'Stop this Sherlock. Stop being dead.'
This was John Watson's silent prayer every morning as he rolled out of bed, and the last thought on his mind before he drifted off to sleep at night. It was at these times that the loss of his friend weighed on him the most.
In the in between times during the day, John could almost forget about his missing companion. He could almost go about his normal business without thinking of Sherlock Holmes. Almost.
There were some things, though, that always made him think of the detective. Whenever John hopped in a taxi, he couldn't help but think about the first case he ever solved with Sherlock, A Study in Pink. Even something as simple as making tea reminded him of all those times they'd sat together at Baker Street waiting for the next case.
Watson hadn't returned to the flat since Sherlock died. He hadn't even spoken to Mrs. Hudson since the funeral. John liked to thing he'd moved on. He had a new flat and a new job as a doctor. He'd even met someone who he thought was very special. Someone he thought he could be happy with.
But happiness was a relative term. His life had lost the sparkle it had had with Sherlock. There were no more adventures or experiments. There was only the mundane and ordinary. Now, that isn't to say John didn't appreciate the quietness of his existence, but he missed the rush of adrenaline he used to feel when Sherlock would swing his coat over his shoulders and bound down the staircase. He missed the feeling of stretching his mind while he slaved over the puzzles the detective gave him.
He missed Sherlock.
As he sat in his office thinking all of this, one thought rose to the top of his mind, 'Stop this Sherlock. Stop being dead.'