Recently I have grown obsessed with Sherlock. I'm not sure how many stories there are like this, but this story is going to be a watching-the-series-fic. I will add some of my own plot lines into the chapters though, it won't just be all the episodes one after another. Where's the fun in that?

It had been a year since the fall, but the pain was still as present and terrible as ever. He went about his regular life... Or, at least he tried to; but he couldn't forget, he just couldn't forget him.

The first week after Sherlock's funeral, his leg had begun to ache. At first it was mild throbbing and easily ignored, but it soon began to get worse. After a month he was limping so heavily that he did what he thought he would never do again.

He picked up his cane.

From that day on, everywhere he went he always had his cane in hand, using it to support himself as he walked.

There were times when he forgot about the pain in his leg, but they happened far and few between. For some reason his limp had come back worse than it had ever been before; the ache almost never ceased.

It was an ever-present pain that no matter how much he tried to forget, he couldn't. It was a hollow pain, like something was missing.

It was the anniversary, one year since Sherlock's death. He had visited the cemetery, placing flowers and a small Cluedo piece by Sherlock's tombstone. He remained there for a few minutes talking to the tombstone a little and thinking, but he didn't stay long. Pretty soon, he left, hailing a nearby cab and pulling away from the cemetery.

"Where to?" Asked the cabbie.

John was about to tell him to take him home, but impulsively blurted out, "Scotland Yard."

It felt like the right thing to do. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the seat as they drove to the station.

Donovan nodded at him as she passed him in the hall, but he didn't notice. Nor did he notice Anderson shaking his head in pity as he walked by. He ignored them all as he wandered down the hallway. He was going to visit the old police station, right underneath them. The new station had been built right on top of the old one, but you could still reach the old one by the stairs. One time Sherlock had shown it to him, the old and empty hallways. John liked it because it felt like a remnant of the past, you could feel history echoing in every corridor down there. Also, very few people ever went down there, so no one would bother him today.

John was going to take the elevator down to the lowest floor he could, then follow the stairs the rest of the way down.

Hitting the button, the elevator descended, stopping on various floors as people got in and out. He was so lost in his thoughts he didn't notice Lestrade enter the elevator, jumping nearly a foot in the air when he spoke.

"John! What are you doing here?" Lestrade greeted him, forehead wrinkled in worry.

Recovering from his surprise he replied softly, "It's the anniversary, I decided to visit."

Lestrade nodded in understanding, he would always have conflicting feelings about Sherlock. The man's deduction skills had always been so extraordinary they were almost supernatural. Was it possible to have an ability like that? He had seen the man make astounding deductions that had seemed so real, no magic tricks or bugs or ear pieces assisting him. But the whole deal with the young girl screaming, Sherlock easily leading to the place they were hidden, and the stories in the newspapers had allowed the doubt to appear in his mind.

Though it pained him to believe it, the idea of Sherlock being a fraud seemed much more likely than him being a true genius. However, despite all of this he would still comfort John. No matter Sherlock's true abilities, John and the consulting detective had shared a real friendship. Lestrade understood what it felt like to lose someone you cared about, and had sympathy for John. Though it was little strange, Lestrade didn't question his reasoning for being in the station today.

John found Lestrade to be one of the few people he could reminisce about Sherlock with, even if sometimes it got a little bit awkward. Lestrade never argued with John about Sherlock's credibility like the others did, they simply reminisced together. After Sherlock's death they had sort of become friends. Or at least were on friendly terms.

"How have things be -" The door opened on the lowest floor and John froze in shock, cutting off his words mid-sentence.

At the end of the dimly lit corridor was a tall, thin silhouette wearing a long dark coat. The silhouette paused momentarily, popping up their coat collar in a very familiar manner before whisking around the corner, his long coat flapping behind him as he disappeared from sight.

"John, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

John barely noticed Lestrade talking he was so focused on what he had just seen. It couldn't be. He was imagining things. As the figure disappeared around the corner, all logic drained from his head as his body took over. He suddenly dropped the cane and began sprinting down the hallway, not noticing that he'd left it behind.

Lestrade gaped after him in shock, before ducking to pick up the cane and racing after John, whose limp had suddenly just disappeared as quickly as the man himself.

