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Memory

It's hard to forget. Dr. John Watson sips his tea, sitting at the same window table at the same restaurant he and Sherlock went to that very first night together. Outside, the world is dark but lively and John wonders what Sherlock would observe if he were there, how much he would notice and discern that John would miss. John knows it isn't healthy to think so much about his departed friend or to wallow in the grief, but sometimes he misses Sherlock too much and is willing to do almost anything to feel closer to him.

He knows what Sherlock would say- perhaps not the exact words, but his attitude. Sherlock would tell him he was being irrational, that it accomplished nothing to wish for things that were forever gone, and that caring was a handicap. Stoic-faced, he would tuff-up his coat collar and briskly stride out.

John laughs out loud at the image, belatedly realizing how strange- nay, crazy- he must look to the others in the restaurant. The few who know who he is probably pity him. He really should stop going there, but it doesn't seem to matter what he does or what he tries. Sherlock and the emptiness that he left behind remain with him. He'd started out avoiding all things Sherlock. Then he'd tried going through his things and getting rid of none-essential items. He'd tried therapy. He'd tried ranting to Sherlock's grave. He'd even accidentally over-indulged one night in brandy and had taken a crowbar to Sherlock's headstone. He'd gone up to the hospital roof and stood in the exact spot Sherlock had jumped from, looking down to the place where he had stood and watched his best friend die, wondering, why? and what had Sherlock been thinking.

Eventually, John got a dog, just so he wouldn't be alone.

He didn't cry that much after the first week- tears had done all that they could, and the rest of the pain was beyond their touch. He tried to blog- but what did he have to say? And what good had his blog done but to bring attention and harm to a brilliant man, who might still be solving crimes and playing his violin if not for him? John often lamented that he'd taken a lot more than he'd ever given back to Sherlock, and wished for Sherlock's sake- and sometimes his own- that they had never met.

It's hard to move forward when you keep looking back and harder still to find joy in "tomorrow" when all you want is "yesterday". John tries to forget. He tries to let go.

But, for all of his effort, he is still sitting at a table by a window, having drinks with a memory.