Author's Notes: This is just something very brief, an idea I got while RP'ing on Omegle. Please enjoy and, as always, review.

Whether we see each other next weekend, next month...

Never again, it doesn't matter. It's only time.

(Brian Kinney, "Queer as Folk")

There were times when he could almost forget. Just erase what had happened and pretend he was able to start anew. Those were the good days. Of those there were few. He would smile on occasion, tiny, timid grimaces of pinhead-sized happiness which came quickly and went even quicker, leaving him more miserable than before. He would read his newspaper in silence, skimming over the crime section rapidly and turning to the next page before his brain would latch onto an unsolved murder or a bank robbery. He would make himself one cup of tea instead of two and wait for it to go cold before knocking back the whole thing after splashing a few spoonfuls of scotch into it, adding to the spice. He would lock the flat door firmly and not let Mrs. Hudson in to check up on him. He would fall asleep on the couch, Sherlock's coat draped over his swiftly thinning frame.

Those were the good days.

The bad days were more conspicuous, sneaking up on him when he never expected them to. He would be sitting in his chair, pondering over the dent in the wall where Sherlock had once thrown a vase when his chest would compress suddenly, making him keel over in pain, clutching at his throat. The tears would come right up to his Adam's apple and sit there like a mound of rocks, never escaping and never letting him escape. He would find himself with a razor in the bathroom or a handful of pills in his bedroom or a length or rope with his feet planted onto Sherlock's chair. It was worse when he ended up in the detective's bedroom, clutching at the pillows and biting at the bedding to stop the pain. Mrs. Hudson would then call Lestrade who would call Mycroft who would contact someone at the hospital to burst in through the door and sedate him with a syringe of muscle relaxant and something else, a new drug he hadn't known when he had still practiced.

There was one day though, one a year when he felt truly alive.

Sherlock Holmes

"Hey," John greeted, smiling weakly at his best friend before settling himself down onto the grass next to the marble monolith and tucking his legs underneath his body for warmth. The day was surprisingly pleasant, quite unlike the frozen disaster it had been three years ago, yet the cold still clung to his skin. He supposed it was the general chilliness of the graveyard - it was always several degrees colder here than anywhere else in the city. People who came here claimed the ghost which roamed the cemetery were to blame. John was sure Sherlock had once proven otherwise in one of his experiments. He wasn't really sure. All the recorded data was still packed away safely in cardboard boxes which sat in his flatmate's room, underneath the bed, unopened since Mrs. Hudson had cello-taped them shut.

"How have you been?" John paused, looking at the grave marker expectantly. He didn't know what he was waiting for - he never did. Cocking his head to the side, he listened patiently to the rustling of the scarce leaves that still hung from the frail tree branches of the giant century-old oaks and pines that surrounded him, shielding the grave from view. He had been the one to select that exact spot, for he knew Sherlock would have enjoyed the seclusion. No annoying people. Just him and John.

"It's been a difficult week," John continued, never taking his eyes off the golden letters that glared at him mockingly from the headstone. Wringing his hands in his lap nervously, he pursed his lips. "I had another attack yesterday. Just... couldn't do it again, you know? I think I really gave Mrs. Hudson a scare this time. I'll try to do better. I promise."

Leaning back, he tore his eyes away from the gravestone too look at the birds flying through the sky fleetingly. He reached into his front pocket to pull out a carton of cigarettes, barely touched. Only two missing. Pulling out a third one, he placed it between his lips and lit up silently, inhaling the horrid smoke. He never liked tobacco. But today was special.

The smell of cigarette smoke creeped into his memories. He remembered the way Sherlock had smelt. Tobacco, even though he had denied smoking until his very last day. Chocolate, sometimes, when he had allowed himself to indulge. Cologne. Expensive. French. A present from Mycroft. Cotton and wool, from the scarf and the coat. Chemicals. Hydrogen peroxide, mostly. Sometimes other peoples' blood. Honey. Tea. Coffee. Black. With two sugars. Jam, when he had stolen it from John for experimenting. Patent leather shoes. Sweat, sometimes. Mint.

He remembered Sherlock's touch. Electric, rapid, like fire. He had never let his fingers linger on someone else's skin - touch was too personal, he had thought. Of course, John had been an exception. The touches had been scarce and brief - a hand on the shoulder, a tap on the wrist. Sometimes a slap, then the case had required it. A handshake. Once.

There was one thing John was not able to remember about Sherlock.

His eyes.

He had spent hours gazing at newspaper photographs, attempting to capture some of the iciness of those eyes but all the pictures lacked something - the spark. The same spark that had been able to light up a room when a new came had come knocking on the door. The same spark that had made its appearance when John had forgiven him, back in Dartmoor. The same spark that had gone out exactly three years ago.

"It became official today, Sherlock. I changed it," John's voice cracked as he threw away the cigarette butt. Taking a slow, deliberate breath, he gave another feeble grin at the tombstone. He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a paper rectangle, placing it delicately onto the marble, his fingers burning at the contact. "Mycroft... had to pull a few strings but... I just wanted to let you know. There."

Long after John had gone home, an elegant hand with long fingers reached out for the business card. Blue eyes widened for a moment before settling into a look of extreme sadness. The card was tucked lovingly into the coat pocket by the nimble digits, the message ripping into the owner's heart.

Dr. John H. Holmes

Consulting detective.