ONLY TEARDROPS

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, or anything else you could possibly recognise :)

WARNING: Johnlock. Don't like it, just don't read it ;)

CHAPTER TWO: THE CASE

xXxXxXx

"So lately, been wonderin'

Who will be there to take my place.

When I'm gone you'll need love

To light the shadows on your face."

Wherever You Will Go – The Calling

xXxXxXx

As soon as they returned to Baker Street John hurried inside and up the steps, leaving Mrs. Hudson to pay the fare for the cab. As soon as he was inside he closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment. He felt as though he could breathe again. He glanced around, noting the armchairs still in the same place, the papers and books that covered nearly every surface, a used teacup on the coffee table. It still looked as though two people lived there – it was just too much mess for one person.

Shuffling over to the coffee table, he picked the cup up and returned it to the kitchen. Back in the living room the piles of newspapers that covered the table were collected together and sat on the floor. He picked up a few books, returning them to the shelves haphazardly. Glancing around, it didn't feel all that different. John spent the rest of the afternoon tidying the things he had never bothered to touch before. He found a few boxes of Sherlock's equipment – microscopes, beakers, test tubes, notebooks and Bunsen burners. He knew Mrs. Hudson had boxed these just after the funeral, but she hadn't known what to do with them. Now that he had them, John wasn't sure what to do with them either. Did he pack them away? Did he sell them? Donate them? Some lab would probably be interested in the notebooks of theories and results, and any college around would love the rest of it. He wasn't sure if he could bring himself to just give away Sherlock's things though.

Cleaning also meant he came across a few of the things remaining from experiments he hadn't yet discovered. In on the very top corner cupboards in the kitchen he discovered a colony of… something growing, and it seemed to have taken over the entire place. That would explain the strange smell from the last few months. He'd cleaned out most of the experiments long ago – he may have been reluctant to move Sherlock's stuff, but leaving a bag of pinkie-fingers in the microwave was just a little too much, even for him. And the bowl of toenails was not a welcome addition to the refrigerator. Most of what remained now was papers, notes, case files that had never been returned to Lestrade, newspaper clippings, and various odds and ends. John piled them all on the desk, setting aside the case files to return to Scotland Yard.

It took him several hours to tidy all of the living area. Once he was done he paused to look over it. It was… different. It didn't feel right at all – the place was definitely too empty now. He'd never seen it this bare. He could still remember when they'd first moved in; by the time he had arrived Sherlock had already moved in and had his stuff everywhere. John hadn't been sure about the chaos at first but now 221B Baker Street just didn't look right. Sherlock had made the flat more of a home than he had, and now without the clutter it felt foreign.

Feeling uncomfortable, John headed up the stairs to his own room. The living/kitchen area of the flat didn't look the same anymore, and it made him feel as though even he shouldn't enter. How would a new flat mate change all this? Would they be messy? Would they keep it tidy and clean and sparse? The only area he hadn't touched was Sherlock's bedroom. That would be a job for tomorrow. He figured it wouldn't have as much of an effect on him to clean when it was so rarely used. More often than not Sherlock didn't sleep at night, though when he did he usually crashed on the sofa. His bedroom had only the basics in it, and hopefully that would mean it would be easier. He couldn't help but wonder what a new flat mate would do with that space. Would they use the bedroom as a normal person did? Would they spend nights on the sofa? He hoped not. The sofa was theirs. His and Sherlock's. He didn't want someone new to mess with their things.

Groaning at the immaturity and possessiveness of his thoughts, John opened his laptop. It was getting late by this point, but he wasn't hungry, and he felt that any attempt for sleep would be useless. He opened his blog straight away, looking immediately to the counter to the right. 124 hits. In the past week. He remembered when he'd get 2000 hits just overnight, when Sherlock was at his very best. Or just after… when he checked it after, it had been at an amazing 11097 hits. Everyone was interested once Sherlock was dead. Now… now no one cared who John Watson was. The man was ordinary, nothing special on his own and he just didn't have Sherlock to raise that interest in people. No one cared about boring. There were still a few faithful readers who had stuck with him, reading every post he made. Not that he made all that many anymore. But they only knew the name John Watson because of his association with Sherlock Holmes – and not all that many people cared about Sherlock Holmes now, either.

