The empty room stared back at him with a vacant look. Sherlock shivered involuntarily. The room once occupied by the most inconspicuous of all men, seemed unbearable by his absence. Sherlock looked around. Everything was gone. There was not much in the room to begin with, he reasoned with himself. But even that line of reasoning seemed hollow to a genius like him. He so badly wanted to explain the reason behind the growing lump in his throat that he was prepared to invent untested theories. That was so unlike him. He looked again. There used to be a musky smell in the room, the scent of his after shave and his soap. The bed, the twin bed, the only luxurious item in the otherwise sparsely decorated room used to be clean and tidy. Typical of a military man Sherlock mused.
He had offered the military man loans over and over again to redecorate his room. But he had remained steadfast. There was only so much a friend could do. Now he was gone, Dr. John Watson was gone, his friend, ally, room mate and ….. Sherlock did not go there, he badly wanted to explain, wanted to make things right with the man. He leaned against the wall, slowly slid down and sat on the floor, letting his bottled up emotions cascade down his face. For a high functioning sociopath, that was a unique experience for never before he had lamented the loss of anyone, never even realized he needed anyone. But he needed John, more than he even cared to admit. His needed his stolid reasoning, his unobtrusive nature, his gleeful wonder at a mystery well solved. He needed him to remind Sherlock of his humanity.
He had been a fool to think John would ever understand though. Pretending to be dead, letting John suffer the agony alone, and then suddenly reappearing at an empty house, scaring him out of his wits had been bad enough. John had given him a piece of his mind, and Sherlock had listened quietly, inwardly seething. He had done it for John he had protested. John had not quite forgiven him but they had moved back in with Mrs. Hudson. But when John found out about him and Moriarty, it had been a bit too much for him. Sherlock had tried to reason with him. "We are not a couple" he had barked. It was a big mistake. John's face had whitened and he had gone quiet. Sherlock should have seen the danger signs. He should have realized the silence spoke louder than words, something for which the doctor was famous for. Watson had quietly gone up to his room, locking the door behind him. He had given a week's notice the very next morning.
That was it. That was 6 months ago. Sherlock had crept in John's empty room every night and wondered why he came here. Tonight it was different though. Looking at the empty walls broke something in him, something he never realized he possessed. Sherlock slowly got off from the floor and walked toward the door. Without a second glance, he shut the door behind him, and with it, everything that was human about him.
Next morning when Mrs. Hudson came in to check on him , she found him on the couch, unconscious, stinking of cocaine, his violin on the floor, just like she had found him seven years ago, before the slightly disfigured Doctor had made a home out of Sherlock's lair.
The End?