John couldn't sleep. Again.
It was one of those nights where no matter how hard he tried, his mind wouldn't stop racing. He sighed into the darkness of his room, rubbing his hand over his face.
It was times like this where John felt so terribly, and utterly alone. After Sherlock fell, nights like this became more frequent.
He sat up in his bed before getting up to walk to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, thinking it might help him fall asleep.
It was quiet in the flat, and John wanted nothing more than to see his best friend sprawled across the couch as he usually was.
John shuddered, and sat down in a chair. God he misses Sherlock. Misses him more than anything. He'd give anything just to see him again. Anything. The day Sherlock Holmes died, John Watson died along with him. His heart died with the dark haired man.
John looks out the window for a while, reminiscing in the memories of his best friend. Deciding a cup of tea wasn't going to help him any, he gets up to go back to bed.
As he walks upstairs, all that can be heard in the quiet flat of 221B are the cries of a broken John Watson, and the faint sound of a violin.