Can anyone possibly forget Sherlock Holmes?

A more probable question would be: has anyone ever tried to?

Mr. Holmes is like a phenomenon seen once in a lifetime, that most people would never have expected to happen. He's that fantastic thing your neighbors tell you that they saw on the news the other day, and you completely missed it.

This would be the case for those who had never met the man. John had no trouble remembering the phenomenon that was his best friend, the shattering wreck of human misunderstanding that Sherlock brought to all rooms he stepped in.

Two weeks passed, and there was no news of Moriarty's trial. As John learned of this, it was a renewed reassurance that swept through him ,as he preferred no publicity surrounding Moriarty, or Sherlock, or anything at all anymore. He was done with being" the bachelor", because John only wanted one thing anymore.

He didn't crave for adventure. Time passed and the skull on the mantle remained ghastly, and the violin in the corner waited longer for his strings to be plucked and played again. It became only a hollow, wooden thing with strings that gathered dust, giving the impression that at some point it was probably important.

Things became depressing again, as John's hope neared the end. His job became his sanctuary, the only place that he didn't think of Sherlock, by working himself to the brink of death.

He felt an odd pain in his leg again and let himself ease back into the thought of it. He knew that it was psychosomatic, and he didn't give two shits.

At first, he just thought that Mycroft had to get a few things settled, and it was only a few days' delay.

Nobody can leave from something like that instantly, right?

Two weeks, in John's mind, became two months, then two years, and then two lifetimes. He walked home from St. Barts on a cloudy day, now three weeks after the events that ended the imprisonment of Sherlock Holmes. He began to slow down over time, and the cane became more and more appealing, and soon he couldn't resist it. He crossed the streets slowly, preferring a walk rather than a ride in a cab.

The air was staler now: as John walked down the streets of London, he noticed the change for the first time. The sky was shady and the wind cried out and hit the shops and the sides of skyscrapers, yearning for something more than just an endless journey. The grass that he saw was bleak and dead, and John could hear each individual stem beg for him not to step on them, or pluck them from the ground. As John passed the trees and bushes, he heard their leaves rattle in the wind and scratch against each other, racing for an opportunity to hit the ground first, because they wanted to feel something new, something unfamiliar and scary. John tried not to look at things and think too hard, and avoided the eyes of the people in crowds until he could get home and watch them from the window where it was safe.

The doctor gave a brief hello to Mrs. Hudson after walking inside and hiked up the stairs, his cane hitting each step on the way up and Mrs. Hudson heard from downstairs. It hurt, how fast he went up, but he wanted it. She counted each time the sound went off, and to her it was like a gun against the temple, blasting over and over and over again.

She was glad when he reached the top.

The skull greeted him like all other days, and in the violin in the corner still held a grudge against John for letting him get dusty. It was late, far too late. The shadows on the walls flickered and fell at the sight of this man, and crept back into the crevices of the floor to hide. He stood by the window and watched the cars come by, and the shadows crept back out and watched him. The lights would come into contact with his face, and illuminated, one could see his perils if close enough to him. But he looked from the window so that nobody could see them, so nobody could interpret them.

He thought about quitting work.

John limped to bed, changed, ignored the feeling of hunger dwelling in his stomach, and went through his daily routine after work. Without a prayer or a sigh, he slipped into a darkness he felt shameful for appreciating. He decided that darkness was a much better term for sleep nowadays.

John woke up to silence, and knew that he would wake up to silence every day after the next. He longed for the day he woke up to the sound of screaming drums. But then, he listened, because he heard the faint music come to his ears. It took him a few minutes to realize that this music was real; it didn't make his temples pound or his head throb; it wasn't inside his own head.

This was a violin. Bach. A violin playing Bach in the living room, and it was beautiful. Chords, beautiful chords of the violin, chords being plucked right in his own living room. The tune, the familiar tune echoed against the walls and danced up and down the stairs, and John slowly set his feet on the floor and stood. The chords gave him reassurance to stand, and as he did the music became clearer, as it became pristine; like a swimming pool never touched before.

This is not a dream, he thought. Dear God, this better not be a dream.

John walked across his room to grab hold of the door, his cane lying neglected against the bedpost. He was painfully quiet on the way down, wanting to hear the music, the violin and its beautiful chords being played to perfection. The violin was real, and the sound it made was real. He was sorry for ever doubting. Down the stairs, John's eyes swelled with tears, the sound of the music closer and the familiarity concluded things. It was all over.

He first saw the skull celebrating on the mantle. The smile seemed sincere, and he became the old friend that you sat by the fire with. Then John saw the black curls, the head of hair that so often had been partially hid by the upturned collar of a trench coat.

John stepped closer and the floor creaked, and he stopped playing the violin, becoming rigid, holding the violin steady in his hands. John wanted to beg him to keep playing, but he wouldn't speak. He couldn't. It would be ruined it if he spoke.

And then he turned to John, and he looked at his blogger, his partner, and his best friend. John couldn't read him, nobody could: but he tried. The corner of Sherlock's mouth cracked to a grin and he set the violin down on the arm of the chair.

"Hello, John."