John unlocks the flat with a heavy sigh. He leans on the banister up the stairs, leaving dust on his palm. His jacket gets thrown on the empty chair. The kettle gets turns on as John gets out the last box of tea. The kitchen table is bare; the refrigerator is clean and missing milk.
Tea, read, bed. Sometimes television or a late dinner gets thrown in there, but this is his routine lately. A cuppa, the newspaper or one of Sherlock's many books left by the mantle, then off to bed. He's too exhausted to do much else these days.
It's quiet; the newspaper's rustling the only sound before John gives that up. The only interesting news comes from Lestrade's texts every now and then. Tonight, his phone is silent.
The paper is thrown in the bin on his way up to his room. John's socked feet sound on the stairs. The banister here is dusty too.
His cane is placed by his bed, his phone plugged in. He sets his alarm for half six. This is when the silence is most deafening.
There's no pacing coming from downstairs. There is no noise in the kitchen from one Sherlock's experiments.
When two o'clock comes, there is no violin, no tragic sonatas or haphazard composition.
At three, he's still awake. He stares at his desk drawer. Please don't leave me, he begs. By four, his eyes are red and tired from crying. He falls asleep thinking of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock watches John from afar. He watches John's limp return, his hours at the clinic increase, his wrinkles deepen. He sees John's friendship with Sarah flourish, he see her introduce him to her friend Mary.
There's a pain in his chest when a street informant tells him they were spotted at Angelo's. He believes this is the feeling of betrayal, a right he understands he doesn't have.
He sets up more eyes on John when he can't be in the city, which is most of the time. He has a friend of Mycroft's bug the flat while John's at work.
Sherlock is forced to wear a different jacket, his key in the breast pocket. He wears his hair differently, wonders how John would react to it. He imagines he'd scoff.
Eventually, Sherlock is informed Mary stays at the flat some nights. The pain in his chest never leaves. If anything, he suspects it's spread to his abdomen.
When he firsts sees John smile again, it's directed at Mary. She isn't looking. Sherlock's throat feels as if he's swallowed food without chewing. The constant ache flairs up, his intestines twist.
Logically, he recognizes the symptoms as nonmedical. "Please," he whispers from the dark alley. He swallows his next words. Don't leave me.