John trudged up the steps of 221 Baker Street until he reached the door to his room. He walked across to the bed where he promptly collapsed after taking off his coat and shoes. Today had been an extremely long day at the surgery and he was beyond tired. It was days like these when he thought back to the time when he used to run around London with Sherlock- after Sherlock- who was always running off to carry out an experiment or to follow a lead or, most likely, going after the suspect. It was one of the many reasons why John always insisted on going with him. He always followed Sherlock, but now he had gone somewhere where no one could follow.

He still struggled to accept the fact that Sherlock had killed himself. There had been no signs, but then it was always difficult to tell with Sherlock, the man who hid his emotions behind a mask and never let anyone in. It had been clear to John though, that Sherlock had been growing more and more agitated as the case wore on. The man who always kept his emotions in check had snapped at the mere thought that John had been taken in by Moriarty's lie, but he never should have doubted John's loyalty. It had been tested time and time again, from the very beginning to the very end. Only the day after they met John had killed someone to protect Sherlock and he would've sacrificed himself at the pool had it meant that Sherlock got to live. But in turned out that, in the end, the only person John needed to protect Sherlock from was himself.

He hadn't believed a single word that Sherlock had told him on that rooftop. He refused to believe that Sherlock was a fake. He had seen his brilliant mind at work on every crime scene, every case, every day. Which was why it had angered him so much when people had started believing the lies that Moriarty was spinning. But it had been relatively simple after Sherlock's death to prove that he had been innocent. Weeks and weeks spent interrogating anyone who had ever spoken to Sherlock finally proved that he had not orchestrated any of the crimes he had solved. Alibi after alibi surfaced and the Yard had been forced to acknowledge the fact that Sherlock had been on their side all along. A more thorough investigation into Richard Brook had shown that no one had actually ever heard of him and while this had by no means cleared Sherlock's name with the press it had cleared his name with Scotland Yard, though that was the least of his problems now.

John thought back to the last day he had spent with Sherlock. They'd been on the run, hiding from Lestrade and his team with Molly's help, though he was certain that if Lestrade had really wanted to find them he probably would have been able to. Sherlock had taken every chance to push John away, determined to work through the 'final problem' alone. John still didn't understand what had happened on that rooftop. Moriarty had killed himself so there should have been no reason for Sherlock to jump. With Moriarty gone they would've had the chance to clear Sherlock's name. He would have gotten his life back and everything would go back to normal- as normal as living with Sherlock Holmes could be. But Sherlock had jumped, spending his last breaths trying to convince John that he was a fake. Maybe he thought that if John believed him it would somehow make it easier to grieve, but he had been wrong. John had been angry at himself for not being able to help Sherlock, for not being able to talk him down. Sherlock was his best friend and he hadn't been able to pull him back from the edge. What kind of friend did that make him?

If only Sherlock had told him more, if only Sherlock had let him help, if only, if only, if only...

Images of Sherlock on the rooftop surfaced in his mind and he shut his eyes tightly. He ran a hand over his face and opened them again. Finding that the image that greeted him was that of his own opened door and not his friend's pale and lifeless body on the floor he made his way to the kitchen and took out a bottle of whisky he had put away for a special occasion. He didn't relish the idea of drinking alone tonight but Lestrade was busy and no one else would understand what today meant, or what it was doing to him.

Sherlock had always kept things from his own life private, but John had finally found out when his birthday was and had made a point to remember so that they could both celebrate it quietly the next year, knowing that Sherlock would be opposed to any large gatherings. They had even made plans for what they were going to do. And now here he was a year later, celebrating all by himself.

John had come home to discover a birthday card from Molly hidden amongst the mail. He knew it wasn't his birthday so the card must be for Sherlock, but curiosity got the better of him and he opened it. It was dated January 6th, over a week ago. After that he had asked Sherlock why he didn't tell him it had been his birthday to which the detective replied, 'It never came up'. From then on they had both thrown remarks back and forth, John complaining that Sherlock never told him anything about himself and Sherlock insisting that John knew everything of import, which definitely did not include his birthday.