John slammed his laptop closed again, running a hand tiredly over his face. Sherlock Holmes was a name that many people had erased. They had thought he'd been great, but then it was revealed that he was nothing but a fake. Pretending to be a genius. John scoffed at that. Pretending? There was no way anyone who had actually met Sherlock could ever believe he was just pretending to be that intelligent. It just wasn't plausible. Well, some of them did, but John couldn't see it. Sherlock was genuinely the most incredibly intelligent person John had ever met and he felt others should know that. But most of them believed the papers, those articles written by people like Kitty who were just greedy for a story. None of them actually cared about the truth, and most of them would never know just what an amazing individual Sherlock had been. It annoyed John to no end that barely anyone believed in Sherlock, that such a great man could be overlooked because of the greed and jealousy of the people around him.

He hated most people these days, barely bothered to talk to a lot of them. Every now and again he would get someone in at the surgery that would know him from his blog and ask him about Sherlock (who they all seemed to agree didn't seem as bad as the media had made him appear). John usually refused to comment on his opinion of the detective when these people came around; he was never sure what to say. He just smiled, told them he was dealing well after his friend's death, and returned the conversation to whatever health issue they had. It wasn't always easy to fend questions off, but these people were rare and that made it a little easier.

John grabbed a book and got into bed, knowing he wouldn't be sleeping but wanting something to distract his mind. Tomorrow, he decided, I will go down to Scotland Yard with those case files and mention my search for a new flat mate. Maybe Lestrade would know someone.

xXxXxXx

Late in the morning John was awoken by his phone ringing. He was still in a sitting position on his bed, novel open before him, neck and back aching like all hell. He immediately regretted his decision to stay up and read, even if it was quite successful as a method of distraction. Blearily he reached for his phone, not even checking the caller ID as he answered.

"'ello?" Urgh, he even sounded as if he just woke up.

"John, sorry, didn't mean to wake ya." Lestrade.

"Oh no, that's fine. Sorry. What's going on?" John was getting out of bed as he spoke. He tucked the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he pulled the covers up on his bed and tucked them tidily, sweeping a hand atop the covers to smooth out the creases.

"We've got a case here you might wanna take a look at. I know you don't have that much time but frankly, I'm stumped. Maybe you'll be able to shed a bit of light on it for us." Lestrade sounded a little unsure, like he usually did when he called John for help. He knew John wasn't like Sherlock, he didn't get overly excited to show off his intelligence, he just wanted to help out and keep something of Sherlock alive while doing so.

John nodded, even though Lestrade couldn't see him. "Sure. I was actually going to head down to Scotland Yard this morning to return some things that Sherlock seemed to have kept. What's the address?"

Lestade chuckled. "I'm there now, if you want to bring the stuff. We can go to the crime scene together."

"Sounds good," John agreed, "I'll see you there."

After he hung up, John pulled out some clothes and changed – light jeans and a white t-shirt with a green cardigan over the top. He took a few minutes to wash his face and teeth, grabbed the files and headed out the door. Mrs. Hudson wasn't anywhere to be seen as he made his way out, but that wasn't all that unusual. He hailed a taxi and told the cabbie that he was heading to Scotland Yard. The path was one he'd taken a million times, both with and without Sherlock at his side, and it passed quickly.

He headed straight for Lestrade's office, like they had always done. No one bothered to say anything to him – everyone there knew who John Watson was. He knocked sharply on the door and after a "c'mon in" from Lestrade he did just that.

Lestrade hadn't changed all that much in the whole time John had known him. He sat at his desk at the moment, obviously waiting for John.

"John. Sorry for waking you up this morning." Lestrade stood and made his way around the desk. "I've been at this bloody crime scene all morning and I can't make heads or tails of it. Maybe you could help?"

John shrugged. "I can try. Oh, and I have these." He set the files on Lestrade's desk. "They're all just case files, ones you'd obviously dropped off to Sherlock and he never bothered to return them. Either that or he stole some of them."

"Thanks for that," Lestrade skimmed the top one, "Did he have them all hidden from you?"

"Oh no, I just hadn't bothered to clean his stuff up. He had a lot of rubbish, must have been hoarding it for years!"

Lestrade laughed at that. "He seemed to do that a bit, eh? How you ever lived with him I will never know."

"It wasn't easy," John admitted and they both laughed. After a few moments John went quiet, eyes on the floor before raising them and training them on Lestrade. "Actually, I need to find a new flatmate," he admitted, "I'm working so much but I just can't keep up with it all. If you find anyone looking, do you think you could…"

"Let you know? Yeah." Lestrade watched him for a few more moments. "You don't have to keep doing this, y'know? I know it's not easy to let go but-"

"I want to," John said quickly, "It's not all to do with Sherlock. I like helping. I can't just not do it, it's kind of ingrained in me by now."

