Disclaimer:I own nothing of the Moffat/Gatiss world of Sherlock, nor do I own anything of Sir ACD's world of Sherlock. The views expressed do not reflect my own views and are not designed to offend or hurt.

Summary: Because Sherlock wanted to be there when everything fell apart even though he knew that he wouldn't be able to pick up the pieces and glue them back together. But he could try to sweep them into a neat pile, and relinquish the adhesive to someone who could use it.

Warning: Angst by the bucket load.

Chapter 2

On one bright Sunday morning Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson left 221B Baker Street on their way to talk to a ticket booth operator as part of an investigation into a particularly careful but creative serial killer, seemingly targeting only moviegoers that favoured horror.

As both men exited the building the latter turned to wait as Mr. Holmes paused to lock the door. However, instead of turning to face the man in question, he turned and faced the window of the café that neighboured their humble abode, and peered in through the grimy panes of glass.

Speedy's café was as busy as it ever was at 11 o'clock on a Sunday in mid November. That is to say not very busy at all, their normal custom (one elderly man who used to visit the café with his wife every Sunday until she died three months ago, he stopped for two weeks and then resumed with his usual enthusiasm, two builders getting their hourly dose of tea, and a red headed lady, in her mid thirties who seemed to always have her nose stuck in a book.) were all present.

John H. Watson's attention was occupied almost entirely by the redhead, though he spared a glance at the other occupants of the café. Sherlock Holmes feigned ignorance of his companion's distraction until the cab was at the curbside and the tall man was stepping into it, at which point he proceeded to suavely regain his friend's attention by a simple and elegant wave.

If one would proceed to assume that Mr. Watson saw the wave in the reflection of the windows, they would, in fact, be wrong. But by now John could not recall, nor does he care that much for, the memories pertaining to a series of obscure events that ultimately led to him being perfectly in tune and aware of the other mans actions, and quite often the reasoning behind them.

That such moments of friendship and camaraderie can be lost so quickly and easily in the dark recesses of the mind was a sobering thought, but lost they were. And despite this Sherlock was not that bothered, as long as the talent still remained, because talent was the only word to describe John's ability to read Sherlock Holmes the way that he could.

The cab ride was a long one: the roads were busy and the cabbie took them the long way round, and Sherlock was reminded of a joke John once made in another life about a serial killer-come-cabbie. A joke, no doubt, that John himself could not recall. He decided that a change of topic would be welcome, as he shook his head to clear the fog.

"Really John, you should just ask her out, or at least talk to her, buy her a coffee one day."

The comment was offhand and quite random. It surprised John that Sherlock had noticed his small infatuation with the redhead, but it shouldn't have. It was embarrassing that he still sometimes underestimated his companion. John did not respond the comment.

Sherlock was unnerved to notice this small detail about John, unnerved because this was the first time he had noticed John's small fascination with the girl in the Café. He wondered if it were possible that whilst John's memory was deteriorating his was fading too in an entirely different way?

"It's just painful watching you watching her."

Painful for an entirely different reason than the one he alluded to, but that was a discussion for a later date, when all was forgotten.