A/N.: One shot about one night at 221B Baker St. when John recalls what it is like to not have Sherlock around with the stupid radio on.

I was never one to smoke, but given the current circumstances, cigarettes fit just

fine. A good glass of wine is my best company for the night, and I can faintly hear the radio mumbling words to me across the room. Inhale. When did I get myself a radio? Nevermind. The pain is worse than ever today, so I decide to pour myself a little more of my crimson friend as the words from the radio slowly became music. Sip. It is late at night, and I lost track of time, again. Stupid wine and stupid cigarette and stupid pain. It is the worst kind of pain you can ever feel. As a doctor, you think, I'd be able to recognize the source and medicate myself, eh? Wrong. I told you, this is the worst kind of pain – the one you feel, but you feel everywhere, not because it comes from a determinate source, such as my leg, for instance. No. this one comes from all corners, not only can I feel it everywhere, it actually is from everywhere. But I can track the source to my mind. Now what medicine can I give myself to an aching mind? Exactly. None. Inhale. So, cigarettes and wine, those will have to do.

It was in May. I acquired myself a radio last May. Mrs Hudson's suggestion, given that she really appreciates the radio, and she- maternal as ever – thought I could use some company. She was deadly wrong; however the radio indeed came in handy in nights such as today. Thinking it through, it actually did. You know, I was never the friendliest person ever, nor the cleverest, let alone the most wanted. However I had a friend. Sip. A unique friend that made me feel dumb, unwanted, but never alone; he could make me feel the weirdest living-breathing human being standing upon this earth, but never ever alone. We shared a flat. In fact, this flat, I sadly remark looking around the dimly lit surroundings. Here's a funny story: once he got so bored that he painted a yellow smiling face on the wall and shot it. Good old bored Sherlock. Looking at it now, it smiles cynically to me, sip, like it's quietly laughing at my loneliness, somehow sharing his absence, smiling condescendingly at my sadness. I laugh along at how pathetic I must seem, especially to an outsider. Like you. Sip.

I feel a tiny burn sensation in my fingertips, announcing I forgot the cigarette and now it's burning itself away on my fingers. Sip. Funny word. Burn. Someone once told him they would "burn the heart out of" him. I'm not sure if he ever got to do that, but he certainly burned the heart out of me. Sip. I throw the cigarette's butt across the room, partly angry at the thought, partly angry at the sharp pain cutting its way out of my guts, but this one isn't rising from my fingertips. It's coming from deep within. Oh God, I could use a medicine. Oh, man. I still remember the press conference Lestrade out up the following day.

"'Okay, everyone, I'll take questions now.' He announced. 'How did Moriarty do it?' A blonde journalist hungrily asked as Lestrade rolled his eyes. 'It was clearly a suicide, Mrs. Franklin. He had the gun in hands and the angle matched. The scene remained preserved until we got there, so, there's nothing to contest.' He finished, looking around, ready to the next one. 'Where was Holmes' coat?' Mr. Cohen from BBC asked. I remember it was quite a commotion back then. Mr. Sherlock Holmes' iconic now lost coat. Greg quickly glanced at me, and I gave him a single head shake as a no. 'I'm afraid that, ahm, is confidential, Mr. Cohen.' He simply answered as I breathed out in relief. 'How long have you been covering for him, DI Lestrade?' There we were. The bitter Kitty Reilly from The Sun. Greg roughly rubbed his hands on his face, slightly sighing and I suppressed a groan – it was my best friend's death's press conference, I could not groan – most people didn't acknowledge my presence there. How could she be so cynical? 'No, Miss Reilly, we weren't covering anything up. Only those who met him knew what he was like, what he could do, and his impeccable methods.' My breath came in shaky and shallow. 'Is there going to be an heir?' Someone from the back asked, and Lestrade diverted his gaze towards me. I firmly stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, and he looked to the crowd again. 'That's not up to me.' I felt like punching him in the face. 'So, just one more, guys.' 'Is the funeral going to be opened to the general audience?' Mr. Adams asked from the front row. 'No, it won't. It's gonna be a private ceremony to relatives and close friends.' 'Nobody, then?' The reporter quickly retorted. Lestrade raised his brows in disbelief and wisely chose not to answer that.

Shortly after the room was empty, I took a seat by the window and looked down. I felt someone sitting beside me, but I didn't look away, couldn't trust my reactions, even though I knew who it was. We just stood in silence, none of us ready to speak. He remained there, quietly breathing, slowly swallowing once in awhile. 'I'm sorry, John.' Greg spoke. I nodded, not looking away.

Sad, sad day. Thought it would never be over. I still think it isn't, though.