Lestrade barked out a laugh at that, lightening the tension that had formed in the office. "I think that's the reason we all keep at it," he grinned. "C'mon, let's go."

John followed Lestrade outside where they took a police car to the scene. It wasn't a very long drive and on the way Lestrade described the case they were looking into. The victim was Thomas Jennings, 20 years old. He was a local university student, pretty typical run of the mill guy. Average grades, well-liked by his peers, only other relative was a sister that lived on the other side of town. He'd been found floating in the university swimming pool. John filed these details away in his mind in case he'd need them again, nodding while Lestrade talked.

When they arrived they were greeted by a young man by the name of Patrick Hill. John knew him vaguely – he was pretty new around here, a little inexperienced, but he had a good head on his shoulders. He was pretty tall, dark hair messy and hazel eyes bright as he walked toward them. "John! Good to see you," He grinned, reaching to shake hands with John.

At the same time Sally Donovan exited the building, completely ignoring John's presence as she headed to Lestrade and started filling him in on what they'd found. John and Patrick watched as Sally deliberately placed herself between John and Lestrade so that her back was facing John, blocking him from the conversation. John was used to this treatment by now, but Patrick scowled at her on his behalf. He also noticed Lestrade glance at him apologetically as he headed inside the building, calling for John to follow over his shoulder.

"Why does she do that?" Patrick questioned once they had disappeared inside.

John just shrugged, though he knew perfectly. "C'mon, we better follow."

Inside was a large pool, several officers standing around and chatting. A few more were still looking at the body that had been pulled from the water and now lay on the poolside. John headed over to that group, Patrick trailing him.

"Ok guys, back up!" Lestrade called to the group as John approached. The people crowding the body shuffled away a little, though they all stayed close enough to watch John. "What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

John didn't answer as he looked, trying to see what Sherlock would see. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves that one of the men handed him. First, cause of death. It had obviously happened sometime the previous night. He knelt down to get a closer look. There were mottled dark bruises around the throat – strangulation? But… he turned the man's arm over. Track marks. So he was doing drugs and had been strangled and dumped in a pool? The bruises on the throat didn't look like finger marks or rope. Some kind of cloth? He didn't doubt that it was that which had killed him. From the marks on his arms John could tell he'd been doing drugs for at least several months. Did that mean his death was drug related? He was wearing boxer shorts and a loose t-shirt - pyjamas, which meant it was likely that he was attacked in his own room. There wasn't much else he could get from the body; any other evidence that could have existed was likely destroyed by the water.

He stood, glancing around the large room. There was nothing out of place, nothing in particular that stood out. The water was shifting slightly, reflecting the lights and creating a glittering effect. He looked down the length of the pool toward the door, and for a second he could see a figure emerge. Dark hair, light steps, smug smile. Moriarty. John remembered all too well the last time he was at a poolside, though he remembered very little of the pool itself. He could still picture perfectly the look of shock on Sherlock's face when he emerged from the cubicle and revealed the bomb strapped underneath his jacket. He could almost feel the vest on him again and quickly ran a hand down his front just to make sure it wasn't there.

After a few moments he shook his head slightly, turning to find everyone watching him. "Sorry," he turned to Lestrade. "Do you think we could see his room?"

Frowning a little, Lestrade nodded. He led John outside and toward the dorm building, Sally following. "So, what do you think?"

John shrugged. "I'm not that good at this, Sherlock would probably already have the guy's life story. I know he was strangled and dumped in the pool, but it looks like the attack didn't happen there. He was into drugs – there are track marks on his arm dating back to at least four months. And he was still in his pyjamas so he was more than likely attacked in his room."

Lestrade nodded at the explanation, easily able to follow how John had drawn these conclusions. The two climbed one set of stairs and walked down a hallway, taking a left before coming to number 18. The door was already open, a couple officers searching the room. "Guys," they both looked up when Lestrade spoke, "This here is John Watson, he's just gonna have a look around so don't get in his way."

The two men looked between Lestrade and John for a moment before nodding in agreement and moving out of John's way. John gave a quick nod to Lestrade before concentrating on his surroundings. The room was a mess. The blankets were bundled at the end of the bed, a pile of shoes kicked under the end. There was a small bedside table consisting of an iPod, a set of keys and a wallet. Beside that was a pile of dirty clothes, strewn underneath the slightly open window and a little under the desk. The desk was surprisingly clean, with only a small laptop set in the centre. The chair, however, was on its side. John stood still, trying to picture the scene.

