Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wish I did, though, and that counts for something… Right?

Author's Note: I would absolutely adore reviews, as I am a fairly new fic writer (but PLEASE don't let that deter you from reading!) and I want feedback! Even negative… I can take it! I'm a strong lady. I'm sorry, read on, you beautiful person you.

Living without John had proved more difficult than Sherlock had originally imagined. He had been happy during the many years he had lived alone, but now it seemed he couldn't stand the quiet that being alone entailed. John had always been there to grunt, snore while asleep (though John had often denied this, Sherlock proved it by taping him while he was asleep. John hadn't liked that very much) or, he was available to just talk. Well, Sherlock supposed that the absence of talking didn't bother him so much. He was rubbish at it, after all. He always ended up making John upset or angry. Still, he had liked talking to John, sometimes. John laughed at his jokes and listened thoughtfully to his complaints. Not many people talked to Sherlock more than once, let alone multiple times a day. How strange it was that John had not only done this, but enjoyed it. Yes, Sherlock could tell that John had liked speaking to him. The tilt of his head and dilation of his pupils said so.

Sherlock shivered as a sudden cold breeze blew in from the open window in his living room. His new flat was mostly empty; no waving curtains to remind him to shut windows. He only owned a couch, a small TV, your average kitchen needs, and a bed. Sherlock stood from his stool in the kitchen. He was working on a new experiment; seeing how long a finger will take to dissolve when doused in various liquids. He walked to the window and gazed out for a moment, taking in the cloudless blue sky, afternoon sun burning bright. He shut the window, thinking about his experiment and how difficult it was to procure body parts without Molly's assistance. He had gotten a job as a grave digger to hopefully improve access abilities, but it was still tricky. He was under constant supervision on site. Sherlock desperately missed being a detective. Solving riddles, cracking codes… It was his true calling in life. Still, it was imperative for John and the others' safety that he remained in hiding. It was hard to be a detective in hiding, since you work so closely with the police. Yet, Sherlock had managed to send in large amounts of anonymous tips to the police. He knew that he had played a major part in solving at least 14 major crimes. So far, anyway.

Sherlock lay down on the musty, faded couch. He decided to leave the vinegar soaked finger on the counter for a time when his head was clearer. It was strange that his head wasn't clear; it always used to be. He noticed that the window he had just shut was streaked and dirty, blurring the view outside. Glancing around, Sherlock deduced that his entire flat was, in fact, absolutely filthy. Laundry littered the floor, everything was covered in a layer of dust, and rotting food populated the counters, neighbouring old, long-ago finished experiments. He took a sniff and found that the flat had a sort of odd, onion-like scent. Sherlock cringed when he realized that the scent was emanating from him. When had he last bathed? He could not recall. Mrs. Hudson would have made sure that the flat was at least somewhat decent. John would have informed him that he smelled. Sherlock had never realized how much he had begun to rely on people. He sighed. He would have to adapt.

Sherlock started at an unexpected noise behind him. The door? He stood swiftly, muscles tensed. Slowly, he began to turn, fists at the ready, about to lash out at this unexpected attacker… He suddenly spun all the way around, with an intimidating cry. "Aha!"

Sherlock looked, but could see no one in the apartment. Where had they… oh. A relieved sigh escaped him as he looked to the floor. In front of the door lay a pile of mail, the mail slot still trembling. Had John been there, he would have laughed… Sherlock shook his head and picked up the envelopes, going through them quickly. Nothing but bills and flyers, unfortunately. Incredibly boring. No threats, no mysterious clues… just ads for crappy restaurants and reminders that he needed to pay his rent. Why was it that he couldn't recognize the sound of the mail? He put the blame on that foggy head of his. It felt like his mind was full of rocks instead of brilliance. Sherlock tossed the mail to the floor, into an already large pile of unopened envelopes. He opened the door in the hopes that there was something left outside. Something too big to fit through the door, a package of some sort. Anything interesting.

Irritatingly, there was nothing outside, except for an ad for a Chinese restaurant hanging from the doorknob. He crumpled it up and shoved it roughly into his pocket. The door of the flat next to his opened, and a pretty young woman with long blonde hair came into the hall. Sherlock looked her up and down, her story being put together in his head instantly. A simple puzzle, this girl. She looked to be about 23 years in age. Her demeanour was confident, relaxed. The full weight of the world had not yet descended upon her. Mum and Dad were still paying for everything. No heartbreak, no troubles.

She was clearly headed to work, judging by her outfit (smart grey pantsuit, hair in a bun, briefcase in hand). It was probably a part-time job (it was currently just past 3 in the afternoon), likely at the office of one of her parents. The woman waved at Sherlock, one digit at a time. She winked and smiled, an obvious flirt. Sherlock smiled politely at her, then promptly turned on his heel and walked swiftly back into his flat, shutting the door gracefully, yet forcefully, behind him.

Sherlock began to pace in front of the couch, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty flat. People, he thought. People cause problems. Talking to people makes them care about you, which makes them talk more. You keep talking and spending time together until you realize you've become friends. Soon, you can't imagine a world without them, and your unfortunate emotions are in their hands.

That was why Sherlock couldn't even think about talking to the girl in the hallway. Perhaps just a short time ago, he would have struck up conversation. Some small talk, perhaps she had heard something interesting in the news? Her father was a serial killer? Maybe there was a piece of the puzzle not shown on her face. Sherlock looked towards the door… No. No people, no new friends. He had spent years carefully avoiding people, then John had come along. John made Sherlock talk. To John, to Molly, to Mrs. Hudson, to Lestrade. Now, Sherlock was without them, lonely and lost, upset at his newfound weaknesses.

"AGH!" Sherlock screamed in frustration. Never again would he let people in like this. It only upset everybody involved. He put people in danger, and worse than the danger… worse than the danger was the despair. An image flashed through Sherlock's mind. John, head down, begging Sherlock to not be dead. Don't be dead.

For him…

Sherlock lay back down on the couch and curled into himself. Okay, he thought. For you. I'm not dead. It's okay. Don't cry. Don't cry, don't cry. He continued to chant this in his mind, and then aloud, the whispered words slipping past his lips. "Don't cry, don't cry" he murmured. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He was no longer talking to John.