"But it's your birthday, Sherlock! I don't care if you like it or not but we are celebrating next year." John shouted from the kitchen where he was plating up lunch for himself, seeing as Sherlock still refused to eat during a case.

"It's a pointless celebration, John. I haven't done anything on my birthday in years, I'm not about to start now."

"Well, you've got me now so you better get used to the idea."

"Birthday parties are dull."

John came back into the living room and sat down ready to eat his lunch. Sherlock was still lounging on the sofa, waiting until he could get back to his experiment. "When was the last time you actually had a birthday party?" he asked.

"When I was fourteen. Mummy insisted, but I detested all the boys at school and never wanted to invite anyone," he replied in a bored tone, "I think the one who got the most out of my birthday parties was Mycroft."

John's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Mycroft?"

"There was cake." And with that Sherlock got up and walked over to the kitchen where a particularly unpleasant experiment had been located all day. It was then that John had a brilliant idea, one which he hoped would convince Sherlock to celebrate his birthday in some way.

"Sherlock," he called out tentatively, "what if I told you that I'd let you do whatever experiments you wanted on your birthday?"

As soon as the words left his mouth Sherlock quickly turned around, an expression of sheer delight on his face. "Really?"

John couldn't help but smile at how happy Sherlock was. He loved his experiments, but there was only so much John would let him do in the flat, and now he had a free pass to do whatever he wanted. "Really," he confirmed, and Sherlock beamed at him and trotted off to the kitchen.

The memory suffocated him and he took a swig straight from the bottle, not even bothering to pour himself a proper drink. After taking a few more angry sips he wiped the tears from his eyes- when had he started crying? - and walked over to the mantel where the skull was placed. He took out the packet of cigarettes he had hidden there for Sherlock, took one out and brought it to his lips. He didn't condone smoking, much less when Sherlock did it, but there were times when smoking a cigarette was a preferable outcome to what Sherlock Holmes would otherwise to do himself.

Even though John wasn't a smoker he had tried it before. He walked over to the kitchen, used a match to light up the cigarette and took a long drag, filling his lungs, and then finally blowing the smoke out. He was accustomed to the feeling, but he didn't do it now out of pleasure, but rather as a comfort. It was his own, albeit extremely unhealthy, way to feel close to Sherlock again. They no longer solved crimes, he no longer blogged about it and Sherlock definitely no longer forgot his pants.

He sat down on his chair and looked longingly at the one across from it. He felt his heart clench at the thought that it would never be filled again. There would be no more dashing off at a moment's notice, no more experiments in the fridge and no more violin playing at night when he was trying to sleep; there was just silence. He continued to smoke, attempting to blow smoke rings as he had sometimes seen Sherlock do. Once he'd finished it he stubbed it out on the ashtray that Sherlock had stolen from Buckingham Palace.

The flat was teeming with memories of Sherlock. The bullet holes he'd shot into the wall when he was bored, the marks on the table, the case files that would never be reviewed... John felt overwhelmed by the memories once again and reached for the bottle only to realize he had left it in the kitchen. He got up and retrieved it before collapsing on his chair again. He had drunk more than he originally thought but the deep sadness he felt today engulfed him and he continued to drink. He felt like there was a hole in his chest; a Sherlock sized hole and there was nothing that could fill it. He clutched his Union Jack pillow, and he drank, and he cried, and he remembered.

He remembered meeting Sherlock for the first time at St. Bart's. He remembered dinner at Angelo's and his poor attempt at concealing his interest for the detective. He remembered running after a cab, his psychosomatic limp long forgotten, and he remembered laughing like he hadn't laughed in a very long time.

He remember Sherlock involving him in the investigations from the beginning. Astonishing him with his deductions and his brilliant mind. Surprising him with his lack of knowledge of anything he deemed superfluous or simply dull. Worrying him with his self-destructive behaviour.

Hiding the cigarettes from Sherlock. Playing Cluedo to distract him. Calculating strategies with Mycroft. Searching Sherlock's room for drugs.

Caring for him. Looking after him. Watching him.

Watching him on the roof of St. Bart's. Listening to his broken voice. Trying to stop him. Failing to stop him.

