Disclairmer: characters aren't mine.
Rating: R
Warning: (perhaps) inferiority complex, angsty
A/N: Never though I would fill a kink! And there's still an happy epilogue because I love Johnlock so much I would never tear them apart from eachother!
And English is not my native language, I have stopped learning it at school for some years…so I'm very sorry for every mistake although I've checked three times. If you can point it out so I can have a more acceptable version I'll be very happy and appreciate it.
Prompt:
"My needs are simple:
ANY CHARACTER masturbating. Are they guiltily fapping over someone? Doing it over webcam with a partner away for [insert excuse here]? Bored? Do they use toys, wear certain clothes, get off eating certain foods?"
A sensation of yours
Sherlock has moved in with Lestrade.
All John gets is a text message /I'm moving out./ from Sherlock after an exhausting day at the clinic. No, John thinks, perhaps Sherlock is in the mood for a little joke. But he still runs all the way to 221B Baker Street, doesn't even have time to reply a "Why", to find that Sherlock is gone, along with some of his clothes and laptop. And the violin. And the multi-tool knife. And the skull.
John doesn't know what to think. How to think. He doesn't get a reaction from his now pitifully empty brain.
"Mrs. Hudson," he calls, "where is he?"
"Who, Sherlock? He doesn't even tell you? That boy!" Mrs. Hudson answers as she starts coming upstairs, "He is moving in with Lestrade. I admit I was a little surprised when he told me.". She chuckles, and then giggles a little too happily at the news.
"Did he tell you why?"
"Of course not, he acted like it was none of anyone's business but we knew already, Sherlock is smitten with that man, isn't he?"
John looks at Mrs. Hudson, who is smilling widely, as if she has grown another head. As if she was mad, very very mad. When has Sherlock been "smitten" with anyone?
Why hasn't he noticed?
Those questions raise a storm in John's head, as he realizes that he is staring at Mrs. Hudson a little too long. And then he realizes that Mrs. Hudson can know whatever he feels because it is all over his face. A mixture of sadness and emptiness and loneliness begins to appear.
He turns his head but it's too late because Mrs. Hudson says, "I know, it will be a bit lonely without him here. But it will be more…peaceful, right?".
He doesn't answer. Just stares at the mantel, where Sherlock's skull once was.
No, she doesn't know everything.
That night, Mrs. Hudson offers to make him tea and dinner, as a grain of comfort. But John is really tired, really doesn't want his brain to function anymore, so he refuses, takes a shower and goes to bed at 8 p.m. Sherlock's shirt is still in the bathroom because he forgot to take it to the laundry.
He still lives here. He's not going anywhere.
That is John's last thought before falling into an empty sleep with no dream at all while Sherlock's scent still lingers in their flat.
-o0o-
At 3 a.m John wakes up, waiting for Sherlock to pull him out of the deep sleep by his violin.
But he waits and waits and waits, it's 4 a.m and there's no violin. No song. Not a single note.
The window in his room is open, and there's wind playing with the curtain. John thinks he hears the sound of Sherlock's bare feet on the wooden floor. He smiles, the door to his bedroom is always open, waiting for Sherlock to step in.
But he waits and waits and waits. It's nearly 5 a.m and there's no Sherlock. Instead, the sound of two window frames going against each other startles him.
This time John feels the wind rudely plunges into the thin air in his room. His blanket can't keep him warm. Because he is being alone in the flat, as the only breathing and moving object, as the only human being that can produce gentle warmth, the only heart beating in a oversized box.
Perhaps he is living in a nightmare. Perhaps his reality is too sad, too traumatized for him to accept. Perhaps he still has a chance, he just has to wait.
But he waits and waits and waits. It's 7 a.m, he must get up to go to work, and wait for the day to end, so he would be able to wait for Sherlock again.
John wants to cry, but there's no tear left in this lifetime.
-o0o-
Three days has passed, and John can't be patient anymore. He texts Sherlock, /When will you go home?/.
Five hours later, when John lies on the sofa with his phone in hand, Sherlock answers. John feels nauseous and embarassing, but he read the message anyway.
It reads, /I am staying at home. What's wrong? Haven't you found a new flatmate?/.
/But some of your things are still in the flat./, John sends.
/Need me to clean them out soon?/, Sherlock texts back.
John doesn't know why, but he really wants to go drown himself in the bath or sleep until the world rots away.
/No, let them be. Do it when you have time./
I am so stupid, John thinks. I mentioned this. And now Sherlock is going to take everything away.
