He stared down at a pile of pictures, one from their old flat. Pictures from a Christmas party, several post case nights at the pub, a few from their last new years together, and a couple of him as a younger boy. He was sure he'd thrown them out a while ago. There was no return address. He guessed Mycroft.
He found himself sifting through the photos like they were childhood memories. They were, in a sense. He didn't notice the tears that escaped his eyes that grew older everyday, losing their shine like his had once the pavement did its toll.
Work was uneventful. It always was. Mary flirted, he politely reciprocated; not out of interest, but because he hadn't the heart to tell her no.
His body moved in slow motion as he waddled up to the headstone, box of picture frames and photos in his left arm. He finally stood in front of the grave reading that name. The one he won't dare say.
He smiled a hollow, fading memory of his old smile. "Hey." He croaked. He didn't speak much these past two years. Had no one to talk to. "I got mail. Not bills, if you'd believe." A dry chuckle let itself out. "No, uh, it was a box of our pictures. Of us."
He shuffled on his feet awkwardly.
"I miss you. It's been too long since I've had a friend. Yeah, I've got Molly and Mike at Bart's. But they're not -- They're not you." That tired sigh erupted from him in a shaky wave. "I'll see you soon." And he turned with a nod, limping away. Behind him was the box of pictures. All but one. A picture of him wrapped in a blanket on their old couch, sleeping peacefully after an exhausting case. The first time John saw the human side to that brilliant machine of a man.
That one picture lay, now, in his right hand. In the other, his gun. The one he brought with him on every case. Every dangerous night out.
His blood painted a picture of its own. A picture of a lonesome ex soldier, a doctor who could no longer help, an abandoned friend who just wanted his mate back.
"Hello John." The voice whispered.
