The days ticked by, an interminable expanse of boredom punctuated by moments of stabbing, deep grief that momentarily stole his breath. John was a methodical man, always had been, so he followed his routines and wondered when life would ever feel like it was normal again. This wasn't the first time he had to make a painful transition, and it likely wouldn't be the last. Returning to civilian life after the blue skies, dust and blood of Afghanistan had also been difficult. That time he had the good fortune of finding a friend, a best friend, his...his...

Now he was alone, again. Now he was picking up the pieces, again, and that required fortitude. John sighed and rubbed his neck. He had been sitting in his chair, staring at the fire, thinking about him,even after he'd promised himself he wouldn't.

Give yourself a break, John. You're surrounded by the detritus of his life. Bloody hell, the flat even still smells like him at times, and his clothes and experiments are strewn about the entire place. No wonder your mind is drawn to him.

John knew he needed to think about boxing up Sherlock's stuff, but he couldn't bring himself to contemplate it further tonight. Perhaps tomorrow he'd make plans to donate the science equipment.

I miss you, Sherlock. I still keep thinking that you'll burst through our door with a new case.

John thought about the final plea he made to his friend, his best friend, his flatmate, his everything. He'd caressed the top of Sherlock's gravestone and had, for once, been totally honest about his feelings.

You … you told me once … that you weren't a hero.

Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... there. I was so alone...and I owe you so much. But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me.

Don't be ... dead. Would you do that just for me?

Just stop it. Stop this…

Back in Baker Street, the small man fought back tears, completing his daily routine by slowly walking through the empty flat to his room.

ooooOOOOoooo

From across the street the curtains twitched in the darkened window. Pale fingers withdrew, allowing the material to fall back into place.

It was killing him, watching John grieve. Watching the small man walk listlessly to surgery, and then, later, back to Baker Street. Watching his best friend, his only friend drop a stone in the first week since his friend's supposed suicide.

John.

Sherlock knew he could ill afford this distraction. Moriarty might be dead, but the rest of his organization was alive and seeking to revenge their fallen master. Moriarty's web had extended to every continent, to every industry and enterprise. Sherlock needed to bend his mind to the pursuit and capture of this criminal empire, and he was doing that, but outside of his control a certain portion of his thoughts remained with John.

Maddening, really.

He'd never had a problem controlling his mind, his thoughts.

If you don't stop prying...I'll burn you.

I will burn...the heart...out of you.

I've been reliably informed that I don't have one.

Oh, but we both know that's not quite true.

How right the madman had been. Since that fateful day on the rooftop of Bart's, Sherlock had been living without his heart, without the comfort of home, of friends, of...John. John was in danger, because of him, and he had to make things right. Staying away from the small man, however, was proving every bit as difficult as wrapping up the criminal investigations.

Sherlock often quipped that, outside the mind, all else was "transport", but patently this could no longer be true (if it ever was). As uncomfortable as he was dealing with emotions, he knew he was a practical man, not one to doubt his observations and experiences. It was time to accept a new paradigm.

I can go home when this is over and dealt with, but things won't be the same between me and John. Hopefully, they will be better. I need to think about this more.

I am afraid.

Just then across the street, a ginger-haired man on a bicycle braked and casually tossed a paper bag into the street bin.

Focus! This could all be ruined by your inattention.

ooooOOOOoooo

Wake up, shower, shave, go to surgery, see patients, go home, fall asleep, fight the nightmares. John wanted to turn off his phone, wanted to avoid questions, wanted to avoid mutual friends, but he was a medical man and there might be an emergency. So, he left his phone on but screened his calls. Molly? Nope, not home. Mycroft? Definitely not answering. Lestrade? Really, that life was behind him now.

Day in, day out, he walked to work, he smiled politely, he tried his best to heal the sick. John knew from his time as a soldier that the process of grieving couldn't be rushed. It took as long as it took, and generally it felt like it took forever.

He still couldn't bring himself to clean out Sherlock's things. It was probably unhealthy, but they comforted him. He'd found himself last night fingering Sherlock's scarf, touching the material, thinking about his friend. Thinking about all the things left unsaid between them. John found himself conversing with his flatmate in his head, as if Sherlock were still alive, as if John still had a chance for a happy ending to the story.

Sherlock. You bloody insufferable, brilliant, beautiful man. My best friend. My flatmate. My partner in crime solving. I admit it, okay? I was jealous when Irene texted you to say she was alive, although I denied it as strongly as I could when she questioned me.

John could clearly see an imaginary eyebrow rise at this declaration.

I was afraid you'd go to her, afraid you'd look at me with the distracted, happy eyes of someone in love.

Your interest and regard belong to me.

Christ. I'm blushing, and I'm not even speaking aloud. How pitiful is that? You were never self-conscious, either about your words or your body. You'd slash someone to bits with your inexorable logic. You'd go to Buckingham Palace in a sheet.

That sheet. I dreamt about that bloody sheet for a week after our visit to the palace.

I want you, even though I have no clue what to do with you. I want to hug you and hold you close. I want to hear your voice vibrate through me. I want to touch your hair, maybe hold your hand. I want to be examined, taken apart and reconstructed with your grey eyes. I want to kiss you.

I love you, Sherlock.