A/N: Hi there, you. Nice to see you again or perhaps, if this is your first time here, nice to meet you. I really should be writing for one of my three on going stories... but this idea wouldn't leave me alone. Also, the reason I have not been very active lately, is because school is busy, mostly, but also because I have been writing a soulmate!fic. It is long and complicated, and probably won't be out (first chapter) for ages, for which i apologise. Any who..

ENJOY! :D

"John, this is truly a poor substitute."

"Sherlock, this is the best your gonna get. Just be happy that Mycroft helped us at all. You're lucky enough as it is, if you didn't have such 'connections' then we wouldn't even be able to talk to each other right now," John reasoned. Sherlock pouted a bit, but ignored the part about his brother.

"It still isn't… good," he grumbled.

"Well, obviously not," John smiled at Sherlock's childish mood, "It just isn't the same, you voice, over Skype. Gives it no justice." If Sherlock was with him, or perhaps if he could just reach through the screen and touch him, John would have nudged him jokingly. His elbow twitched unconsciously at the thought.

Sherlock gave a smug smile, but John could see the sadness behind it. He knew him long enough to know exactly what he was thinking.

"Oh, don't worry, Sherlock, I'll be fine," he reassured, waving it off as if he was being silly. It was easier this way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I am perfectly aware of the statistics of your safety. I merely wish for your return. Everything has turned incredibly dull. There hasn't even been a decent murder since you've left. All love affairs and insurance claims. Boring."

"Oh, right, of course. Is that your twisted Sherlockian way of saying 'I miss you'?" John teased.

Sherlock mouth formed a tight line. "Perhaps."

"I have been gone for one month. I'm sure something interesting will come up."

"Are you trying to imply that one month is not a substantial amount of time apart to miss you? Anyway, one month just means five more until you come back. That is hardly a reassurance."

"Oh, sod off, you know what I mean. I miss you too."

"John-" Suddenly there was a rustling and muffle voices in the background, and John turned, being addressed by someone out of frame for Sherlock. John nodded once and then returned his attention back to his computer.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I have to go. Duty calls."

"If you must," Sherlock grumbled.

John smiled lovingly and then reached into the collar of his shirt, pulling out his concealed dog tags. Attached to the steel chain was an oddly out of place golden band. He curled it around one finger, and looking into the camera, brought it to his lips. Sherlock did the same, coping John's motions with eased practice, removing his chain from its hiding place under his buttoned up shirt, and quickly pressing it to his mouth.

"Good bye, Sherlock."

"Good bye, John."

"I love you."

"I love you."

John gave him one last almost longing look, then reached towards the camera and shut the computer, leaving Sherlock to stare at a black picture. A long beep rang out and the call was ended. He sighed and closed his laptop in return. He sat there very still for what could have been seconds or minutes, he didn't know. From an outside view, he looked in thought but mostly indifferent, but it was far from what he was feeling inside. He didn't know why he kept his façade, even alone, but it was somehow easier, even if it would hurt more sometimes. Then, he stood slowly, and picked up his empty teacup, admiring it for a moment, twisting it around in his hands, a soft yellow coloured, simple mug. It was nothing special to look at, but Sherlock used it everyday; it was John's. He contemplated putting it away for a moment, but his thoughts quickly turned away and swirled and twisted into something completely different. He was calm, yet, even now, his mind raced, and he set the cup back down, forgetting about the dishes completely, as if dazed.

Sherlock strolled to the kitchen, passing and giving a quick look to an old framed photo. He smiled but then bitterly thought: Sentiment, ugh. He knew it was not true though; it was just easier, even if it would hurt more sometimes. He continued to his bedroom, but then, hand hovering on the handle, his gaze turned to the stairs, and he found his feet moving towards them, his mind not completely aware at first. He climbed the stairs to reach a short hallway, that lead to a single door. He did not stop at the door, but instead swung it open and stepped inside. He knew that if he hesitated he would convince himself out of it.

It was a simple small room with no decorations in particular, only queen-sized bed to the side, accompanied by a side table and a desk and closet on the two adjacent cream coloured walls.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Sherlock took in the scent of the room. The air was stale, for neither the door nor window had been all but cracked in a month, yet the room smelt what Sherlock could only describe as home. Warm and cozy, like woolen sweaters and tea, but musky like a man. This was John's room.

Of course John never slept here. They would always sleep in Sherlock's room, but wanting his own private place and not to mention closet space (Sherlock had many a suits), John had claimed the extra bedroom upstairs and it had become, now was, irreversibly John's room. Sherlock could almost feel his absence more now, in the place that reminded him most of him, that smelt of him. He realised that he had standing there, taking the room in, for far too long to be normal, not that it really mattered though, and crossed, in what only took two strides, the small space to the closet.

His hand carefully curled around the thin handle and with a slow, drawn out movement, he opened the closet door. Inside there was a collection of sweaters, button up shirts, cardigans and jeans. Sherlock scanned all of them with his scrutiny filled eyes, before picking out a soft beige jumper. He examined it with a soft gaze, running his hands through the warm, though a bit itchy, woolen material. Then, setting it down on the desk chair nearby, he began to undo the buttons on his tight, off-white, dress shirt. Shrugging the shirt off his shoulders, into a silk puddle on the floor, revealing his pale chest. Sherlock grabbed the jumper off its place on the chair, and gingerly removed it from the wiry hanger's hold, careful not to pull or stretch the material. Once free from its grasp, Sherlock took it and pulled it over his own head, shrugging his arms into the sleeves. It fit oddly on him. I was altogether too wide for his willowy figure, and hung awkwardly on his shoulders; it was also too short for his long torso, and a sliver of his stomach could be seen above his trousers. Sherlock did not care. He hugged himself, feeling the rough texture and appreciating its warmth. It felt of John, and like everything else in this room, had his scent.

After a moment, he turned and walked to the bedside. Then, slipping off his shoes, he peeled back the tightly made, neat, bed sheets. He lay down on the hard mattress and pulled the cover back over himself, and wrapped it all around him. It was cozy and peaceful; it almost felt as if he was wrapped up in John himself. The room was dark, as he had never turned the lights on in entering, but a dull stream of moonlight emitting from the window dimly lit the room. He brought his knees up to his chest and clutched the blankets tighter.

He did not sleep that night.

A/N: So, there you go. Next chapter will be less... depressing. Love all of you, darlings! If you feel to do so, please review, follow, etc. (what? I'm totally not one of those people who beg for stuf...) Okay, I would say I'm in a weird mood to explain why I am acting like this, but I think I use that excuse too much... Maybe I'm just like this all the time, and I don't realise until I write these author's notes... 0_o