John rounded the corner, sprinting after the silhouette. The pain in his leg had almost completely disappeared; it was still noticeable, but rather than slowing him down it spurred him on. In those few brief seconds something small had filled in; something just enough to give him the strength he needed to run. He was determined to catch the man he was chasing.

The figure ran down stairs and around corners, coat billowing behind him. He ran through old empty hallways beneath the station, down more stairs and empty rooms, and finally down to the basement. Though his heart pounded and his breaths came quick, John still pursued the man, never breaking stride. Some instinct was urging him on as his brain tried to make sense of it. He knew he must be mistaken, it wasn't possible...

He kept running.

When he saw the figure dart into a room up ahead he felt a grim sort of satisfaction, the man would be cornered.

The room was pitch black. When he entered, he couldn't see a thing, but a long chain brushed past his face. Yanking the chain, a light bulb flared to life in the center of the ceiling, but to his utmost surprise nobody was in the room. There was a door at the other end of the room, but it was locked. They were underground so there were no windows either.

Though it seemed paranoid, John dropped to his hands and knees and felt around, searching for trapdoors.

Lestrade hurried into the room. "John!" He puffed, trying to catch his breath. "Why did you run off? How on earth were you able to run? And what are you doing?!"

Without looking up, John said. "I was able to run because my limp is psychosomatic."

"And why did your limp just happen to disappear now?"

John ignored him, continuing to feel around on the floor. "There's got to be a clue here somewhere." He muttered under his breath.

"What? Wait, why did you run away in the first place?" Lestrade was starting to feel a little worried about his friend.

"This is going to sound crazy..." John sighed heavily, he looked up, but avoided the eyes of the Detective Inspector. "I thought I saw Sherlock."

"John..." Lestrade's face was tense and concerned, "That's not possible, he -"

"I KNOW! He's dead!" His voice broke and he felt the tiny telltale pricks of tears in his eyes. "I know, I know, I know! But the person... He was just so familiar. Same coat, collar popped up, tall, thin... I saw him run in here... Never mind, where are we anyway?" He looked around the room. It was empty except for a small old TV, the big, clunky kind they'd had a few years ago before they were replaced by the new, fancier, high definition TVs. The TV was sitting on top of a small projector cart next to a small pile of videocassettes.

Lestrade still looked concerned about his sanity. "This is part of the old station. People haven't been down here in years."

What struck John as strange was the dust, or lack of. There were a few cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, but the entire room was dust-free, the TV was clean, the tapes dry, and though the floor was a little grimy it was clear of any dust or footprints.

Getting to his feet he said, "Apparently someone has been down here. There's no dust whatsoever."

Lestrade glanced around at the room. He wiped a finger along the TV screen, but nothing came away on his finger.

"I know it couldn't possibly have been Sherlock," John continued, "But I did see a person Lestrade! The thing is how did they leave this room without anyone seeing? That door is locked and there aren't any windows in here."

Lestrade pulled out his key ring, trying each one on the door, but none of them fit.

"Are you sure you saw a person?" He asked.

"I'm not crazy Inspector. I know I saw someone." John asserted.

Lestrade sighed, "Alright, we'll have to investigate. Come on, I'll get a few other officers."

John shook his head. "No, you go, I'll stay here."

"There's nothing more we can do right now John, we'll take a look later."

"No. I'm just going to stay down here a little longer." John said. Lestrade looked ready to protest.

"Please." John said, meeting his eyes.

The Detective Inspector sighed. "Alright, don't stay here too long though. And here, you might want this." He handed John his cane, shot him one last worried glance, and left the room. His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he left.

Lestrade gone, John's shoulders slumped. He continued to search the room but found nothing. Apparently the person had a key to the locked door.

John couldn't shake off the feeling that he knew the mysterious person. He had seen someone. He wasn't crazy...

Somebody was sneaking around the old police station. But why?

His eyes fell on the TV and the cart. It was clean and so out of place. Why was it down here? He examined the TV, it looked ordinary enough, but it was plugged in. Had this mysterious person had wiped all the dust off, plugged in the TV, and disappeared? Why?

He noticed that the tapes were numbered. Each had a small piece of masking tape on the bottom with a number written on it. John gingerly picked up one of the old tapes, blowing on it to get any possible stray dust off. This videocassette was marked with the number 1. There were 6 tapes in all sitting on the cart.

He gently inserted tape #1 into the VCR, waiting with bated breath for what - he didn't know.

The video began to play...