A/N – as much as I love Sherlock, I do not own Sherlock!

Out of my window

The chair by the window appeared to be John Watson's favourite place. If a person walking along Baker Street should glance up, one could almost always guarantee a glimpse of his head. If a visitor were to call at 221B, they would see him sat at the window, his eyes constantly flickering between the door and the window.

Some regular passer-bys, be they in car, or on foot, came up with wild theories as to why he was always at the window, children speculated that he was waiting for aliens to land. It never occurred to many, that he could simply be waiting for someone who would never return.

He was waiting for the flash of a coat as Sherlock Holmes rushed out of a taxi filled with new ideas, and rushed up the stairs brimming with excitement. His excitement shown only in his fast pace which John had become used to, and suddenly lost.

If he strained his ears, John could hear the sounds of Sherlock's violin. A noise that had annoyed him once, when he had first heard it a 4am, but he had grown to love it. The violin itself was sitting in its usual resting place, but it looked like any other instrument, when it had been in Sherlock's hands, it had seemed like a work of art. He could pull sounds that were beautiful, celebratory and melancholy out of the four strings. John had ended up looking forward to hearing Sherlock play, and he would now only hear it in his mind, as it would have been a crime to capture and keep such a wonder.

On occasion, john could be found to be conversing with the skull that kept its residence on the mantel. He finally realised what Sherlock meant when he said that talking to it helped him to think. John used the skull to help him to organise his thoughts about Sherlock, and what to do now he was gone. He found the skull therapeutic, especially since it did not speak back.

Sometimes when he watched, he would wish to see the blue lights on Lestrade's car, coming to tell them they had a case they couldn't deal with, and Sherlock could stop being bored.

When he sat at the window, John wished for the past, and waited to forget.