All rights belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I am not making a profit off this work.

A few months after the funeral, John was on his way home from the shopping one Thursday night. He absent-mindedly sent a text to Sherlock: I bought more of that strawberry jam you're fond of. JW It wasn't until the message was marked Sent that he remembered. His lungs twisted painfully, squeezing the air out of him and maliciously refusing to draw in more for a long moment. He nearly dropped the grocery bag on the sidewalk when his hand began trembling. He allowed himself half a minute to give in to these feelings of bitter sorrow and realisation before letting out a self-deprecating huff of air. "Bloody idiot," he mumbled, though whether it was directed toward himself or someone currently absent, he couldn't be sure.

Though John didn't like to think of the time he had texted Sherlock on his way home after…the fall, he did manage to observe that the text went through. It wasn't denied with a Failed Delivery, at any rate. There was of course the possibility that the number had already been taken up by someone else, someone who simply didn't reply to his message. Another possibility was that Mycroft was keeping the number frozen and perhaps even checking Sherlock's messages himself. To think that Mycroft was prying in this matter was embarrassing, yes, but the off-chance that John's messages got to either of the Holmes brothers was enough to encourage an intentional one: Supposed to be a meteor shower this week. JW Though Mycroft's abysmal mistake concerning Sherlock still make John grit his teeth in anger, he recalled Sherlock often hinting that the man was terribly lonely. Entertaining the thought that Mycroft may be reading in too, John updated them later that week for the stellar show. Once the message had sent, John gave in to a genuine chuckle, imagining that once the text was received, Sherlock would of course roll his eyes and give one of his long sighs because really, John, who cares? and that Mycroft would perhaps let slip a small smirk, but that all three of them would be sharing the same view. Look up. JW

John had set himself to taking up Sherlock's slack. Just until the man got back, of course. This meant strengthening ties with Lestrade. The first crime scene John had visited after Sherlock's…disappearance was unfortunately contaminated with Anderson's blood after the infuriating sod had made a snide remark about the great detective. Two days later, a raccoon-eyed Anderson had quickly slipped out of Lestrade's office upon seeing John, still nursing a broken nose. Since then, John hadn't heard a word about Sherlock from any of the officers. Though John had learned quickly enough to refrain from mentioning Sherlock in the present tense, it was still hard to watch his word-choice around Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Anytime he slipped up, Lestrade would give him one of those pitying looks, the kind that said, "You poor delusional man. Have you been skipping your therapy sessions again?" Mrs Hudson would eventually have to excuse herself, choking on a sob and hurrying from the room.

It wouldn't do to have them push more therapy or medication on him, which is why he never told anyone about the hallucinations. Sometimes, he'd see Sherlock in the flat, sprawled out on the sofa or tinkering about in the kitchen. But by the time John's breath hitched, the vision would be gone. On three separate occasions, he could swear he heard the distinct sound of Sherlock's bedroom door clicking shut, but when he peeked in, Sherlock was predictably missing and the dust had not been disturbed. The worst by far however, were the times John would catch a glimpse of blue, Sherlock's blue, or a mop of familiar dark curls in the busy crowds of London. John's chest would always constrict painfully and the air would rush from his lungs. His stomach would become lead and a terrible numbness would follow him for days. It would be so easy to just agree with everyone else, claim that he'd been wrong to hold out hope, that yes, Sherlock was d…

Awful thing, hope is.

There was always a tangible void. The cases John took alongside Lestrade were challenging, and though John's deduction skills were sharper than when he'd first met Sherlock – and stronger than Lestrade's – they still paled to Sherlock's brilliance. It was nice to have a goal though, and John aimed to make Sherlock proud.

Any time there was even the whisper of Moriarty's name in a case, John hunted suspects like a demon, demanding information and killing the madman's followers without remorse. In two instances, Lestrade and company had been present for the shoot-out. Unfortunately, they served more as a distraction than reinforcement, and John had wound up hurt. Breaking his wrist the first go and during the second, taking a bullet to the thigh in tackling an oblivious officer out of the crosshairs. Got shot today. Again. I'm fine. JW John had to begrudgingly admit he was getting older. He was sure he'd aged years in the time it took Sherlock to fall, a fast-forwarding of all the time between them stolen by gravity and cruel pavement. But now that his once psychosomatic limp was quite real, John indeed felt like an old man. This of course did not stop him from tearing apart Moriarty's spider web, one man at a time.

Took out another. JW

When the police ran dry on sources, which was insufferably often, and John's skills weren't enough, he turned again to his phone in hopes that one of the Holmes brothers was reading in. Look for Timothy Odell. JW

It wouldn't do to sit idle, though. John was always on the hunt, and Sherlock's homeless network was only too eager to help him "avenge" their brilliant employer. John received many tips and impromptu tours of the lesser known routes of London from this helpful crowd. Got another. JW

A predictably short time passed before John was able to send another text worth celebrating over. I see Timothy Odell's been handled. Good work. JW

John stared at the violin. He'd taken to occasionally plucking at the strings but he was nowhere near Sherlock's level.

As usual.

The Stradivarius was silent now, sitting in Sherlock's chair, propped against the arm rest. The telly was off and the kettle was cold. John had been alone now for two years, three-hundred and sixty days, fourteen hours and nine minutes.

