Chapter 3

I want to thank my betas CarryonWincestsons, siri, and Microsoft word for correcting my horrid spelling. If you read PLEASE leave a review. Anny love is appreciated. Thank you.

I was playing a simple piece while Ms. Kidd studied my body placement and wrist movement. It took me a week to learn how to read music then learn a few notes on the violin. I was distracted for a split second and my bow hit the side of the violin for the 20th time, effectively ending the easy song. I don't understand how Sherlock could do this so effortlessly, I constantly made the wrong note and hit the side of the violin. But if it was the last thing I did, I would learn how to play this damn instrument. I had gotten a new, used violin; I just couldn't use Sherlock's. Still every time I play the violin, no matter how terrible, I felt close to Sherlock. Like he was still here, working on a case.

Ms. Kidd corrected my wrist and had me play the piece 5 times, without error, before ending the session, which took up 20 more minutes. I was horrible at this, yet at time so was Sherlock. I paid her for the lesson and she headed out, but not before stopping to talk to Ms. Hudson. By the first trip, they had been talking endlessly at every visit. I put up my violin and placed it by Sherlock's. I walked over to my chair and sat down to watch some crap telly. My mind strayed to all the nights Sherlock and I had watched, well, tried to watch, crap telly while he shouted out why this man was the father, and who had cheated on whom. At the time it had ben insufferable. Now, it was a sweet memory.

A lot of the memories of our time together had morphed into a, kind of bliss. When I was annoyed, I remember it as a sweet feeling. I miss being annoyed by Sherlock. I also miss finding body parts in the kitchen, oddly enough. I missed Sherlock more than I thought I ever could. Yet, he could never come back. He is gone forever. Nothing could fix this. Nothing.

I smiled sadly at the telly and turned it off. I had an appointment in the morning. I was going to go to my new therapist by the name of Mary. She was a sweet girl. She was short with short blonde hair. I had thought on multiple occasions about asking her out, yet she hasn't shown any interest towards me. I stood slowly, feeling my shoulder grown. The wet weather has made it act up. I walked to the stairs, thinking about my wound and how it got there when I saw Sherlock's bedroom door. I had never been inside there since Sherlock was drugged at Irene's. I blushed slightly at the memory of finding Sherlock in a room with a naked women standing over him. Then the blush changed into a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I looked back towards the door. I still felt an attraction towards it, to see how he lived without people around to influence him. I walked slowly towards it and eased it open.

A musty scent blanketed the room, yet the faint scent of Sherlock lingered. It was bare except for a poster of the human skeleton marked with pen, showing pressure points and weaknesses. The bed looked slept in, yet, it was sprinkled with a small amount of dust. The dresser was in the darkest corner, giving me a sense foreboding. I smiled at the poster; it was just so like Sherlock to have this where he slept. I walked over to the dresser, thinking I would find some experiments he forgot about. No, he left when he fell, not forgot. I pulled on the door and found it locked. I tried again with no avail.

I was intrigued by this dresser. Why would you keep your clothes locked up? I turned to leave then thought, where would he keep a key, if he were hiding it from me? High up, since I was a short man. I grabbed a step-ladder from the kitchen and made my way to every high place in the house. By the time I got to my room, I was only thinking of sleeping till I saw my closet. Would he?

He did. In the back of the top shelf was a small key. That bastard. I grabbed the key and made my way to his room. The key fit into the dresser yet, it wouldn't turn. Had I gotten it wrong? For some reason I just knew that this was right. I felt around the top. The prick. It was there, a latch. I hooked my finger under the latch and pulled. Hearing a click. I turned the key. I opened the door, my heart racing. Nothing, nothing but clothes. I shifted them to look behind and found no latch, high or low. Feeling put down I went to my bed and fell asleep.

"John leave! He can't be saved!" The hot, dry Afghanistan heat hit my face, soaking up any perspiration on my head. The London streets where covered with sand and peppered with dust-devils.

"I'll be damned if I let this soldier die!" I ran up to the building where Sherlock was wearing a bullet proof vest and his coat.

"I can save you! I'm a doctor! I should be able to save you!" Sherlock didn't hear me, or didn't want to. He shook his head, threw his gun away and jumped. I heard a shot and felt my shoulder be ripped apart by the bullet. In the background I heard the song staying alive, the song Moriarty played at the pool. The song I now associated with death itself

I jumped to my feet and felt my bad leg buckle underneath me. I stood up and hobbled to the door, where my cane was. Grabbing onto the cane, I made my way down stairs. I put the kettle on while I slowly and tenderly rolled my shoulder. The dream had my psychosomatic limp and my shoulder acting up again. I shuddered just thinking of the dream of Sherlock and Afghanistan. I drank my tea while thinking of the dresser in Sherlock's bedroom. I would have to investigate more when I get back.

I made my way down the stairs and out the door. It took me longer than expected to get a cab, which made me later to the appointment. This office was friendlier then the last, the receptionist smiled when she saw me and made a point to welcome me by my name. I know she was doing this to have me open up with the therapist, yet it still made a big difference. I sat down in a chair that reminded me like Sherlock's at the flat. I waited in the waiting room for about 10 minutes when Mary came to get me.

She walked with a purpose into the waiting room as her eyes sought out me. Her eyes lightened when she found me and waked for me to follow. I was surprised about being taller than her. This was a weird feeling, being taller then another. It gave me a sense of control and calm. We walked into her room and I rushed to open the door for her, once a gentlemen always a gentleman.

