He sat at the edge of the bed, fingers skillfully buttoning his shirt, eyes trained on the naked blonde that lay before him. Her lack of clothing was not what held his attention, as he was no stranger to the human form. Rather, it was the fact that he had no idea what the hell her name was. Monica? Kayla? No, Kayla was the redhead that wouldn't stop talking about wildlife preservation. Oh wait, this girl had a flower's name. Something like Rose, or Daisy...Lily! Her name was Lily! He quietly let out a sigh of relief, remembering all too well the last instance in which he had forgotten a girl's name. She had crawled back into bed, greeting him with a vodka-flavored kiss and a breakfast tray. "Good morning, Sherlock," she had cooed into his ear. Being as disoriented as he was, he could only stare back at the girl in response. The eye makeup she hadn't bothered to remove was smeared in all directions. She resembled a bandit. Long story short, he ended up running out the door half-dressed, a butter knife she hurled in his direction clattering to the floor behind him.

What that girl's name was, he still didn't remember. Maybe Cassidy.

Often times, he would awake like he had done that one morning, completely and utterly confused. No alcohol or substances were to blame, as sobriety had managed to cling to him after all these years. Later on, he realized that sex had strictly become a physical need, as it had been for a majority of his life, with a few exceptions. It was as if he were on autopilot, his hands unclasping a bra or removing undergarments like a robot (not that robots often engaged in such activities). The initial diagnosis would be a blackout. One minute, he was wandering into a foreign apartment, the next, he was waking up to breakfast trays and big blue eyes filled with disgust, because how could he forget her name?! After the night they had just spent together?! Words like these had flooded out of—Cassidy's?—pouty lips before he could even defend himself.

So the sex served primarily as a stress reliever, a form of recreation, or, dare he say, just a way to pass the time. Meanwhile, his brain was off doing things that were completely irrelevant to the task at hand. Algorithms, theories he had concocted the night before, things that seemed much more important. And when he would awake the next morning, head still foggy, he was expected to know some woman's life story. But there were also many mornings, like this one, where it only took a few minutes of intense recollection to remember her name, and, if he was especially sharp that day, her surname. Today, however, she was only Lily. She was particularly pretty, bearing a face you don't often forget, and was considerably less obnoxious than some of the young women he ended up with. Had she been smart, too? These details were already slipping away. There were other things to do.

He was just about out the door when he stopped and sighed. Even he could admit it wouldn't be too kind of him to leave without some form of a goodbye. He ventured into an excruciatingly white kitchen that could be printed onto the glossy pages of Better Homes & Gardens and be peddled to the masses. After rummaging around for a few seconds, he produced a small sheet of paper and a pen.

Lily—

Thank you for your time. I had wanted to pay you back for dinner last night, but I realized how waking up to find money on your dresser could be easily misinterpreted.

—S.H.

Sherlock Holmes was definitely a gentleman.

It was almost funny how he preferred an unhygienic diner over a well-kept apartment. Honestly, could be blamed? Anyone that's woken up next to a practical stranger can understand. He didn't even want anything to eat, something the paunchy waiter that kept insisting he order waffles failed to understand. All he wanted to do was sit at the secluded booth in the back and not be bothered. So that's what he did. Eventually, the waiter stopped coming, leaving him to sulk about his morning. Some would probably argue that finding yourself in the bed of an unquestionably beautiful woman could hardly be classified as a bad situation, but for him, it had only served as another reminder of what his life had become.

Not to say that nothing was like it used to be, but it sometimes felt like it. True, he was still consulting for the NYPD, Gregson having been kind enough to keep him close by after all that had transpired. And the brownstone he had occupied for so many years was still the place he called home. While they were comforting facts, they held little to no value in comparison to all he had lost. Many of those things were all blurred together, much like the past five years of his life. And many of those things were people.

Alistair.

Irene (Moriarty would never be her real name).

Mycroft.

Kitty.

Even Alfredo had managed to slip through the cracks.

Joan.

Damn it, he lost Joan.

She was the one thing he was supposed to be smart about. He had looked up from some files one late evening, and had seen her sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair up and glasses on, intently looking over reports. Briefly, she looked up to cast a small smile across the room, and he had decided right then and there that he was not going to screw this up. For the first time in a while, the universe was being kind to him, and he had every intention to take advantage of that. Yet intention does not always carry as much weight as it should, and here he is now, sitting at some dank diner he's never even heard of, without her. For quite some time he suppressed the memory of her walking out, the last time he saw her. She had never said where she was going to work, or if she was even staying in the city. As far as he knew, she was off in some quiet suburb with a husband and three sons. Good for her.

