He had been bored. So bored. Every year the same old routine. Okay so that was what he'd signed up for, St Bart's was a teaching hospital after all. Every year the procession of students seemed to look a little younger, even though he knew they were all allegedly 18. Every year the hairstyles got slightly more ridiculous and the fashions more dubious. Every year he and his colleagues tried to teach basic anatomy to the next generation of Doctors, God help everyone.

And then Sherlock had arrived. One morning. Resplendent in his long overcoat and blue scarf, too old to be a new student, too young to be a new staff member. They had looked at one another, measuring each other up. And then Sherlock started talking to him. Asking him questions. Although he suspected Sherlock already knew the answers. Sherlock called him John, even though that wasn't his real name. Said it suited him. John tried to offer sensible input; although he was quite convinced Sherlock never listened to him.

"I like you John" Sherlock had said one day. "You are so dependable. You never judge me, you never tell me to piss off. You never let me down. You understand. In fact I will go so far as to say you are the best friend I've ever had. I say friend, you're more like a colleague, a partner." And then Sherlock had kidnapped him.

He didn't mind, helping to solve murders was exciting, gave him a purpose. Much better than the mundane life of nothing he had been living. No one at Bart's missed him; they hadn't even noticed he'd gone. Sherlock was the only one who had ever really noticed him.

And then that evening happened. When HE had showed up, some little stocky bloke with a bad leg and a bad jumper. Sherlock kind of introduced them, but seemed embarrassed, like he was introducing some elderly relative with questionable hygiene. And to add insult to injury the round guy was also called John. This Other John stole his name and then stole his Sherlock. So he got mad and sulked and no one noticed. Not really.

She had been doing the dusting. Strange as she was the landlady, not the housekeeper. She had seen John sat forlornly, wallowing in his pity party for one.

"Never mind darling! I know it seems unfair, but I've got good feelings about this one. Why don't you just come downstairs with me and have some tea, the girls are coming round later for Sherry and Poker. You'll be most welcome."

She left Sherlock a note. Just to let him know that John was with her. Just in case he got worried. And Sherlock was a bit worried. How would the New John measure up to the Old John? New John did okay, better than okay in fact. So that was alright.

Mrs Hudson made him his own cushion. He rather liked Mrs Hudson. She baked amazing cheesecake and asked for his help with the Crossword. But sometimes, just sometimes, when he was alone, or when he heard those familiar long legged bounds up the stairs, or even when he heard the Police Sirens outside the windows, he missed Sherlock terribly. Only Mrs Hudson ever noticed he was sad. To everyone else he was just a skull, with an expression that was stuck in a grin for the rest of eternity. Only Mrs Hudson really knew that if he had eyes, he would cry. Sometimes.