So I was working on Valiant when I was trying to track down a scene that somehow got lost in along the way. Instead I found this little drabble and decided to finish it. I'm not sure how great it is, but let me know in your lovely reviews! ^-^
)oOo(
John slowly unlocked the door and stepped into 221B. He stood at the threshold a moment, expecting something, anything, to happen. However, the flat sat quiet and still, just as it had when he -when he- left it. Cobwebs had accumulated on scattered experiments, dust on haphazardly stacked possessions. He had never liked boring, not even when it came to home decorating. If the dark-haired man had seen the place now, he would have been sick with how dull it had become. Without him, the place had gone to shambles.
Not that it wouldn't have with him still here, John thought. At the notion, a smirk tugged the corner of the blonde's thin lips, but it vanished in an instant. Sighing heavily, he wearily lowered himself onto the armchair and pulled up his laptop.
He didn't know why he still bothered to write the blog- without him, there had been nothing to write about. Post-Sherlock, his life had been quiet, normal... in a word, hateful. In another, boring.
If Lestrade was still around, things might have been better. However, after hearing about what happened at Reichenbach, the DI had been crushed. Even with how many times he had seen the consulting detective face-to-face with death, he, like John, had always held the naïve belief that Sherlock had been invincible, indestructible. Moriarty's dying deed had shown them all how foolish they had been.
Lestrade had died four months later.
John sighed and pushed the memory away. It was the two year anniversary of that day, and he had finally gotten himself to visit this place and all its ghosts. There was so much yet so little he had to say. So little because he couldn't put any of it into words. So much because even now the numbness clashed with the raging emotions in his chest that he tried to pin down and will away. It wasn't working.
So instead he decided to settle on a six word story. He'd read a few before, and they'd always seemed to encompass so much despite the length. Some famous writer had invented the form. Hemingway, he thought, though he wasn't sure. Sherlock would have told him the information was irrelevant. John nearly smiled at the thought but couldn't bring himself. After looking around the flat one more time, he typed his six words:
Two years.
Your chair
Still unoccupied.