I lit up another cigarette to keep me company. Inhale. Deep inhale, just to be sure. I spin my wrist in order to prevent the beverage heating up and I give it another sip. Honestly, there wasn't going to be an heir to Sherlock's services to society. I certainly wasn't going to do it. What kind of question was that? What were they expecting? That I magically turn into Sherlock? Sip. No, seriously though. Come on. He was unique, incomparable, matter of fact. Inhale. Not a single match in the entire human race. I met a good amount of people – bad people and good people – but not once someone like him. Ever. And I was, still am, sure that I am nowhere near his methods. Even though I lived with him the most time someone ever had, not counting family, naturally, I was sure I wasn't even close to scratch the surface of who Sherlock Holmes was. This hurts. Past tense. Ouch. Inhale. And I'm running out of wine, shall I pour some more in? Doubtlessly. So I did. And after the bottle went down, the cigarette went up. Inhale.

To be honest, I don't remember much from the fateful day at St. Bart's rooftop. Sip. It's all a massive blur, and after all these years I still can't tell if I'm dreaming or if those really happened. Sometimes I wake up at night and sit here, in his armchair, with my feet up on mine, sharing a glass of wine with the cold darkness before me, or, like today, also blowing spicy smoke to the endless silence 221B Baker St. has become. Inhale. Sometimes I turn the radio on to add a dramatic touch to my unpoetic solitude. As I did today. Sip.

Continuing to be honest, I had his coat. After they took him inside, I aimlessly wandered in the waiting room for hours. Sip. I couldn't sit, otherwise I would break, so I kept walking. Eventually, Lestrade came in, pulling me aside as I burst out with questions that I don't even remember now, most of them being in the line of 'which room is he in? Can I come up? When can I take him home?' even though I must admit I knew it – there was no pulse, but I kept my hopes up, the human body is a wonderful machine. Inhale. And that wasn't an ordinary body. It was Sherlock's. Oh, look at me. What kind of rubbish am I talking about now? He was human, his body was human. There was no hope from the beginning. – Sip .I swear I could see Lestrade's expression crumbling down, his breath becoming unsteady and his hands curling to fists. Inhale. At last, I gave in, the lump hurting my throat and making me both speech and breathless. I just stood, pathetically, there with my mouth wide opened, eyes watering, feeling weak, broken, alone. Inhale. Lastly, I connected my lips, strongly pressing them together, looking behind the pale man in front of me. 'No' he simply whispered, more to himself than to me. Then he walked. Simple as that. Sip. I promptly followed, I didn't care. My best friend was dead. Nothing could stop me from seeing him, and certainly nothing did. Sip. I stomped inside the well-known office, pretty sure I wasn't breathing properly. Let me see him. I demanded, and Molly Hooper glanced back at Lestrade, almost screaming for help. I suppose he didn't do anything, then I asked again. I don't care. Take me to him, Molly. Upon seeing I wouldn't get a response anytime soon, I repeated, turning to Lestrade. Let me see him. Now. They didn't even flinch, both nodded, conducting me to a cold metal room. I couldn't believe it would be Sherlock lying there. Inhale. But, eventually, as Molly pulled the white sheet down, there he was. Peaceful, quiet. Dead. I had to lean on the nearest – occupied – gurney to not fall down, making an unfortunate scratching noise, which I hoped, I sincerely hoped, would wake him up. But it didn't. Inhale. I was nauseous. Not the normal nausea you feel after eating a lousy food. The nausea after seeing a dearly beloved one dead. And I thought I'd never feel that again, not after losing both parents and almost all my mates back then in Afghanistan. Oh god. No, Jesus, no. Not again. Please, come back, come back, you selfish prick. Come back! COME BACK! I repeatedly shouted at the gurney, neither Molly nor Lestrade making any move to stop me. I gave in once again to the tears, loudly this time, and practically ran out of there. Lestrade came rushing after me, and stopped me midway down the aisle. 'John! Here, have this.' And handled me his coat. His bloodied coat. His bloody bloodied coat. Greg, you'll get in trouble. I said, not actually meaning it, just wanting to grab the coat and run home. 'I can handle it. Have it, John. You deserve to.' And with that, I nodded, reaching out to touch it. Inhale. I took a rather deep breath and embraced it, turning around and heading home. I never washed his coat again. Three years and I can still distinguish his peculiar woody musky scent. It hurts.

Now we'll have a special one to finish tonight's special Denied Love songs. Enjoy this one. The guy from the radio announced, catching my attention. Denied Love songs. If this could be any worse, the singer started:

Step one, you say 'we need to talk', he walks, you say 'sit down, it's just a talk'. He smiles politely back at you; you stare politely right on through…