John Watson sat in the armchair at 221B Baker Street. It was a Friday night and the world was carrying on, just as normal.
How odd. This planet had carried on spinning and here he was, sat in his usual armchair, listening to the familiar sounds of the telly. He was still on this planet; it was still the same. So, why did he feel like he had fallen off?
With same TV shows and the same old news reports and that bloody Friday night weather woman that Sherlock complains about... Used to. He... used to complain about her. The doctor's ears were straining themselves; waiting for the sound that would never again be heard. The deep, baritone sound of his flatmate's voice. Sherlock's voice. Sherlock's voice complaining about how that weather woman was clearly not cut out for the job and how utterly tedious the weather reports were. Every Friday night, there was something new.
~She's having an affair.~
~Her voice is too squeaky.~
~Her voice is too quiet.~
~That hair-style makes her look like a pineapple.~
~Is this really the only thing on?~
~Boring.~
~Dull.~
~OH LOOK. She's having another affair now.~
~Ugh.~
The ghost of his words echoed in Watson's head. They made him smile. Of course, before this, they would have made him roll his eyes and chastise the detective for being so childish and to 'Go and play with your pickled eyeballs if you're so bored.'
His gaze then shifted to said eyeballs, sitting in a jar by the sink; only just visible. His smile grew. Except... it was more of a sad smile now. Not merely a smile of remembrance, but one of emptiness. As he stared at the experiments left in the sink (having not touched a single one of his flatmate's things yet), he remembered all of the times that he had gotten annoyed with Sherlock for making such a bloody mess of the kitchen. He would yell at him and scold him and the curly haired man would pout like an infant. Those were the days that he hated. The frustrating days. The days when he wondered how he ever coped with a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes; the man who drove him crazy.
Strange how he would now give absolutely anything to have one of those days again. Just one. Just to hear that STUPID voice of his ranting about... the coagulation of saliva or... how long it would take for eyeballs to spontaneously combust.
The words that he never did understand but would always remember.
The man was sealed onto John Watson's heart.
He was the man that saved him. The man that brought adventure and purpose into his life. That man... that miracle of a brilliant man.
And still the doctor was smiling.
Maybe it was because he had not moved any of his flatmate's stuff or... maybe it was just because the very essence of the detective seemed to hang around the flat; as if he were watching. But John couldn't seem to grasp the fact that he was never going to see that man again.
He kept telling himself:
'No, he isn't about to walk through the door. Don't be ridiculous. You saw him dead, you CHECKED that he was dead. He is never coming back.'
Deep down, he hoped that the more he thought that, the more likely he would be wrong about it. Ridiculous, of course. One's thoughts cannot change what is, he knew that. However, he could not help it.
It had been a week since Sherlock fell now.
Standing there, watching.
As he fell.
Fell.
Fell.
Fell.
Numbness.
Running.
Then suddenly, HE was falling. John was falling.
Had he fainted? Had something knocked him down?
The numbness was so great that he could not tell.
There was only Sherlock. The need to get to Sherlock and the desire to help Sherlock. Dream or not, this army doctor was going to help his best friend; that was a certainty.
The way that Sherlock and John practically walked over death day to day, as if life was a meaningless piece in the puzzle, as if death was a stepping stone... they had very much hardened to it. It was natural. People die... that is what happened. Neither had even considered (nor had they wanted to) what would happen if either of their lives were taken. What that would mean to the other side of the coin; the other man.
And yet, seven days had passed since the day of numbness and not a single tear had been shed by John Watson. Had he become so used to death that his own flatmate had become merely just another stepping stone? No. Surely not.
No, no tears had been shed because the doctor continued to refuse to believe the inevitable truth. He carried on hoping and wishing for more miracles. He was living in an empty flat that was not really empty... at least not to him.
Because John Watson was living in a flat with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes. Not a literal, nor a haunting ghost... but a ghost all the same. A bittersweet ghost. The ghost of the future that never was and now... never could be.