"His keys are still here," he spoke aloud, "So he wasn't meaning to leave at all. Did you move anything?" He turned to the two men, both of whom shook their heads. "Ok, well…" He paused, glancing around. Everyone was watching him. How had Sherlock done this? It was a little intimidating. He really had no clue, but he felt as though he'd done nothing for the case so far. He could see all the details of the room, the way everything was set. What did it mean? How could he pick out what details were important and figure out what they meant? He looked around, trying to put it all together. The mess on the bed looked like any other young man's, but the clothes? They looked like they'd been kicked over. A scuffle? He checked the window and found that it was stuck in that position, it didn't look like it'd been moved in a long time. He checked the door – no sign of forced entry. The assailant was invited in? "The door," he said aloud at last, "No sign of forced entry, so it looks like he invited whoever did this inside. Does that mean it was someone he knew?"

Lestrade nodded, watching John as he walked around the room. John started on the desk next, quickly opening and closing the drawers. Most of them were empty. He couldn't tell if there had been anything in them, but they had possibly been empty for a long time. He turned back to Lestrade. "Sorry, I think that's all I got. Maybe if you talk to his friends? He probably knew the person who did it and they might have some idea."

"Will do," Lestrade said, "Thanks for coming to have a look, it really has helped."

John looked relieved at that and he nodded in thanks to Lestrade. The two headed toward the door together, forcing Sally to step out of the way. They were both silent as they made their way through the building and stepped out into the fresh air.

"So, any ideas?" John asked.

Lestrade shrugged a little. "Not yet. I think we'll talk to his friends first, like you said."

John nodded. "Sorry I couldn't be of more help, I feel like I should have watched more closely when Sherlock was doing his thing. Maybe I would have learned something more to help out."

"You learned plenty," Lestrade said, "Even without him you're better than most of the force. That's why I still call you in for cases like these. And you're definitely easier to get along with."

John couldn't help but laugh at that. "That's not much of a challenge," he agreed, still giggling slightly.

"It wasn't his winning personality that got him any friends, was it?" Lestrade laughed along with John as they headed across the grounds back toward the pool.

Just outside John decided it was time for him to leave. He'd said all he had to say about the body, he didn't know what else he could do there. "I better be off," he said just before Lestrade entered. He stopped and looked back at John. "I should really get back and clean out the rest of the flat before I wimp out," he explained.

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "You wanna come out with some of the guys tonight?" He questioned, as he usually did.

John barely paused. "I don't think so, sorry."

Lestrade just nodded, already having expected the answer. It had been John's answer every time he'd asked for the past year. "Alright, I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah."

As John walked back toward the main road Lestrade headed back inside. He was immediately approached by Patrick, who he'd known for the past eleven months. "What did he say?" Patrick asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "He can't, he's busy."

Patrick growled in frustration. "Why does he never come out with us?"

Lestrade smiled sympathetically. All Patrick wanted was to get to know John, a man he saw as a role model. But John didn't see that – he was too busy trying to hide from everything, still mourning even a year after his loss. "He just has other things on his mind," Lestrade provided as explanation before he walked away.

Patrick watched him walk away, frowning in confusion.

"He used to come out all the time," one of the other men said – David.

"Yeah?" Patrick turned to him. "What happened?"

David shrugged. "His best friend died. Everyone found out he was a fake and he threw himself off a building."

"You knew him?" Patrick asked, "You didn't like him?"

"Everyone knew him but no one really liked him, except Watson and Lestrade. Guy didn't have many friends, wasn't really the type. Him and Watson were really close though, never saw one without the other."

Patrick looked back toward the door, a frown on his face. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Uh, maybe about a year or so, I think," the man said, turning back, "Don't even bother trying, Watson doesn't know what he's doing any more."

Patrick looked up sharply at the words, but David was already walking away. He couldn't help but think some people were unnecessarily cruel to John considering he was such a nice man. What kind of a man could his best friend have been to make people treat John in such a way, even a year after his death?

xXxXxXx

John had to be at work at the surgery early the following morning, so he'd set his alarm just to make sure he would be awake in time. He couldn't stave off several yawns as he pulled his clothes on groggily, blinking slowly to try and clear his bleary vision. He'd been up late again the previous night, simply unable to sleep. He'd cleared the rest of the flat early in the afternoon and had been left to meander the rest of the day away, trying to keep himself occupied. He still couldn't help but feel foreign in his own home now; it was missing so much now that he had tidied Sherlock's belongings.

