Chapter 1

Life was tough.

Life was different.

Life was meaningless, and empty.

What was life now?

The words made him awake from the nightmares every time, they were the words that put him on edge, made him wonder whether anything was worth living now. How could he continue this way, waking up with red eyes, a dry throat and the undying need to scream in fear, to scream at him when he jumped, again and again in his nightmares? It was bad enough enduring the mental scars the war left in his dreams. Now he was left with something much worse.

First it was comrades being blown up next to him.

Now it was watching a friend fall from the roof.

What never left him was that one feeling. That one, miniscule little feeling, that maybe, just maybe…

Was he still alive?

Was the blood on the pavement a lie?

Was his one last wish answered?

Did the man who he knew better than anyone else really perform one last miracle?

Was he not the lie, in his final words, he called himself?

Was Sherlock still alive?

"Pull yourself together, Watson," he whispered, alone. He escaped the cold, sweat covered sheets of his bed and proceeded to follow his morning routine of splashing his face with water and hoping he'd look unaffected from the nightmares in the mirror.

"Miracles don't happen…"

"And so here we are again. Only this time there's no getting out."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know how you did it, I've no idea what happened to me either. I gotta say, I'm impressed. Didn't think you'd figured it out."

"I'm sure you'd love to know…"

"And believe me I do. But I'm tired."

"That's certainly a change in tone."

"It was meant to end there and then. Here we are again, but the odds are not in your favour."

"Oh believe me, I can tell. Despite all that, I'd love to know how you still walk."

…

"You won't."

"Bloody machine…" he mumbled, entering his pin for the fifth time. Finally it had accepted his card, once again a penny away from debt. Life's little problems, work, money and the bloody chip and pin machine. The robotic voice of the women asked him to finally remove his card and allowed him to pick up his two bags of shopping. One filled with the rustling of food against plastic, the other rattling with wine bottles. It had taken him a month to leave the flat without having to eventually retreat back to stare at the vacant seat opposite him.

He walked out and called a taxi, the all-too-familiar black cab pulling up next to him on the side of the road, its brakes squealing as it stopped. He told the cabbie, hopefully not a serial suicide killer where he wished to go, and slammed the door behind him when he was seated alone. Three months it had taken him to finally get to further destinations in the comfort of a London cab rather than the packed tube, unable to sit unaccompanied in the cab knowing no-one was beside him.

The red sign of Speedy's Café reflected against the window, and with a small payment to the cabbie that drove off in a flash with the gurgling rumble of the engine, he walked up to the looming black door, the metal of '221B' wearing down after the months of heavy rain. The city was beginning to grow dark that evening and very few people walked past, mainly to enter or exit the café next to him, with the window filled with newspaper articles linking to the man that once lived next door among job requests and advertising. It had taken him five months to bare to read any of the articles in the window before they were taken down, knowing that a large majority were going to be filled with the criticising words of desperate journalists and editors.

The door thudded as he slowly closed it, the landlady saying her greeting as he mindlessly nodded while proceeding up the stairs. The landlady who had stuck by his side told him various messages were left on the phone about the nearing evening, as he placed the bags on the table and placing the four wine bottles out amongst the small 'meal for one' packet alongside, proceeding to place various snacks next to it. It had also taken him five months to begin talking to people other than the landlady, needing to talk to someone who wasn't criticising the man in the newspapers and was actually on his side. The detective inspector, the morgue attendant, even the man who was basically the British Government, all the only ones he could talk to.

There was one thing he never stopped doing, but could only do alone. Every day when he was free from work, after a week of locking himself away from the world, he would go out. He would walk all the way without complaint, despite the slow return of his psychosomatic limp. In the early morning he'd arrive and sit on a nearby bench, before beginning the long walk back home to an empty flat and staring at the empty chair opposite. A man, alone in the cemetery on the wooden bench, staring at a black tombstone only a few metres away and doing nothing more than breathe, and sighing every couple of minutes at the memories washing over him again and again. No matter what the weather, a boiling summer sun to the cold rain of autumn, even the sheet ice of winter couldn't stop him from reaching that gravestone, sitting at that bench. No matter what the weather, or the conditions, good or bad night's sleep, he'd sit there wearing the worn out jacket from the years of investigations, sitting near what remained of his friend. The closest thing he had left.

