couldn't help himself and he started tidying the kitchen. It was a mess, but he, too, had been a mess in the last few days of his residence. He cleared the island a bit, and put some items in the sink with the intention of dealing with them later. He made his way back into the living room, and slumped into his old chair, placing his head in his hands. Sitting up, he gave another heavy sigh.

"Sherlock," John verbalized in a voice that was louder than he expected, but with the same hopeless weariness he had grown accustomed to hearing. John had not anticipated on receiving a reply; it was more of a plea for his sanity and to solidify a certain everlasting solitude. John looked over to the skull sitting on the mantel of the fireplace, and was possessed to go and pick it up.

"So …" The skull gave no reply. "Hm, a bit like those gravediggers in Hamlet now, aren't I? Talking to a skull. "Old Yorrick". Did Sherlock even have a name for you?" The skull looked at him the same way it had always looked at Sherlock, and still kept its peace. "I can start to understand now why he liked talking to you," and placed it back on the mantel.

He now stared at himself in the mirror, searching for any discrepancies within his face and eyes, like if he stared long enough he would find a key to something else hidden away – but he had no idea what. He remembered one of the last times he used the mirror, just before Moriarty's trial. He had been knotting his tie, and Sherlock had been pacing around behind him. Once, their eyes met via the mirror, just for a second that seemed like a short eternity. John's heart quickened at the memory and he noticed his pupils slightly dilate and then return to regular dimensions. Finally breaking his staring contest, he glanced down at his hands which were resting on the mantel – but just as he glanced down he saw Sherlock, intensely watching him the same way he had done the day of the trial – and swiftly glanced back up, only to find that he was still very alone. He had seen his ghost, and faced his demons, and now a little seed was planted in his mind that gradually grew over the next few days: he wanted – no, longed – to be back at Baker Street.

John lay down to rest on the sofa. It was nearly 8:00 by now, not early enough to sleep, but John slowly drifted off anyway. In one of his rare dreams, John dreamt that Sherlock was laughing, and smiling, and his face flitted by as though he were separated from John by a sheer white curtain. Early next morning, John snuck out just as quietly as he came, and for the first time in too long, went to work happy.