Suit shopping with John proved to be more enjoyable then Lestrade had previously anticipated. First they'd gone out for drinks and then, while slightly inebriated, they had made their way to several shops in search of decent suits for Lestarde's wedding. John liked to pick the weirdest suits first, the very weird ones. Lestrade couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so much.

"No not that one!"

"What's wrong with it?"

"Mate.. it's pink!"

John's face split into a mischievous grin and he tossed that suit aside, in favour of a periwinkle blue one, with very large lapels.. Lestrade wasn't sure which one of the two was more hideous. He was really enjoying this, spending time with John. They'd become such close friend's since Sherlock's death. Each trying to fill up that empty feeling inside, each not wanting to replace Sherlock. Lestrade viewed Sherlock in a paternal way, where as he viewed John more like a brother, even though John was closer to Sherlock's age. The big difference lying in the fact the Lestrade had met the rather young Sherlock Holmes first and Sherlock, well, he had been a big overgrown child anyway.

His lips twitched at the sudden thought of Sherlock turning up to his wedding. Bloody hell, would the kid have even known how to act at a wedding? God, he would probably end up objecting to the marriage on some idiotic grounds and get himself thrown out of the chapel. "Something funny?" Right, John was here...really how much did he drink? "Just thinking John, about what would have happened, had Sherlock been alive, and we were doing this". John's smile fell and then returned with vigour. "God, can you imagine him at a wedding? That's...that's scary to think about." Lestrade chuckled, John soon joining in.

John was hardly surprised to see Sherlock still butting into their conversations almost twelve months on. He didn't really like to be ignore or forgotten, John supposed. "Now, this is a nice one" Lestrade held up a nice, black tuxedo, John nodded, making a face. "Not bad mate, not bad" Lestrade pretended to be offended. "It's not supposed to be bad!" This earned him another laugh from John, who was now searching for a matching suit for himself. He found one a few rows down and they both headed towards the change rooms, arguing over whose suit was nicer and more important, cheaper.

Because Lestrade was not made of money.

They went out for another drink after all that. After about an hour talking sports, cases, the wedding and women, the topic soon turned to Sherlock, as it often did. "Reading your last book mate, so thats what the two of you were up to before I came! You never told me anything!" He laughed. It was ok to laugh now, but back then, in the Hollow, he'd been scared out of his wits. John grinned. "Yeah breaking into high security military bases was our idea of fun"

"Dangerous though."

"Oh of course, thats why it was fun"

Another laugh.

"Do you still visit his grave? Sorry, if thats a subject you don't want to talk about. I'm over due a little, should probably visit soon, tell him about the fiance and baby.."

"Yeah, occasionally. Not as much as I used to, which makes me feel bad but, I don't really know what to say anymore, you know? Apart from day to day happenings, what else is there to tell? Is it even healthy for me to be going out in the cold, to talk to a stone, to talk to someone who can't even hear me?" John's voice seemed to break a little, his emotions being eased along with the help of alcohol.

"It helps, I think. At least it does for me, a little. I like to think he can hear me. I mean, I don't know if I believe in ghosts, but I like to think he's still out there, somewhere, watching over us. Would be a bloody annoying ghost if he was" John smiled a little. "Yeah, I imagine he would go haunting Donovan and Anderson, move things around in Baker Street, bother you when you're at work" Lestrade laughed. "He would do that, friendly ghost my arse"

"But I know what you mean, I just find it harder and harder to talk to him. What makes things worse is sometimes I'll wake up and wonder, what if he's not dead, what if he faked it? But then I remember the blood and god, those fucking eyes...It's just, I still see things that remind me of him. Whenever I see someone tall with high cheekbones or black curls or a long coat. It's like this kid I met the other day, at my Book Launch, he reminded me of Sherlock, even though he was the complete opposite in terms of personality and even looks. There was just something, very Sherlock about him that I can't get out of my head."

"Oh John, shit, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought this up.." Damn it Lestrade, look what you did!

"No, it's ok, but thats why I feel I have to distance myself from him, it hurts to much whenever I have that fleeting sense of hope and then feel it torn away from me when I realise he's gone. I just, I want to forget him, I don't want to forget him, I want to remember him but, I don't want to feel that sense of loss inside when I do. Do you understand?"

"Yeah mate, I do, I do...you know maybe we should talk about something funny, so we don't under up crying into our pints" This drew out another small smile from John and the topic changed to comedy movies.

"Listen mate, thanks for the pints and the shopping and then more pints. It was fun." John grinned, swaying slightly as he made his way back to the cab after saying goodnight to Lestrade. "Oh before I forget, I have a wedding invite for Mrs Hudson, I was going to mail it, but, you aren't going to visit her soon by any chance are you?" He wasn't, he couldn't bring himself to return to that flat, but perhaps it was time.

"Sure, I'll give it to her."

"Thanks mate"

"No worries. Catch you later!" John rested his back against the leather of the seats and held the invite in his hands. Tomorrow he'd go to Baker Street and visit Mrs Hudson, he'd bring Mary along, she got on well with his old landlady and perhaps he could visit his old flat and show Mary around. Maybe it would help a little. Maybe he could let things go.

Sherlock, since the reunion, had taken up residense once more, on the window seat. He'd sit there for most of the day, in his pyjamas, staring outside. Mycroft had initially worried that he'd had a replase, but so far his worries seemed unfounded, at least for now, time would soon tell him if he was in error. He prayed that he wasn't. Maybe it was the revlation that seeing John again, except perhaps in diguise, was unlikely. Perhaps it was the new nightmares he knew his brother was having.

Before it had been mostly of torture, now he would hear John's name harshly whispered and knew his brother was dreaming about his old friend and they weren't pleasant dreams. He hated dreams, he hadn't always, but since Sherlock's "death", his return, his disappearance and his second return, Mycroft had detested them. Mycroft liked being in control and in dreams, his control was taken away from him. He too dreamed of torture, but not of his own. But the dreams he hated the most were Sherlock's.

Because in the dream world he couldn't help his brother. Because Mycroft now knew what his brother had gone through, he knew the pain he had suffered, he knew of the agony and the terror that had in the end, driven him inwards. To a place Mycroft couldn't reach. Sherlock never blamed Mycroft and he knew it was not really his fault. But he also knew that despite his best efforts, Sherlock's recovery was still unbearably slow. And the dreams didn't help things. They only hindered his recovery.

He had hoped his brother's minor reunion with the doctor would result in a happier, sarcastic Sherlock. Sherlock did seem slightly happy at times, but for the most part he had gone back to the lonely little boy who liked to watch the stars.