Now it had been one year.

One year alone in the walls of 221B, nothing to do, no-one to really talk to. A long year that had felt like twelve, each month dragging itself along around him as he recovered, the legendary and hidden battlefield he once knew now vanished before his eyes and the real world once more sinking in.

After this long year, now once again in the middle of a depressing autumn, he could think of nothing else to do; only one thing was on his mind. It had been settled out, almost planned. As he put out the five wine glasses on the table, it felt like he had done this so many times, but he was thinking of the days he spent alone with that gravestone and the evening's with the TV on, the half empty wine glass in his hand and him clinging onto the memories like they were his last breath. With everything set and prepared for the evening ahead, he sat in his chair and simply waited for the first ring of the bell.

"How you doing, John?"

"Fine… Just fine." That's all he could manage to say, despite the huge lie it was. He was sat at the end of the table, staring at the small drops of red wine at the bottom of his glass, desperate not to look into Lestrade's eyes after lying. Molly, Mrs Hudson and even Mycroft were present at the table, all quiet with a drink in front of them, the table clear of any previous equipment once spread across the table by his flatmate.

"May I ask what the plan is for this evening and a reason as to why I cancelled an important meeting," asked Mycroft lightly with a small sip from his glass. He was the most displeased person present.

"Grow a heart, Mycroft," hissed Lestrade. John made no effort to argue, or snap at his flatmate's older brother. "You know damn well why..."

"Boys, really?" exclaimed Mrs Hudson. "An argument? On a day like this?" The two exchanged a final glare and then there was another silent window in the evening. John stared at the table, looking for nothing and everything. How had his life become this wreck over one person?

"Uh… Shouldn't we, you know, get going before its dark?" whispered Molly, catching his attention and coughing.

"Yes, you're right." He stood fast and grabbed the metal crutch hanging on his seat, limping over to pick up his coat from his armchair, avoiding looking at the empty black chair opposite. Everyone followed afterwards, making no complaint of John's slow pace from his limp. Mrs Hudson was the last to exit and slammed the door behind her, joining them in the twilight of the cold street. John, at the fastest yet most comfortable pace he knew led the way immediately towards the cemetery, showing his refusal in getting a cab. The others followed behind at a leisurely stroll.

"Be honest with me, John," mumbled Lestrade as he caught up to him, trying to hide from the ears of the others. "You don't look great, you don't sound great and you definitely aren't coping great either. Are you sure you're okay? Don't you think you'd be less… gloomy, by now?" He kept a straight face and carried on walking, huffing a little.

"The day I find out some answers about what happened and the same day the world stops accusing him to be a fake is the day I'll move on," he whispered in reply. The inspector shot a worried look in the opposite direction and put on a small smile to show some sort of support.

The cemetery, quiet, empty, cold and dark, with five people sending some squabbling ravens fleeing to a nearby tree as they walked up to the black gravestone they were perching on. The soldier walked up, ignoring his usual instinct to take his place upon the bench and barely digging up the courage to stand straight in front of the black slab with the letters of his friend engraved on it, his now old friend, his dead friend.

"John… John!?" He looked up in confusion, the numbness suddenly lifting like fresh steam and feeling the rain hit his skin, hearing it patter against his coat. The others were standing, waiting to go at the end of the path while Mycroft looked down at him with his looming umbrella held high. He couldn't bring himself to say anything. His voice was lost, swept away by the light wind. One last look at the gravestone was all he needed for that day, reminding him it had been a whole year. The raven that had re-perched on the top squawked at him.

He turned his back and heard the rustling. Mycroft's ears remained oblivious to it, but John turned to the trees behind to check. The gravestone raven still looked at him, letting the rain drench its feathers. The rustling didn't happen again to make John want to go and investigate, but he was still sure that it wasn't a bird or small animal. Nothing that he would find in a cemetery except another person…

The evening drew to a close, the others parting at the door to the flat. The rain poured down, soaking each individual till the cold numbed them to the core, even if they already were. He didn't enjoy seeing everyone leave; he didn't enjoy returning up the stairs. He didn't enjoy spending the rest of the evening till he regretfully fell asleep in the armchair with the empty bottle of wine by his side, but still feeling a small sense of achievement for making it this far after one year and now the reminder that he wasn't the only one who believed in him.

A year had now passed…