John sat awkwardly in his chair and stared at the skull that was sat askew on the mantelpiece across the dimly lit room. Never before had John appreciated this sinister plaything of Sherlock's like he did now. Since Sherlock had gone, John had clung to his fiend's few personal possessions as a way of keeping his memory alive. John held the skull in his hands, caressing its cool ridges and letting a tear drop silently onto its murky white exterior. He remembered the days that Sherlock had sat pondering about cases and such like to his beloved skull and remembered when he had joked that the skull was Sherlock's best friend was the during one of the detective's infamous post-unsolved-case sulks. Of course, Sherlock hadn't laughed or smiled, he never did. John often used to wonder if Sherlock even heard half the things he said to him.
But when Sherlock did smile, or even look him in the eye and praise John on one of his ideas as to a case- John could still feel the butterflies he would try to hide form his astute companion. Sherlock could always pick up when someone felt anything apart from annoyance or wonder or hatred towards him. Poor Molly Hooper found that out quick enough to ward John off acting on these ridiculous feelings he had towards his friend. John had never felt anything for a man before Mr Holmes, but he didn't think he was gay despite what many others thought. Maybe they were right, and they could see what John couldn't. No. It was just Sherlock. Sherlock and his mystery and his intellect and his cheekbones and... and... John stopped himself there. Was he overreacting? As John pressed a tender kiss to the skull's forehead, tears streaking down his cheeks by now, he told himself that he had lost a friend and that the world had lost a great man. The best of men.
But at the back of John's mind and in the depths of his heart, John knew the truth. He had loved Sherlock Holmes. And through the sobbing and the whimpering, John wished one thing. He wished he had told Sherlock sooner because now he never could. And in his lonely desperation he realized that an empty chair, a skull and a few fading memories were all he had left of the man he had once loved like no other. And always would.