Really quickly wanted to write something as the scene where Molly talks to Sherlock about being sad has always stuck in my head from the moment I first saw it, enjoy.
-You look sad, when you think he can't see you.-
Sherlock looked down at the marbled stone in front of him, "John Hamish Watson, husband, father, hero, friend"
His hands shook with hidden pain, glassy eyes that never shed a tear and the way he spoke, the speech of one who no longer wishes to walk the earth.
"John, if this is pay back, I'm sorry, I am so sorry. Please come back."
His voice wavered, how pathetic.
The apartment was empty but still the same. A cup of now cold coffee left beside an armchair with a jacket resting across the back of it and a grey laptop balanced on its arm.
A kitchen with dirty dishes, a bathroom with a razor and half used soap, a bedroom decorated with belongings that no longer belonged.
A staircase that didn't creak with the sound of footsteps.
People came, Molly, Mrs Hudson and even Mycroft, but Sherlock didn't listen. He continued to solve mysteries, but it was like trying to substitute candy for heroin.
He pulled out his phone, looking at a single text he never was able to answer. He pressed the call button and the phone rang, and rang, and rang and rang.
"Sorry I cannot receive your call, please leave your name and number and I will get back to you."
"Hello John, it's Sherlock…I miss you." How many nights had he sat in that armchair with the dirty coffee cup and jacket, burying his face in its soft folds of Johns scent as he pressed the redial button. He loved him; there was no doubt that John was his best friend, his brother, but now he was dead. Eventually he stopped solving mysteries, he stopped everything. He began to starve, his lips cut at his tongue as he made attempts to lick at the chapped flesh and his body cramped painfully at the lack of movement. The jackets scent never faded, but he was beginning to get used to it now, he could barely notice if he was smelling it or not, and it tore at him. Johns phone had been disconnected, he couldn't hear his voice.
He rose, knowing this would be the last time he would be in this room, the last time he would see any of these things. He washed, ate and tidied. Everything was to be perfect just for John.
He gripped at a small bottle of dark liquid as he went into Johns room, the only room he had not touched. He fingered a discarded shirt that lay at the end of Johns bed. "Goodbye, John."
He laid himself amidst the remnants of his best friend, enveloping himself in memories of what once was.
He poured the warm liquid over his lips as they curled into a contented smile.
Sherlock felt utter relief as the bliss of all the pain left him.
"Sherlock?! Oh thank god" A mess of blonde flopped over his aching body.
"John?" Tears stung at his eyes as his friend smiled at him, "Of course."