John glanced at his watch. Correction: ten minutes. He sighed, tracking the second hand's rhythmic ticking with tired eyes. The watch had been a gift from Sherlock. John had spied it in a shop window on one of their leisurely strolls – a stroll which of course had turned into a heart-thumping chase after a criminal through alleyways, ending at the Tube. Concerned citizens had nearly jumped John for tackling the "innocent businessman" who claimed to only want to board the blue line. It wasn't until Sherlock flashed Lestrade's police ID that everyone calmed down.

John could easily recall Sherlock's triumphant grin and it brought a small smile to John's cracked lips. That infuriating, loveable man. Ever since that incident, John was sure to wear his trainers tightly-laced, whether or not Sherlock used the word "leisurely." The next day, John had still been jittery with residual adrenaline, breaking into broad grins whenever he caught Sherlock's bright gaze. After his shower, he had stepped into the kitchen to find Sherlock absent, but a mug of hot tea and a small patterned box placed in the relatively clean space on the table before his seat. He sat down gratefully and sipped quietly at his tea until he couldn't ignore the tug of curiosity any longer. With the apprehension of possibly finding a severed thumb or something equally grotesque, he slowly lifted the lid of the small box to reveal the watch he'd wanted nestled in blue velvet – Sherlock's blue.

2y360d15h22m

John liked to believe his faith in Sherlock's continued existence was unshakable, but there was only so much hoping and waiting one man could do. There were good and bad days, and on those dark days John feared the worst – that everything everyone tried so hard to convince him of was true. But Mycroft and Molly never seemed to hesitate to reassure him, and in the depths of their eyes, John could see something. So while John was afraid that he had simply been left out of Sherlock's loop again – something he'd come to expect since their first case – there were times John's conviction was so strong he couldn't believe there were ever days he doubted. Just as John never failed to defend Sherlock's reputation, his brilliance – why couldn't they bloody see through Moriarty's lies? – he never failed to hold onto the hope that Sherlock would once again grace 221B with his smirk, his laugh, his music, his brooding, his experiments, his…

At first, it had been hard to come home every day and still be able to smell Sherlock; he was everywhere. Then, as time passed, it became difficult to come home because it didn't smell like him. Sherlock was fading away. His undisturbed possessions looked more like props now and it was near impossible to imagine Sherlock had only just popped off for a coffee, or to meet with someone from the Network.

Sometimes the waiting got to be too much. Ever the respectable soldier, John continued to faithfully man his post. After two years of work, however, there was noticeably less to do as far as Moriarty's ring was concerned. The men under Moriarty's influence were either dead, behind bars or simply hiding in countries John wasn't interested in visiting but in which Mycroft had many eyes. He was back to being the man he was before meeting Sherlock; the useless cripple that people either tolerated or pitied. It had been quite some time since he properly laughed, or ate for that matter – Mrs Hudson was always on him about that. Though he wasn't sure he was truly as "skeletal" as she claimed, he hadn't been able to look himself in the mirror for about a year now, afraid to see the broken man he knew he was. "Look what I've become without you."

2y360d16h3m

"At this rate, I won't even make it to your anniversary," John mumbled to himself as he pushed open his bedroom door. His eyes darted over to his nightstand, where his service pistol was tucked neatly into the top drawer. He supposed deep down, maybe it was finally time to let go. Without even so much as a word from Sherlock all this time, perhaps…waiting wasn't the answer anymore. "To everyone else, this is all so simple, isn't it? Saying you're really de…gone. Maybe I have been foolish."

Still, it was hard to shake the feeling that something would happen soon; though that anticipation could simply be the bullet that was awaiting him. Who was he to keep it waiting? Wasn't it about time he got some rest? More rest than the fitful sleeps he had at the flat, jumping at noises that could have been Sherlock returning but were more likely alley cats. A dreamless sleep, one free from the haunting pale visage of his bloodied friend, eyes open but unseeing.

John shuddered. He switched his table light off and waited for his eyes to adjust to the feeble moonlight that filtered through the overcast night. He deftly reached into his nightstand and retrieved his gun. He held it for a moment, warming the cool metal with steady hands. Sitting on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall, John waited. No immediate thoughts came to him – this wasn't a game of pros and cons. He only felt numb, though not even that inspired frustration or fear in him like it once did.

He flicked the safety off. Still numb.

Gradually, he lifted the muzzle to his temple, hoping that this definitive action might finally spark some feeling of dread or sorrow, maybe even anger at himself or the rational part of his brain to default to self-preservation and give him something to hang on to.

Nothing.

Not even the thought of poor Mrs Hudson finding him breathless and cold, blood and a full metal jacket decorating his bedroom wall was enough to give him pause.

"It's fine then." He let the gun drop to his lap, grabbing his mobile. The screen lit up his face an ethereal blue as he typed in a final message. Goodbye, Sherlock. JW The screen declared the message Sent and he neatly set the mobile on the nightstand. He considered taking off his watch but decided to leave it on; he wanted at least this one last comfort.

He took up the gun again and leveled it at his temple. One final breath. He let his eyes slip shut and caressed the trigger. He fired.