Her room was dimly lit and small. A single lamp sat in the far right corner filled the one couch that sat in the middle of the room. My cane clicked slightly on the wooden floor as I made my way to the couch and sat down. I laid my cane down so that it was out of the way and mind. Mary went to a small counter that has an electric kettle and tea bags. After a few minutes of comfortable silence and tea drinking she started our conversation.

"It's about time we talked about what you miss about Sherlock. Now, I will admit you have made a lot of progress for 5 sessions, but that does not mean that you are 'healed' quite yet. Let's start with the little things you miss."

The small couch made us sit closer then you normally would, yet this was comforting in ways that I could not explain. I could lie and say I wasn't attracted to her, but I won't. She was not, by the normal standards, beautiful. She has a mouse-like face with a pinched noes and thin face. Her hair was a creamy blond that was cut to hug her jawbone. She didn't wear glasses, as I thought she would, and was always wearing very modest clothing. Unlike many other therapists, she did not have that silky, commanding voice. She had a normal voice and this helped me trust her all the better.

I chuckled before I replayed to her, "With Sherlock there was no ' little things ' to miss. Every day was different in different ways yet fit a routine that I do not pretend to understand. I would wake up at different hours and in many different ways. I would go downstairs and see whatever Sherlock was doing, or yelling about. If I was able I would make tea for us both in our cups and drink them together. When we could drink our tea he wouldn't rush me as much till we were done. I would most likely be rushed out of the house and into a crazy adventure that strained my body and mind. We would run home, probably literally, and watch some crap telly till I went up to bed. And when we were home, on a case or not, I could always hear his music."

I paused after my speech and found my answer, "so I guess that the 'little thing' that I miss the most is his music. When he was angry, it sounded like he was killing the violin. When he was sad, the music could bring tears to your eyes. When he was bored, the music sounded beautiful in a monstrous way, filling your mind and calling up happy and sad memories at the same time. I know this is why I am trying to play the violin, to recreate this music. I loved the feeling in that music that showed a Sherlock that none had ever seen. One that expressed his emotions in a beautiful way, and called the same emotions in you. He claimed to be a sociopath; I do not believe him a bit. He had as much emotion as me, if not more. So I miss our connection, I miss our life. And most of all I miss him. More than I ever thought I would, but I so dearly miss him. I would do almost anything to have him back."

Mary never said a word during his speeches. He needed to get this out of his system. She barely breathed when he talked of his music, trying to imagine this man. She could never understand what john felt, nor understand the man he described. His stories of Sherlock were more heart-retching then those of a long married couple where one had just departed. His face was wistful, painfully sad, and happy at once as he talked of Sherlock. As he talked more, the more happiness fled and wistful and sad greedily swallowed the remaining space in his expression. When he finished he turned away, probably trying to hide tears. She let him compose himself before she spoke

"Now, I know this might be uncomfortable, but, did you love him?"

John thought at this, what did she mean? Did she mean romantically love? For a good 2 minutes he thought it over and over again. He could never find an answer no matter how hard he tried. He remembered after their first case and chase. Leaning on the wall in the hallway, trying calm their breaths and high on adrenalin. He never felt such a demanding urge to kiss a person, mans or woman, then at the minute. If someone hadn't knocked on the door... He just might have. Later he blamed the adrenalin, but now. Did he love Sherlock? The answer sprang into his mind. Yes. He loved Sherlock. Even though he wanted to kill him every day he was with him. He loved him. He loved his dead best friend.

John felt his head collide with the plush couch behind him as he closed his eyes. He loved Sherlock. How has he never known? And now he could never tell him. Now he couldn't see Sherlock again. He cried silently for the rest of the short session, despite Mary's tries to calm him. He was sad and mad. Mad at Mary for making him realize this. The overwhelming rage at Moriarty squashed all other thoughts. He stopped silently crying and stood. Made a short comment to Mary and marched out the door. He would find Moriarty and make him pay. Now he just needed help and he knew just the men to call. It was time to make up with Lestrade and work with Mycroft.

He called Lestrade first, to apologize for being a spiteful prick. He pulled out his phone and started walking to NSY. The phone ringed for a while until John thought that Lestrade would just ignore him till,

"Hello? John are you alright?" Lestrade sounded rushed and frightened, clearly amazed that John would call him then worried at why.

"Yes hello, I quite fine. I just called to apologize and to tell you that I need your help with a 'project' I want to start." John was halfway there and wanted to tell him this over the phone, so he couldn't see look on John's face when he explained his new 'project'.

"It is fine. But what is this project?"

"It is... Um... Finding Moriarty and his team." John waited for Lestrade's outburst at this and pulled the phone a safe distance from his ear.

" WHAT! YOU CAN'T TAKE THEM DOWN! EVEN MYCROFT WON'T EVEN TRY! "Well, at least John knew that Lestrade still cared for him.

"Because I just realized exactly what they took from me." John waited, not knowing if he wanted to tell Lestrade.

"And that would be?"

"I just realized that I. That I" John took a deep breath, "love Sherlock" he spoke quietly, waiting for judgment and laughter

"Took you long enough. Everyone knew you did, well, except you and Sherlock." Lestrade spoke respectfully and quietly, telling john he understood.

"I am right outside, so hurry up Lestrade."

"Wait, what? Am I going somewhere?"

"Yes, we are going to see Mycroft and ask for his help."

"I never said I wanted to help you."

"You didn't need to. I knew"

"John, you are slowly turning Into Sherlock."

"I know."