Sorry for being unbelievably late.

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid."

"I won't." John smiled ruefully.

"If you want you can come over and stay with us for sometime."

"No."

"John. It has been a very long time." Harry said after a pause.

Two years and 37 days to be precise.

"I'll be alright. Take care of yourself Harry, give my love to Clara." John hung up.

John sat on his bed, his gun in hand. It had been two years since he had seen Sherlock. There was no news of him. No sign, no message, no communication at all from his side. Sherlock had kept his promise. He was probably dead.

John couldn't keep up with his life anymore. Everything seemed meaningless. Existence painful. On most days John felt like a disembodied being floating through life. Unseeing, unfeeling, detached.

The truth of human life is that we all live for a future. John didn't have one. He had a life before Sherlcok and he had a life after him. This life didn't have any potential. What would he do? Where would he go? Whom would he be with?

Is there any place on earth where he would not be looking for Sherlock? Is there any job that wouldn't remind him of Sherlock? Is there any person who can replace or even alter his feeling for Sherlock?

Strangely, even when Sherlock was alive and in his life even then John didn't have any future with him. He never had the chance to visualize a life with him. John wished that instead of giving him an alternative of marrying Mary, Sherlcok could have done him the kindness of killing him. But Sherlock loved him. Or so he said.

But how can you leave someone so completely if you really love them? John couldn't. He was still holding onto that torn old coat of Sherlock.

He looked at the coat and then at the gun. He let out a sad laugh. He didn't even have a photograph of the man he loved. To look upon on his death bed. To hold close to the heart while closing his eyes and pulling the trigger.

Mary had never dared to contact John again. But his friends and family never gave up. Regular visits, forced conversations, it was all getting a bit too much for John. people had started to question the identity of Sherlock, some even suggested that he might just be something John's mind had conjured. People didn't understand his reluctance to go to the police for help. This made them more suspicious. Mrs. Hudson was wary and tried to make him understand that Sherlock might not have been a good person after all.

"He could have been a terrorist John! You never know. You should be happy that you didn't get into any trouble because of him. A man like you, with army history, how bad would it have been when you would have found out!"

John knew there was a probability. He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted quietness. He just wanted to be alone.

This was the best way to peace, for everyone. This was the best way to Sherlock.

John clung to the old coat with one hand and held his trusted gun in another. He put it to his head.

Before he could pull the trigger there was a deep howling sound. It startled him. The sound came from in front of his building.

Agitated, John went to the window to see. There it was, a stary mongrel, furry, lost, probably hungry, out in a cold London night. It had started barking, scratching and whimpering at the door.

It tugged at John's heart. He thought of Sherlock. Another stray he had invited into his life and ruined it. For a moment he felt like leaving the dog where he was and to carry on with his original plan. The dog howled again. Something in John's heart tugged. Wasn't he more like the stray? Whimpering, scratching, howling at the gates of the mystery called Sherlock on a cold night?

Suddenly he was filled with compassion for the dog. He looked at the gun on his bed and thought, he has survived so long, another night will make no difference. He can feed the dog and give it a bit of comfort for a night. He could die leaving it behind for his friends and family.

He put on his wool gown and trudged to open the door. He could still hear the whimpering. He opened the door. The dog almost ran inside, a flurry of fur and energy. It started licking John as he bent down. The dog's fur felt cold.

"Come on boy!" John said in an encouraging tone and gestured with his hands towards the stairs.

The dog jumped up the stairs and straight into John's living room. John followed behind and closed the door. The dog had seated itself in the middle of the room, it was panting. It was then, in the living room light that John saw it. It was dirty and torn, it's blue colour almost indiscernable. But he recognized it. Gently adorned around the neck of the dog, was Sherlock's scarf.