To Make Life Worth Living

~12~

The peak of summer was waning. A hoard of auburn and brown colours clung to the branches on large trees or to the cement of the pavement. Leaves were dropping from their temporary homes- no longer functional for photosynthesis with the absence of chloroplasts. John had grown to dislike this time of year as when the first browning leaf gave up its stronghold, a bitter seed sprouted within him.

Anniversaries of deaths are never pleasant even in the best of cases.

As it got later in the year, John became more isolated and shut himself away from almost everyone. Only a select few were granted the honour of access to both him and Hamish as the date approached rapidly.

Sherlock, unfortunately for the detective, had not quite earned himself a place on that list (perhaps John was afraid of being judged). The only person Sherlock knew who got texts back from the elusive doctor was the Detective Inspector. He pretended he wasn't jealous but he was constantly asking Lestrade about the small doctor.

"Have you heard from John today?" Sherlock asked, clambering under the yellow crime tape and taking his first glance of the latest murderer scene.

Greg fought to not roll his eyes as Sherlock was just being concerned for his crush. The police man sighed as he followed the consulting detective over to where the man somehow knew where the body was.

"He's fine. Hamish is fine. They've been really busy." He lied for John, as he did on an regular
basis.

"He still won't answer my messages." Sherlock didn't notice how much he sounded like a whining toddler. "How can I know if everything is okay?"

"Look, he is still going to work, still caring for Hamish. He is going through a hard patch which makes anything beyond that exhausting to him. Give him a month or so and he'll be back to normal." He reassured. Lestrade really didn't want Sherlock jumping him in the middle of the street.

He hoped John would be back to normal soon anyway. The last time he'd had been in such a position, Richard had died. The time before that was when he'd been invalided home from Afghanistan himself but thankfully, Hamish came along not too much later. In reality, Lestrade didn't know how long this would last.

"I miss him." The ebony haired man muttered to himself as he lowered down to deduce the cause of death and murderer.

Greg watched him work, a lump forming in his throat. He missed John too.

---

It was November and nearly a month since he'd heard a peep from John when there was a knock at the door of 221B. For some reason, hope sprang forward as he scrambled to the door.

His hope crumbled when he opened the door to see Mycroft stood there with customary umbrella and expensive suit. He seemed dissatisfied with Sherlock's lack of composure. He stepped around his brother and entered the flat. He was reminded why he was worried when Sherlock didn't even protest.

"Still pining, baby brother?" He asked, lowering himself into the detective's chair. He peered at Sherlock with his deep eyes, deducing every detail his cameras had overlooked. He sniffed before brushing dust of the leg of his dustless suit. "I've never seen you so lost over another actual living human."

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he dropped himself down into the red chair opposite.

"Sherlock, you'll make yourself ill." He wanted to protect the other man. It wasn't the first time people had elected to avoid Sherlock Holmes. You'd think he would have grown used to it.

"He liked me, Mycroft. He was the only person that chose to have me in his company." He scowled, "It makes no sense!"

"People don't make sense, Sherlock. They have emotions." He spoke it like a dirty word. "It's not worth it."

Was this true? Was John not worth it?