Failing

Failing

Falling

He was so helpless, so useless. He couldn't stop Harry from drinking. He couldn't stop Sherlock from dying. And now he couldn't stop himself from falling apart.

It was then that John realized his eyes were closed. He slowly opened them and noted that the bottle of whisky was gone. A quick look around the room showed him that the currently half empty bottle was on the floor next to his chair, almost as if someone had pried it out of his hands and placed it there. He threw his head back on the chair and took a deep breath. What he heard next made his blood run cold.

"Hello, John," a deep baritone voice echoed in his ears.

This wasn't possible; Sherlock was dead. He couldn't be here. But as John looked up he spotted the detective standing in the middle of their living room. He was wearing his purple shirt underneath his suit jacket and his long Belstaff coat with his blue scarf wrapped around his neck. The familiar sight snapped John into action.

John stood up on shaky legs and started waking towards Sherlock. "You're here," he whispered, in a wistful tone.

"Obviously," Sherlock remarked.

"How is that possible? I saw you jump. You were dead, I saw you!"

"You saw but you did not observe." A smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Think, John, think."

"I..." John stuttered, "I missed you so much." He felt himself taking slow steps forward until he reached Sherlock. All the while his mind was shouting at him, he's alive, he's here, he's real. Sherlock was looking strangely uncertain but John wrapped his arms around the detective anyway, capturing him in a long overdue hug, and soon he felt him return the pressure. He had no idea how much time had passed but he didn't care. Neither one of them was willing to let go now that they were together again. John felt his chest fill up with joy. In the warmth of the embrace he started to feel the alcohol tugging him into unconsciousness. He felt himself drifting off in the arms of the detective, and he thought he heard Sherlock whisper something, just three little words, but in his haze he couldn't make out what they were.

Darkness surrounded him and he felt the comforting presence of the chair beneath him again and the warmth of something soft being carefully folded into his hands. Seconds later, or what he judged to be seconds later, he heard his name being called. He felt a warm pressure on his shoulder, shaking him, calling him. Another call of his name. Louder. More insistent. He suddenly sat up, snapped back into consciousness.

Lestrade was standing over him with his hand on his shoulder and wearing a concerned look on his face. "Are you alright, John?"

John shot out of his chair like a maniac and raced over to where Sherlock had been standing just a few seconds ago. Had it been real, or was it all in his head? It seemed real enough to him, but he'd been holding on to Sherlock seconds ago. Where had he gone? And when did Lestrade get here? "He was here. He was right here, I saw him. I saw him, I spoke to him. Where did he go?" he shouted at Lestrade, who was looking more and more confused by the second. "He was right here."

"Who, John?" Lestrade asked, "Who are you talking about?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted again, "Sherlock was right here, I saw him. He was back, he was alive."

Lestrade looked John in the eye and in a soft voice said, "John, Sherlock's gone, you know that. You were just dreaming."

"No, no. I saw him!" John shook his had briskly. "He was right here. I know he was! He was back. He came back for me." His voice trailed off, getting lower and lower as he sank to the floor. Lestrade quickly grabbed John by the shoulders before he collapsed and then something unexpected happened. John buried his head in Lestrade's chest and cried. His body slumped, all energy gone, all self-control dissolved. He cried and he cried, not being able to hold anything in anymore, until he had nothing left inside him. He whispered Sherlock's name over and over again and Lestrade held on to him, trying to keep him from falling apart completely.

After John calmed down Lestrade helped him over to the sofa and lay him down on his side, covering him with a blanket. He tried to disentangle Sherlock's scarf from John's hands where he'd been clutching it tightly but John wouldn't let go. He was holding on to it as if his life depended on it and he kept whispering, "I'll be back. I'll be back."

"Go to sleep, John," he said quietly.

He'd intended on making it over here earlier but had been working late at the Yard going over some paperwork. He knew today would be rough for John but he hadn't expected anything like this. John had been adamant that he'd seen Sherlock, but that was impossible. Lestrade spotted the half empty bottle on the floor. Sighing he turned around, ready to head out again. He had to talk to John about what happened, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Now there was nothing else he could do for his friend. Looking back at John one last time he quietly left the flat, closing the door behind him.