"Happy Birthday"
"...What?"
"Well it's your birthday isn't it?...It is your birthday?"
"Yes but...you.. you actually remembered?"
"...Well.. Mrs Hudson might have mentioned it once"
"Of course"
"Or twice.."
"Most likely"
"Maybe five times."
John grinned and took the package.
"But you don't do this sort of thing, go out and buy someone a present, do you?"
"Call it an experiment"
"Liar"
"..I thought that would work...well thats what people do don't they? Buy gifts for people on their birthday?"
"Don't play dumb Sherlock"
Sherlock pursed his lips together and then broke out into a smile. "Aren't you supposed to open it? I didn't stand in a ridiculously long line at the check out behind an obscenely loud woman, who insisted in blabbing about some stupid tv show at the top of her lungs, for you to just hold it and not open it"
"Alright Sherlock, alright"
It was a box set of Doctor Who dvds. "Hey, this isn't bad , Sherlock". His friend looked momentarily confused. "It wasn't supposed to be bad! I had to come up with a formula to figure out what to get you, you aren't exactly the easiest person to buy a present for"
"Neither are you"
"Yes well I don't get presents anyway"
"Thats.. sort of sad"
He waved a dismissive hand. "Last birthday present I got was off Mycroft when I was sixteen. It was a book on, bees or bugs or something not important. I don't care about such things anyway"
"Yet you care enough to go out and buy me something"
"Well yes, but you're the exception. "
"Why?"
"Cause they dont...um..is that the time? I have to go...meet a corpse...at Barts.."
"Sherlock.."
"Because you matter more...ok? Now can I go back to my experiment?"
"You don't want to watch this with me?"
" I won't like it"
"You never know, Sherlock, you liked James Bond"
"...Come on Sherlock it's my birthday"
"Ok.. but only because of that."
"Why is he wearing a fez"
When John woke up, a smile was still on his lips. He broke out in a chuckle until he realised where he was. No longer at 221b. Damn it Sherlock. I keep forgetting you're... dead. This isn't right. You bastard. Sod, git, sodding bloody bastard. He had remembered that particular day so clearly. It was had for Sherlock to admit when he cared. Not because he didn't care. It was hard for John to admit he cared. Some people were just like that. That Sherlock had gone out of his way to buy John a gift made it such a treasured memory. Now it just made him sad.
Another month had passed. He was afraid of moving on. Moving on meant forgetting Sherlock. Moving on meant going back to the way he was before meeting Sherlock. Except now there was a gaping hole in his life that wasn't there before. He kept going over the day, again and again in his head. What had he missed? He had to have missed something. Yes Sherlock was stressed, agitated, wondering if Moriarty was even real, hounded by the media, doubted by his friends...but it still seemed so out of character for him to just want to end it all.
And yet he had. John had seen it with his own eyes. The image of his best friend, in the whole bloody world, lying broken on the pavement was something that would haunt him forever. He remembered making his way over to get to him. John had grabbed his hand, felt for a pulse, only to be ripped away. He wanted to comfort Sherlock, but he was already dead. He'd already left John. And then they turned him over and oh God. His head was literally matted with blood, blood covered his face and his eyes. Thats what he really wanted to forget. How empty his eyes were.
His therapist had suggested he write to Sherlock, if he felt he couldn't go to his grave. In the end John had done both. He despised writing though, writing had led to Sherlocks death. Oh, he could blame Jim, Lestrade, Sally and Anderson, Mycroft, the media, everyone but in the end, it wasn't them that had killed Sherlock. It was him. And his bloody blog. If he had met Sherlock, the same way as before and just never written about it, Sherlock would never have become so famous. Sherlock would still be alive.
His blog had killed his best friend. He had killed his best friend. And now he simply despised writing and himself. He wrote letters anyway, it was better than talking to the air or a skull. Sometimes he would go down to Sherlock's grave and read them out to him. Tell him about his day, how everyone else was doing, how life wasn't the same without him. How he hated him, how he missed him. How he wished he had a time machine so he could go back and save him before he jumped. How he wished he had told John how he felt. How he would always believe in him.
Sometimes he didn't say anything at all, he would just sit behind his gravestone, leaning against it, the closest he could get to Sherlock now and just do nothing. Or read. Sometimes Lestrade would give him cases, asking for a fresh eye, in reality hoping to jolt a spark of life into Johns eyes and also, hoping that some of Sherlock's brilliance had rubbed off on John. Sometimes John would bring those cases to Sherlock and read them out to him. Sometimes he could even imagine Sherlock's response. But he never really could help Lestrade that much. But he appreciated the gesture.
He felt bad for not visiting the others as much as he should. Lestrade came over often, just to talk and drink. Lestrade was a much closer friend now, then he was before. It pained John in a way that most of his friends now he only had because of Sherlock. Sometimes he and Greg would sit and talk about the detective. It was bloody hard but it helped.
Lestrade had so many wonderful stories and so did John. But he never really laughed. Chuckle maybe, smiled but only sometimes. It felt wrong for him to be happy. He knew he shouldn't feel that way. But Lestrade would simply pat his shoulder and tell him to give it time.
Lestrade was a lot quieter now, John had noticed. John could tell how much he missed Sherlock, just by the way he spoke about him. He had more grey hairs, though he claimed Sherlock had given him most of them. He often had bags under his eyes. Stress from his job, stress from his superiors. It had only been Mycrofts intervention that had helped him from loosing his job.
People were slowly forgetting his association with the consulting detective. People were forgetting Sherlock. That wasnt right. That wasn't allowed. How could people forget Sherlock Holmes? He was one of those people you could meet once and never ever forget. He would make that much of an impression. He wasn't like anyone else. So how was it possible to forget him?