A/N Hello! So basically, this is the first fic I have EVER written in my life, and I am properly nervous. I was listening to In My Place by Coldplay, and basically all the feels sorta poured out, and I felt a need to write something. It's not really long enough to be labelled "angst", coz there's not much time for displaying all the feels in 435 words; so forgive me. Anyway, I hope you like it, and please feel free to review it - I'd like to know whether I should be banned from writing fanfiction ever again, or if this is something should try again sometime;D
Sherlock never stopped thinking about John. It hurt him more than anything to leave him that fateful day at St. Bartholomew's, no matter how much the self-professed sociopath tried to deny it, it tore him to stand on that building and say goodbye to the best thing that had ever happened to him.
"Goodbye John."
Those last words had their own personal room in his mind palace where they sat in the dark whispering the phrase like a mantra over and over again. It would never stop. Day and night, the quiet whispers resonated in Sherlock's mind, trying to override the logical thoughts of the detective's clinical and robotic mind with the thoughts of his heart; that, at whatever risk, he had to see John again.
One day, the whispers managed to escape their locked and bolted room, and ran through the corridors of the palace, screaming those two words to anyone who would listen; pushing out all other coherent thought till Sherlock's mind was completely overthrown by them. Suppressed emotions bubbled up to the surface. He couldn't think: he just ran. He had no idea where he was going, but his body did, and as if on auto-pilot, they began to direct him home. In the shadows of the night, Sherlock ran through the familiar backstreets of London until he reached a black oaken door adorned with golden-coloured plating that read "221b". He had returned. His laboured breaths fogged the cold air as he fumbled in the pockets of his coat for his keys.
He was so close. So close to running up those stairs. So close to breathing in the musty scent of old books and the sharp tinge of chemicals that often hung over the flat. So close to running his fingertips over the strings of his violin. So close to John. To John's warmth, John's stability; John's ability to understand him like no one else could.
Eyes closed as he found his key, he gently placed it in to the lock. There was something about the click of key entering the lock that made everything slow down. The whispers suddenly fell silent and the palace became still. Logic – the only true leader of Sherlock's mind palace – came in to view and began to speak to the population of the palace. Sherlock withdrew the key from the lock. It was too soon. He couldn't risk what might happen if he were to step in to that flat and take John in to his arms as he wish he could.
Another day, Sherlock thought, letting the tears roll down his cheeks.