But not good for him.

What had even gone wrong? After nearly a year of mentally blocking the memory, he could barely recall what happened. He hoped to God it wasn't some stupid fight, although one could say it was simply the straw that broke the camel's back. But had there even been other straws? Leading up to that fateful night, he had actually felt very content with the way things were, and sensed a balance in his life that had never really existed before. The next thing he knew, however, Joan was telling him to go to hell and storming out into a horrible downpour that was apparently more tolerable than being in the same room as him. He had watched her go, a slender figure disappearing into the night. And that was that.

"Excuse me, dear, but your phone is ringing."

He looks up to see a frail old woman perched at a nearby table, watching him through ridiculously small glasses. In one swift movement he retrieves his cell and looks at the caller ID. Gregson. "You seem to be correct," he tells her, to which she smiles and peers down at her menu. This is a someone that Sherlock likes: a person that knows when he wants to be alone. He accepts the call and presses the device to his ear, waiting for Gregson to speak. The captain knows by now that he no longer takes interest in mundane greetings, especially on the phone.

"How are you doing?" a familiar voice asks.

"Fine."

"No, how are you really doing?"

"Fine."

A sigh. "Well, be that as it may, you're not coming in today." Such demands would normally set him off. How dare they reject the assistance of his brilliant mind! But with all of his passion drained, he has not a single issue with this, nor does he feel the need to ask for a reason. "Fine," he says.

"What happened to that impressive vocabulary of yours, Holmes?" This question remains unanswered as he hangs up the phone. It's a huge violation of social protocol, but so is a lot of things he's done lately. Glancing out the window, he notices the small flurries making their way into Manhattan. Winter is his favorite season, yet today he has no patience for snow. Wanting to beat the weather home, he quietly slips out, grateful that there is no bill to pay. The old woman looks up to watch him leave, and he's almost tempted to say goodbye. But, as per usual, he doesn't.

Into the chilly air he goes, casually strolling down the street like a man that has nothing on his mind. He's never been that man, not once in his entire life. It seems that today will be a day of pretending, of conveying to the world that he is at peace with everything. No one that surrounds him appears to be doing the same thing, everyone either yelling into their phones or trying to carry seven shopping bags at once. Across the street, an overwhelmed mother scolds her son as if the mind-numbing state of childhood allows him to comprehend his shortcomings. A man that's clearly late for his menial job tries and fails to hail a cab, and eventually resorts to bolting away in the other direction. Right in the middle of this unorganized chaos is Sherlock, and he finds the position to be awfully comfortable. To not be engaged in the the giant catastrophe called mankind is one of the greatest gifts in the world, and it's imperative he enjoys every second of it.

A woman emerges from a store just up ahead, and he allows his eyes to linger. Her chestnut hair is nearly all chopped off, a style that he's never really preferred until now. Swinging from the crook of her arm is a white shopping bag with some designer name scribbled across the side, and he looks to see what store she just came out of. Standard designer clothing. Nothing out of the ordinary. A part of him wishes it was something edgy, like a sex shop or a dimly-lit record store filled with the albums of obscure bands. Maybe then he could catch up to her and inquire as to what she had purchased. Unfortunately, it would probably be some generic white blouse that looked no different than any other white blouse in New York. At least it was "designer." Nevertheless, she seems interesting, so when she starts to frantically make her way back to the store, he feels the need to initiate a conversation.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, taking note of her worried expression. Evidently, she isn't taken aback by this rather random interaction, and instead points over his shoulder at the store she just emerged from. "I think I may have left my wallet on the counter," she explains, desperately trying to see through the window. "Well here, I'll help you find it," he offers as he follows her into the shop.

"Thanks, but I think I'll manage. I just hope it's around here..."

What had once been a voice he was eager to listen to fades away as he takes two steps over the threshold and sees her. She's sifting through a rack of dresses, her lip slightly bitten. It's a look he could recognize a mile away, one she sported many, many nights in his brownstone. Their brownstone. For the first time in years, he chuckles to himself. It's been one hell of a morning.

"My dear Watson," he says."

This is my second Elementary fic, but the first one was a one-shot, so I look forward to trying a multi-chapter! My first chapters are never the best, and this isn't very interesting either, but I promise things will not stay this way. Thank you for reading!