A.N. Don't own nothing'. First story up. Yes, it will be Johnlock, and will feature sexy times so prepare for a rating change later on. - Lou
Two years, eleven months and one day.
Nearly three years had passed. And in those three years the world had continued to spin. Things had changed, and people had moved on - as they always must. But one man, one man still woke, spluttering in the early hours of the morning, sobbing. One man still couldn't bring himself to eye the empty armchair, in the now too large living room. He couldn't bear the sight of the tidy kitchen tops with no vials of strange liquids or the suspicious looking Petri dishes. He often found himself glaring begrudgingly at the milk carton, simply because it was there; because there hadn't been anyone to forget it. He never did bother to repair the bullet holes in the aging walls.
221B remained exactly the same. The same as it had been all those years ago. Almost as if the inhabitant was hanging on, quite desperately, to the foolish hope that everything was fine, that nothing had changed. It was as if he was trying to convince himself that his world had not collapsed around his very shoulders. John Watson could not move on. He could not forget marvellous deductions, or snide remarks. He couldn't for the life of him forget that blasted smirk, the way those bow lips turned up when the mind behind them discovered some horrifying truth. He could not shake the memory of distant, unfocused eyes lost deep in contemplation. He could never forget him. Sherlock.
John Watson could not move on. God knows he tried, but each attempt only led to more anger, to fury, and above all; loneliness. John Watson was lonely.
He slumped down in his armchair, wrecked, after a difficult day at the surgery. Sarah hadn't shown, leaving John, who was too good natured to object, to pick up the slack. He was tired, but if truth be told more than just a little relieved to have a reason not to return to the empty flat. The flat he could no longer call a home. After all home was safety. Warmth. Home was with friends, with those you love. Home was with Sherlock.
With little appetite and heavy legs John trudged to the kitchen, popping on the kettle. Bustling about the kitchen, preparing the tea John was anxious of one of Mycroft's surprise visits. The eldest Holmes had an awful habit of "checking up" on John at the most inconvenient time possible.
John often went through particularly bad slumps. During such times he had little to no appetite, or energy, and often had to shake himself out of vacant empty dazes, walking around with his head full of fog. He was living each day as it came, with no thought for the future. The rational army doctor in him knew he needed help, that he couldn't go on this way. He just couldn't bring himself to care. It was only after Mycroft's tenth visit of the week that John finally gave in. It would get Mycroft off his back if nothing else.
And so, the next morning, John Watson attended his first Grief Counselling session. It was there, on top of the stone stairway, breathing in the bitter January air that John met Mary. Mary Morstan, with her blonde curls and her warm hazel eyes. Mary, whose laugh, was soft and sweet and just so genuine. Mary was a life ring thrown out to him amidst a raging storm. And John would be damned if he wasn't going to grasp onto it with both hands.
A.N. Reviews let me know whether I should continue or not, and are greatly appreciated! Updates should come twice a week, so stick with me on this one! I still haven't caught up on sleep from the weekend, so it's a goodnight from me. READ AND REVIEW - Loulee