Everyone at the surgery was polite, proper. John hated it. They all knew he'd had many issues with the death of his best friend, and it was as though they were all walking on eggshells around him. They were cordial. It was disgusting. When he walked in the secretary, a woman by the name of Joanne, gave him a wide smile and said a perky, "Good morning Doctor Watson."

"Morning," John grunted back, heading straight to his office. He set his things against the wall out of the way and sat back in his chair, sighing at the relief he felt. This room was familiar, never changing. It was completely different from 221B Baker street, and it felt good.

"Morning John!"

John jumped, spinning in his chair to see Sarah sticking her head in the door. John smiled back at her tiredly – he really liked Sarah, she was the only one here he made an effort with. Their relationship hadn't ended on bad terms, unlike many of the others, which was definitely a blessing for his job's sake. "Sarah, good morning."

"How are you going today?" Sarah asked, stepping into the room. "I know you must get that question a lot. Sorry."

"No, that's fine. I'm fine. A little tired maybe, but I'm used to endless nights of no sleep."

Sarah laughed, knowing all too well what that meant. She remembered just after John had started, when he'd fallen asleep at his desk after an all-nighter on a case with Sherlock. It had been cute, she'd thought, picturing him propping his head up on his hand. "You'll be fine for today though, right?" She asked.

"Yes, of course," John said quickly.

"Oh good," Sarah smiled, "I have to leave early today, go pick up a friend from the airport."

"Visiting, are they?" John asked, pleased with himself. He was making conversation, something he didn't do all that often these days. Overly polite conversation maybe, but it was something.

Sarah grimaced. "Unfortunately not. Cooper just broke up with his girlfriend, so he's planning on moving to London, he's just got to find a place to live." John nodded along, partially feigning interest. "You don't happen to know anyone looking for a flatmate, do you?"

John, who had been zoning slightly didn't register the question, but noticed that she'd stopped talking and was watching him. "Huh? Sorry, what?"

"Do you know anyone looking for a flatmate?" Sarah repeated.

"No, sorry, I-" John paused. "Wait, I am actually."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Really? Would you like to meet him? I can bring him around tomorrow if that's good for you?"

John grinned. "Sure, sounds good."

Once Sarah had left and the door was closed behind her, John remained where he was. He blinked a few times after her, frowning. He was meeting a potential flatmate tomorrow. Tomorrow. That was soon. That was very soon. Was it too soon? John ran a tired hand over his face. He'd only decided two days ago to even consider getting a new flatmate – he hadn't had time to find a place for Sherlock's things, he still couldn't even picture himself living with anyone else, allowing someone new into the flat. His home. Their home. Why did it feel so strange to think that soon 221B Baker Street could also become home to someone else? It wasn't right. He didn't want to share it.

John spun around on his chair to look out the window. Cooper – that was what Sarah had said his name was. What would Cooper be like? Would he be anything like Sherlock? Unlikely. No one was like Sherlock. He was the most unique person John had ever met, never another like him in the world. But could John picture him taking Sherlock's place in the flat? Would he be okay with someone sleeping in Sherlock's bed even a few days from now? Using their kitchen, sitting on their sofa, being in their home. His and Sherlock's. Did he know anything of Sherlock Holmes? Would he understand why John kept all those books? Why John washed anything in the kitchen both before and after he used it, why he sometimes hummed classical music and kept that violin in the corner even though he had no clue how to play it? Did John even care if he understood?

He took a deep breath, glancing at the clock. Just about time for the day to start. It wasn't much use, he figured, worrying endlessly about a potential flatmate he'd never met. He tried to force himself to consider the possibility that this flatmate might be a good thing, might actually help him deal with everything. It didn't work though. Nothing could help with the fact that Sherlock was gone and he wasn't ever coming back. John had kept that hope for a long time – that it was just another genius plan of Sherlock's and that he was faking it all for some reason. But he'd been forced to admit that it wasn't possible. Sherlock wouldn't do that to him. He couldn't. They were best friends, Sherlock cared, and if Sherlock cared about John as much as he thought he did there was no way he could go on letting John believe he was dead.

No, nothing could fix the fact that his best friend was dead, but maybe it could be made easier. John spun back around to face the door and called in his first patient for what would be a very long day.

xXxXxXx

So, chapter two. How'd you like it? It turned out a little (okay, a lot) longer than planned, but well… I just wanted to get up to Sherlock's return… but no. NEXT CHAPTER!

Thank you again to KokoMini for her awesome beta work, even though she's been so busy. She still has yet to watch Sherlock, but I think I'm turning her ;) So leave a review and let her know how much she needs to watch it!