The only thing John had left was the backpack and the ring he'd gotten for Christmas, years ago. The backpack was in a closet; he'd forgotten that it was there, and he was scared it wouldn't contain anything worth the pain of looking at.

The ring, on the other hand... He put that ring that Sherlock gave him on a chain, (it didn't fit his finger anymore; when he had enough money to go to the jeweler's, he'd pay to have it made a few sizes bigger) and he wore it everywhere, even when Mary was around. Because he liked Mary, but he had loved Sherlock.

One day, when it was raining and they had nothing to do, Mary was in the flat sorting out John's photo albums. She came across the backpack, and opened it furtively, pulling out a CD that said Vanilla Saturday, "The Better One."

"John?" Mary asked, coming into view. "What's this?"

"Oh, that?" John sat up on the couch, and motioned her over. Thunder clapped, and she squeaked, running to him.

"Yeah, this," she said. She sat down, and John took the disk.

"It's one of my old disks. 2010, actually." He turned the disk over in his hands, smiling. "Remember Sherlock?"

"He's the guy you used to date, right?" she asked, nonchalantly taking and putting the CD into John's laptop drive.

"Yeah," John said. "Sort of."

The music began to play, and John sunk into the couch with Mary. 

"Love this," she said.

"I know, right? He's an amazing piano player. Really has a talent for it. He said he was going to start the violin in June..."

"June?"

"2010."

"He was really good at it," she commented. "Do you have any pictures?"

"Only him at sixteen."

"What happened when you were sixteen?" she asked, her eyebrows creasing.

"I moved," John said. "And he sadly passed away." He knew that it was an oversimplification, but he wouldn't tell her about Pickard. Maybe not ever. He cut her off before she could offer her condolences. "It happened. It's done."

Mary sat back, and let out a tremendous sigh, like she wasn't aware that she'd been holding her breath. "Do you miss him?" she asked, quietly. 

"Yeah," John said, scooching closer. "Yeah, course I do. But it doesn't do to dwell. Doesn't do at all."

Mary leaned forward and kissed John on the nose. John smiled at her feet. "You're the second best person I've ever met."

"Who's the first?"

"My mum," she said, laughing, and pressing her head to John's chest. "John," she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"I saw the drawings."

John's eyes shot open, and he began to stutter, internally groaning. She saw the drawings? He wasn't ready to show her those, that was his thing, the only thing that he'd kept to himself over the past years. "It was just, I mean, I was bored, and it bloody happened, and I-"

"John," Mary placated. "It's okay."

"Oh my God, which ones did you see?"

She smirked. "All of them."

"Oh, Jesus."

"It's okay, John, you just have an unhealthy obsession. It's fine. I'm not worried."

"He's in the past," John insisted. 

"He's evidently not," Mary said. "Just, John. I wanted to say how gorgeous the drawings were. You've got a talent."

John looked down at her, laying there, feathery light and warm and not Sherlock. "Really?" 

"Yeah. Ever thought about majoring in art?"

"Art?" John shook his head. "Art, no, I... I'm an army official. I don't do art. Plus, I got shot, my hands aren't as steady... I'm not as good, Mary, I have to get a real job."

"Yeah, right. You could sell those, easily, for five hundred pounds."

"I..." John swallowed. "I don't want to sell them."

"I'm just saying, John. Anything you draw will look spectacular. You should try."

"I'm not-"

"Oh, shut up, John. You're good." She sat up a bit. "What was up with the one with the rhino ears, and the monkey tai-"

"Shut up."

"That was strange."

"Oh, Mary..."

"I loved it," she said, nestling into John's arm like a puzzle piece.

And he should have felt happy. He should've felt thankful that he was alive, and not David, he should've felt glad he shot the phone, so he wouldn't keep on calling a number that didn't exist anymore. He should've felt happy that Mary cared, because if she didn't care, no one would, God. 

But all he felt was guilt. So much of it. It was swamping him over.

Why can't you bloody save anyone?

Was it really that hard to carry a man three times less your weight out of a battlefield? Was it really that hard to make a drug addict answer a phone?

Right then, John realized that he was not a hero, and therefore should not pretend he was such.

But what if I'd saved them both? What if Sherlock was still here?

What if John was Spiderman, or Superman, or Batman, or fucking Dr. Manhattan... what if he was a superhero, like Sherlock'd been? Couldn't he have saved them?

He could've done something.

John almost wondered what Sherlock's last thoughts had been; who he recalled when he was falling into an endless sleep. If he thought of his mum... brown eyed and shining, or his dad, dark... quiet... John wondered if Sherlock was sorry about doing... it, now. 

Sherlock could've seen things. He could have lived here. He could've been alive, he could have breathed, he could've spoken words and touched things and learned to play violin and Jesus, Sherlock, why?

Why, when John was right here? When he was waiting, when he was anticipating his return, why couldn't he just come back?

John missed him. More than anyone he'd ever missed before. He missed his hands, and his eyes, even when they were half-glassed over with pain, he missed those pink lips and those dark locks and he missed the way he smelled and the way he spoke and the way he did what he did with his hands and John missed him, he missed him, he missed him.

When he was alone at night, when he swore no one was watching, he said "Sherlock" slowly, like he was wringing the last drops of familiarity out of his name. Sometimes, when he swore the only breaths in the flat were his own, he took out the box under his bed and read the letters he'd never sent on the floor, like they were written yesterday. John spread them out like tarot cards, like Cadbury bars, and prayed Sherlock could read his mind in heaven.

He'd wake up in the middle of the night and swear Sherlock was kissing him, telling him that he was such an idiot, such a stupid fucking idiot. He'd wake up and see him laying next to him, as he did so many years ago, in this same bed - he'd see a ghost move through the flat and whisper "John" in his ear like a melody. He'd wake up yelling, his hair sticky with perspiration and Sherlock's name on his lips, in his head, drawn into his skin, and John would see him clearer than ever before. 

John could swear Sherlock was alive, sometimes, still telling him that he was broken and he couldn't mend and he was too far gone and John swore that Sherlock could have been next to him on the bus on the way to work holding his hand and being there and just living, just alive, quite alive. He could swear that when it was cold, and John was alone in his car, he was asleep besides him, being beautiful, being brave and statuesque and brilliant. John sometimes tricked himself into believing in Sherlock Holmes.

"John," Mary whispered.

"Yes?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," John said.

"Because you're crying a little."

"Oh."

A/N: I'm going to miss this book...