Two weeks, three days, five hours, and fifty minutes.
Sherlock cursed himself, he suddenly hated knowing things.
He suddenly hated the way his mind insisted on reminding him the exact amount of time since the fight ended in a slammed door.
Two weeks, three days, five hours, and fifty-one minutes.
He hated remembering the flustered cheeks and the wild sandy-colored hair turned in every direction from the abuse it suffered.
He hated thinking about their last words and tones of voice.
He couldn't stand looking at the chair, now covered with a layer of dust.
He hated the cigarette between his fingers because it was just a reminder.
Two weeks, three days, five hours, and fifty-two minutes.
He hated that he couldn't stop remembering.
He hated the slut.
He loved the doctor.
Two weeks, three days, five hours, and fifty-three minutes.
Fuck.
Sherlock took a long drag of his rolled-up-in-paper-for-your-convenience-heart-attack cigarette.
Damn, his mind was full of thoughts and he couldn't stop them.
And John's stripped jumper still hung on the hanger by the door. It probably smelled like cigarette smoke now.
Sherlock cursed himself and put out the stupid thing in the ash-tray before standing up and making his way toward the jumper. He grabbed it off the hook and pressed it to his nose, taking a long whiff of it.
He wanted John to come back, because he hadn't even bothered solving cases without him. And he hadn't stopped smoking without him. He hadn't eaten properly without him. He hadn't done anything but mope without the doctor.
He cursed himself for wanting the ex-military doctor to come home with milk in a bag and apologize for being late and then yell at him for being lazy.
And John was probably with his stupid slut girl-friend.
Sherlock returned to the couch, the article of clothing still pressed to his nose.
Two weeks, three days, five hours, and fifty-four minutes.
Then, the door burst open and suddenly there was an angry John Watson at his door with clenched fists and shouting insults.
And then, there was a John Watson under his nose, replacing the jumper, and smelling just like his John Watson should smell. And there was no slut's perfume lingering around him.
There were just warm tears falling onto his neck from the doctor and apologies reaching his ears.
Suddenly, he wanted to make things better.
"I'll go back to nicotine patches if you go back to me."
And John Fucking Watson looked up at him with the brightest fucking smile anyone could muster and he couldn't help melting and kissing him.
He'd lost count of how long it had been since they had the fight.
Because, seriously, this was as close to love as he was ever going to come, John Watson.