On My Mind
I'm American, so sorry in advance if there's any language differences from American English v British English.
Sherlock stared up at the ceiling in his bedroom, his mind drawing a blank. How pathetic. He thought. My mind is always thinking about something. He wasn't sure how to feel. Or what was normal. But he did know one thing.
He felt broken.
He wasn't used to feeling this way. He wasn't sure he had ever felt this way before. But nothing could change his mood right now, as it was rather gloomy and Janine was still at work. Sherlock flipped onto his side, grumbling. Janine could never improve my mood right now anyways. Sighing, he sat up, running a hand through his thick, curly hair. He stood abruptly and stormed out, trudging up to John's old room.
It's emptiness was unsettling. The way the light filtered in through the slightly cloudy window cast eerie shadows from the lamp and the bedposts. Only the furniture had remained in the room. There was a bit of dust gathering on the desk and the dresser. Sherlock ran his hand across both, sweeping the dust away. He fell face-first onto the bed, breathing into the pillow.
He could still smell it.
John's familiar scent lingered on the pillow. Sherlock clutched it greedily, burying his face into it even more. He had never felt this way before and now it was tearing him apart. He didn't know this odd feeling that welled up in his chest whenever he was around John or whenever he was in John's part of the flat... He breathed heavily into the pillow. He let his eyes slide shut.
Sherlock didn't realize he had started crying. He usually didn't cry due to emotion. But yet here he was, Sherlock Holmes, one of the most intelligent men in the universe, the world's only consulting detective- crying like a teenage girl over a man he couldn't have. Is that what this was about? Sherlock wasn't sure anymore.