John sits up, then decides to go around their flat, no, the flat. Just to touch everything. Some of Sherlock's book. A jar containing an experiment. Sherlock's shirt is still in the bathroom. His bed still stays in the bedroom with his favorite purple shirt spreading on it. Maybe Sherlock was in a hurry, wanted to be with Lestrade and away from boring ugly John so badly so he didn't take everything with him.
John feels strangly delighted because Sherlock forgets the shirt. The fabric is soft and cold under his fingertips. It smells of Sherlock's aftershave and has the faintly bittersweet scent of his cologne.
Let him forget. I will just tell him there is no shirt. He just lost it somewhere else. John says to himself, and hold the shirt close to his body.
His heart beats fast and so hard that he can deceive himself that there's really two hearts with the same beat.
-o0o-
John tells Sarah that he will have a holiday. She happily give him two weeks off, but he just takes one.
He goes on no trip. He just stays at 221B Baker Street, watches crap telly, tidies the flat, reads medical journal or goes to Tesco to get enough milk to fill the fridge. He tries to act and live normally like before, when Sherlock hadn't left yet.
But no, he fails. Nothing can be the same. The sorrow and regret in his heart grows bigger, deeper, like some virus destroying his blood and bone.
He doesn't know why although he's supposed to know about these sickness thing. He is a doctor but he cannot cure himself from heart-breaking.
He wishes for many things. Wishes Sherlock is still with him. Wishes Sherlock to be with him, not Lestrade. Wishes he and Sherlock have never met. Wishes he can forget about the world's only consulting detective.
Fortunately, he hasn't let Sherlock know that he love him. Has been loving him all this time. Every second, every day, every moment since he killed for him.
Because he is afraid, no, because he is being realistic. He's just plain old boring John. Harry is right. Some crippled ex-army doctor with an ugly shoulder, who still silently sobs over nightmares. Nearly jobless, and nowhere near intelligent. He knows it all, understands that Sherlock would never lay an eye on him. Being a friend is enough.
But Lestrade is a good-looking DI at NSY, and a good one, just not as good as Sherlock. Of course no one is. Even Mycroft approves of him, John knows, he saw the way Mycroft looked at him sometimes.
And Sherlock is Sherlock.
John takes Sherlock's purple shirt and gets on bed. He lies down, clutching at the shirt like it is some vital thing to protect him from the coldness. Thinking about Sherlock, smelling him makes John feel warm all over. And he shamefully admits to himself, a little aroused.
He just can't get Sherlock out of his head. He remembers everything. He misses everything. Sherlock's metallic blue eyes. Sherlock's heart-shaped full lips. Sherlock's delicate white skin. Sherlock's lean but muscled torso. These things that he was allowed to touch once or twice to tend to his wounds after the chases.
John smiles bitterly as the remembrance of Sherlock's beauty gets him an erection. He is a little disgusted at himself, but chooses not to care. It doesn't matter anyway, nobody is going to judge him because nobody knows.
John closes his eyes, the smell from Sherlock's shirt helps him imagine Sherlock right here, beside him, his long fingers trace over his chest, teasing a nipple. He opens his mouth lightly as two fingers gently tweak the nub, making it hard. The hand gently caress his ribcage, his belly, down to his hip and to his already leaking pre-come cock.
As John fondles himself, the shirt's fabric rubs against his skin softly, urging him to continue as if Sherlock is touching him.
John feels so guilty masturbating over his best friend, his taken best friend who is away, his best friend who is now off-the-market, his best friend who is never going to be with him. But he does it anyway. The sensation of something no natural, so instinctive soothes him.
John moans quietly as he thrusts into his fist, his thumb runs over the wet head of his cock. The images run across his closed eyes. Sherlock's eyes when he smiles. Those lips parting whenever pronounce the "burn" word. Those pale hands playing with the violin's strings. Sherlock's skin in the gorgeous sunlight. Sherlock's dark curly hair, wet after a bath. Sherlock's breath ghostly skip over his hair when they stand close. Sherlock's fingertips when they touch the skin on his wrist.
They are enough, they are everything to make John come with a cry. He is crying Sherlock's name out loud, because he's not here anymore, because no one would know.
But he feels cold and scared immediately because the wind goes through his open window into his bedroom to attack him. His sweaty body shivers severely. And he cries because, God, everything is so empty, so lonely, so blank, so maudlin, so mad, so sad,…A hundred blue emotions and sensations burst in his chest, and he cries.
There are just not enough tears in his lifetime.