He took a deep breath of the cigarette and closed his eyes as he felt how the smoke burned in his lungs. He began smoking when… he left. He still couldn't make him self say the name of the human being he trusted the most. Since he left he had felt so helpless, hopeless, hurt. He felt so empty inside that he did not wanted to live. Every night when he went to sleep he prayed that he would not wake up. And so did John Watson survive.
He did not live.
Years passed as years are meant to do. John watched, and John waited. He watched the skies and he waited for his consulting detective. But as the years passed by and the sky became night so many times he began to despair. John Watson stopped watching. He stopped waiting. Every single day he woke, showered, dressed and left the empty flat. And every day he returned to the empty flat.
His soul was so wounded.
He stood outside the flat as he lighted a cigarette and took a deep breath. The sun was shining down at him when it happened. A tall, dark haired man got out of a taxi on the other side of the street. John Watson dropped his cigarette just as he dropped his jaw. The two men caught each other's eyes and there was a unnatural long moment of silence before a single word broke the silence.
He shouted "Bastard!"
The other man remained silent. John took a deep angry breath as he almost ran over the street. He grabbed the other mans coat collar and shaked him. "You bastard! You stupid idiot! Do you know what you did to me, you sick fucking moron! You made me feel so alone! More alone than ever before, and I hate you for doing it!" the other man cupped his angry face in his hands. "I'm sorry John." He said as he pressed his lips against the other mans.
Sherlock put his heart in the apology.