John Watson can see him everywhere. He can see him lying on the couch or blowing up half the kitchen with one of his silly experiments. He can see him standing near the window playing his violin. He can see him pacing, trying to figure out a case, he can see him pacing, because he's bored, he can see him bursting into the flat, delighted, because he'd solved an especially mysterious case.
And then, John opens his eyes and, once again, all he can see it the absence of Sherlock Holmes. The silence is almost too much to bear. No shooting the wall, no arguing about who's getting the milk, no dubious text alerts. Just silence.
He would give anything to have the noise back. The violin-playing at the most ungodly hours, the little explosions that had made him so angry, the rambling about cases, even the insults. Oh, what he'd give to be called stupid one more time.
He looks up to where Sherlock had pinned Cluedo to the wall with a knife. He'd even play Cluedo with him if he only came back. The violin is still where he left it, gathering dust, never to be played again. The skull is still on the shelf, mocking him every time he looks at it. Sometimes he catches himself talking to it.
First he was filling in for the skull, now the skull is filling in for Sherlock.
At night he often dreams of him.
Sometimes, after a bad day, he can see him fall in his sleep, over and over and over again. Falling to the ground. The blood, the empty eyes. Those intelligent eyes that had always lit up with excitement when there'd been a new puzzle to solve. They were empty and cold.
And sometimes, after a good day, he drifts to sleep and Sherlock is back. Alive and well, solving cases and being the same annoying prick he'd always been.
Sometimes they are running. Running through the streets of London, running from the morning, because he knows that when he wakes up, when he stops running, he'll be alone again. Alone in the flat, alone with the silence.
Mycroft had once tried to check on him. But he had made it quite clear that he wasn't craving company.
And Mrs. Hudson. Poor Mrs. Hudson, she is so worried about him. He can tell that she is as her wit's end, but he can't bring himself to reassure her that he's fine.
Simply because he's not. He's not fine.
Because John Watson is still waiting. Waiting for the noise to come back, waiting for the violin to be played again, waiting for his flatmate to suddenly appear on the doorstep. Waiting for the running, the sleepless nights, the excitement.
Waiting for his Sherlock to come back to him.
When he stops waiting, the images will slowly disappear. And then his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, will be gone and won't come back.
