It had been almost a year since Sherlock took his life. John was finally moving on. He still lived in 221B Baker Street, and he still had all of Sherlock's things. He wasn't really sure why he kept everything, sentiment he supposed. It was all even in the last place Sherlock put it, collecting dust. Only John's side of the table had changed; that and the body parts in the fridge and microwave. He had to get rid of those because of rotting.

John was finally steady at his job again. No more leaving early or falling asleep or cancelling completely. He had finally fallen into a comfortable, albeit mundane, rut since he lost Sherlock. He was even considering applying for a higher position; being a GP got boring after awhile. He was sitting at his desk, fiddling with a pen, just waiting for the next patient to arrive. It was 12:15 and he hadn't seen someone in almost half an hour. He decided to go for lunch.

John left the surgery and walked down the sidewalk. As he was walking along something caught his eye in the storefront. Reflected in the glass he could have sworn he saw Sherlock. He looked in the direction that the man had been in and there was no trace of him. John crossed the street to investigate further. Still there was no trace of him anywhere. John continued on, chalking it up to his imagination making him see things. He had his lunch without incident and the rest of the day continued on normally. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary for the rest of the week.

The next time John saw Sherlock, he was on the way to work. Once again he was passing by a glass pane and Sherlock was reflected in it. John looked and still saw no Sherlock where he was meant to be. Over the next two weeks, these sightings became more and more frequent. John wasn't sure if he was happy or scared. What if he was going completely mental and Sherlock wasn't really reflected in the store windows? John didn't think he could handle being mad.

The next time John thought he saw Sherlock was right in front of him. Sherlock was walking right in front of him. John called out, but Sherlock didn't look. He knew it was him. It had to be him. The jacket, the scarf, the hair, hell even the gait was uniquely Sherlock's. The so-called Sherlock walked into a restaurant and disappeared inside. John followed closely behind and entered. He couldn't spot Sherlock anywhere among the people. He asked around and nobody seemed to have seen Sherlock. John continued with his day thoroughly convinced that he had finally cracked and gone mad.

He was late coming home, he went out drinking with Stamford and even got a girl's number. Her name was Mary if his alcohol addled brain remembered correctly. Nice girl, rather pretty in a plain sort of way, or at least he thinks. Either way, he had a fantastic night out and planned to call this Mary tomorrow.

He did in fact call her the next day and they made a date for later that evening. She was even prettier than he remembered from the night before, thank god, or maybe it was just she had on different makeup. They both hit it off wonderfully at dinner and he walked her back to her place. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and sent him home. They had dinner together every night that week and John didn't see hide nor hair of Sherlock that week. Maybe John had been going mental and Mary was just a blessing in disguise. She entered into his life at the right exact moment.

John had had another wonderful night with Mary and whistled to himself as he went home. He whistled all the way up the stairs to his flat in 221B until he heard a noise come from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson had recently discovered the charm of Angelo and had been spending the weekends out. Tonight was a night she wasn't home, so what made the noise?

John took his shoes off and quietly crept back down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky one. He searched around and didn't find anything out of the ordinary. Maybe he was just hearing things. He started to whistle again and went back up the stairs. He immediately stopped when he reached the landing. Sitting in his chair, violin in hand, as if he had been there all the time was Sherlock.

"Hello, John."

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