John Watson sat at the cluttered supper table and stared at the wall, but saw nothing. He hadn't been able to leave the flat, that place stuffed to the brim with memories of his times with...
It had been four months since Reichenbach, since his friend had jumped. Well, four months and seventeen days. Not that John was counting.
The doctor knew in the furthest reaches of his mind that he wasn't truly gone, just... invisible, or waiting for the right time to come back, or some bloody stupid reason that would make no sense if- when he returned. But no matter how hard John believed in the great detective, the other part of his mind, the critically logical part, nagged at him for even hoping he was still alive. There was no way that his old flatmate was 100% perfect in every way, although if you ever said that in his presence, he would point out every way you were wrong until you dropped into unconsciousness from lack of oxygen in the room.
John's mind trudged over everything that could've gone wrong like a well worn path through the forest. This process was a ritual for him at this point. Almost every other day he would make himself a cup of tea, and do as he did now, watch the wall, take the occasional sip, think too much, and put himself in a depressed mood before he even got to the halfway point of his mug.
Four months.
The good doctor closed his eyes and visited his gallery of memories, or his "memory palace," and re-watched everything. The first time he laid his eyes on that wonderful man, when he was told his own life story from his limp, stance, and his mobile. He saw the times he had laughed with him, like the time at Buckingham Palace with the ashtray and a simple white sheet. John didn't let his mind wander.
He also remembered the times when he would watch his partner and flatmate act so cold, so robotic and emotionless during cases, and he had just wanted nothing more than to bruise that pretty face. "There are plenty of sick people in hospitals, John. Why don't you go cry by their bedsides?" But he could never stay cross. Not with him. Never him. Except now, when Holmes had abandoned him when John needed him most. When John had finally realized...
A sudden rage swept through him that made him want to shatter every piece of glassware that he could get his hands on, but just as he shot up and grabbed his teacup, he stopped himself. The walls of their stuffy flat seemed to be shrinking, getting smaller and smaller until they seemed to close around his heart and fill it with the kind of fear he felt when a certain criminal's snipers were trained on him. D-damn it. He wouldn't let the tears fall. Not now, not ever. He needed to be strong, strong for…
Damn it.
John got up and left the flat without as much as a nod to Mrs. Hudson. John still didn't quite trust cabbies, so he walked to the park. There, he sat on the bench where he had first heard of Sherlock from the friend who had suggested a flatshare in the first place. He sat, and for hours, just... sat.
Every now and again, he would see someone with the same hair color, or a similar jacket, or even the same glorious voice as his best friend, which only put him into a darker mood, until someone had recognized him and put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. They had barely got out, "I'm so sorr-"
"Don't you dare, don't touch me," he would hiss.
He could've sat there through the night, but the weather and his stomach had different plans. With a drizzle dampening his sandy hair, (which needed a slight cut from Mrs. Hudson) John made his way to a Chinese takeaway and ordered his normal dim sum. The clerk recognized him with a fond smile and gave him a dinner for two, when John had come close to losing it. He slapped down the money, took his food, and left as quickly as he had come, and headed towards Baker Street.
He was almost home when he heard it. He very nearly dropped his bag from sheer shock. At first, the thought he was remembering a sound that could only be from some half-forgotten dream, but no. It was him. It had to be. John raced for 221B with the speed of a man with hellfire on his heels. He flew through the front door and up the stairs. He heard Mrs. Hudson call after him, but he didn't care. He had to see. He had to know if it was true.
He neared the door, and stopped with a shaking hand gripping the knob, and a thundering beat gripping his heart. He heard it, flowing freely beneath the door.
A song. A song full of sweet, sweet sorrow, of beautiful pain that only the holder of that holy instrument could ever know. John Watson closed his eyes, braced himself, and turned the handle, and just like that, the song vanished as if it had never existed. He stepped into that dark, empty room, and saw that it had been left the same way it had been for the last four months and seventeen days. Cluttered, with bullet holes and that infernal smiley face on the wall, and Petri dishes scattered the tables, experiments long-since dried up. Untouched, uncleared, as to preserve the memory of London's, and perhaps Britain's greatest consulting detective.
John stood, and let the fact that he was truly alone sink in, while considering that he was hearing things, and possibly going mad. He stood, tightened his jumper around his shivering body, let the tears fall. Not in waves, with rounds of sobbing, just silent and one at a time as he gazed around his flat, THEIR flat. He stepped into the centre of the room, and stood, and remembered.
Minutes, hours, possibly days passed, and John thought that his eyes would be raw permanently from overuse. Still standing in the entryway, he told himself what he had refused to believe for four months and seventeen days.
He's not coming back, you bloody fool. Don't you get it?
He's dead.
He.
Is.
DEAD.
There was an old army trick John had used in Afghanistan. When someone he knew, or someone he was friends with was killed, at first he would be drowning in emotion. Sadness. Fear. Hate. Anger. Sorrow. He would let himself be upset, perhaps even let himself cry in the privacy of his bunk, but when he would feel utterly spent, John would imagine that his body was a giant, metal box, and with each breath, the walls would get smaller. And as the box shrunk, it would catch those emotions like flypaper. Smaller and smaller until all those pesky little feelings were caught in the metal box. Then he would stuff the little box away until he could fully face it later, when it wasn't in the way of the task at hand.
And that was what he was doing with Sherlock. It was time to end this emotional roller coaster. He wasn't coming back, not ever, and John had to accept that. Maybe not accept, but understand. He made that box shrink with every fiber of his being. Down, down, smaller, smaller… and stuff it away. Gone.
John scrubbed at his face with his hands, breathing out a sigh he didn't know he was holding. Tea. That's what he needed. It'd be his sixth cup in a matter of hours, but what the hell. Tea heals all wounds. Or at least sterilizes them. Now all he had to do was remember how to walk. Ah yes, it's that thing when you put one foot in front of the other. Yes, I know now… Step, step, step.
John slowly rounded the corner into the kitchen and dropped his makeshift dinner on the counter when his knees very nearly gave out from beneath him. Oh Jesus.
In front of him was a sight he had just convinced himself he would never see again in this lifetime. His eyes scrambled to register what his brain refused to believe, but nevertheless. Less than three meters away, standing in front of the kitchen window, was Sherlock Holmes.
It was like watching an automobile accident happen, John saw everything in slow motion, and almost perfect detail. He saw Sherlock's two beautiful, beautiful blue-green eyes, grazing over John's body with-Longing? Curiosity? He's analyzing me, John realized. A dark head of curly hair that was longer than John recalled, but ached to have John's fingers snaked through those black waves, nonetheless. That perfectly imperfect crooked grin. Sherlock's tall, pale shape silhouetted in the moonlight coming from the window, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around his precious violin.
Sherlock Holmes.
How John had fantasized about this moment, never believing that it would one day come true. But here he was, Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh! So close, that John could touch that angular face. But he didn't. John stood there, his mouth gaping like a fish, and his brown eyes filling with tears anew. Sherlock looked at the floor, then back up at his mate from under those dark lashes. And that voice...
"Did you miss me, John?"