Theme Prompt - Memory

John stifled a yawn as he listened to another patient describe his symptoms. Work had started to get boring, repetitive. His eyes glazed over as one part of his brain catalogued the symptoms. The other part, the large part, goes back to his phone. The phone he left lying on the floor next to his chair as he left the flat this morning.

John shook himself out of his ruminations and focused on his patient again. The man had finished his recitation and was looking at John expectantly. He coughed slightly, dabbing his mouth with a tissue.

"Well, it sounds like you have the flu," John said. "Get some rest, drink plenty of fluids, and eat as much chicken soup as you can handle. I'm going to prescribe a general antibiotic for you." The man nodded and smiled at the doctor. He had been really worried. John wrote out the prescription and handed it over. After the man left, John sat back in his chair and sighed.

Thoughts turning back to his phone, John steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. He had started copying some of Sherlock's mannerisms, unconsciously, not long after the mad detective's funeral. John's eyes looked into the distance, completely unfocused on his office. Thoughts of Sherlock chased each other around his head.

"I saw him die," John moaned aloud. "I saw him fall and I felt his pulse. He was dead. How can he be texting me?" John dropped his head into his hands, his fingers curling into his hair. He had let it grow longer, shaggier, because he couldn't be bothered to cut it. Hearing a soft knock at his door, John looked up and said, "Come in." Sarah poked her head around the door, worry etching her face.

"Hey, John," she said. "How are you?" John shrugged in reply and lifted his head. He met Sarah's eyes and felt bad for the worry there. Worry he had caused.

"I'm ok," he told Sarah, forcing a bit of false cheer into his tone. "It's getting better." Sarah's eyes narrowed at John, knowing he was lying.

"Well, I'm here," Sarah told him. "If you ever need anything. Ever need to talk." John nodded and Sarah backed out and closed the door. John sighed and looked at the clock. He had just enough time to finish his files before heading home for the night. He sat busily typing at his computer, trying to forget the past several months. About an hour later, John closed down the program and got ready to leave. He walked out of the clinic, limping heavily and leaning on his cane.

When he reached the flat, he walked slowly up the steps. He wanted to see if the text on his phone was still there, but was terrified it wasn't. Who could have sent it anyways? Limping into the flat, John saw that his phone was still in the same place on the floor. He picked it up and scrolled to his text messages.

"Don't! -SH"

The text still existed on his phone and John let out a sigh of relief. The memory of that text had allowed him to ignore the little white pills scattered on the floor underneath his chair. The memory of that text had allowed him to actually concentrate on work today. Had even put a small smile on his face because it was so Sherlock.

John cradled the phone against his chest, happiness starting to bubble up. Maybe, this meant Sherlock wasn't really dead. Maybe, just maybe, this meant that the miracle he had asked for, standing at Sherlock's grave, had a chance of coming through. Humming one of Sherlock's compositions, John limped into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Tea had always helped throughout the waiting. And wait he would, for that brilliant, mad, amazing, and frustrating consulting detective.