Title: One Less Bell to Answer

Summary: John falls asleep in front of the TV only to wake up to a song that reminds him of what he's lost. Post-Reichenbach songfic, implied Johnlock.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The history of the song I chose is actually quite a complicated one. I wrote the fic with a cover of Barbra Streisand's version in mind. Her version, however, is actually a medley of the songs "One Less Bell to Answer" & "A House is not a Home" by Burt Bacharach & Hal David.

A/N: If anybody's wondering: yes, in my little disturbed mind John woke up to a late night re-run of Glee's episode 1x16 "Home".

Beta by: Princess Nala

Editing by: TeaLogic

Re-Upload-Note: I don't know why, but somehow uploading this story the first time around didn't work. I didn't get a confirmation mail and could not access the story's stats. So here you go. re-upload. Sorry about that.

John had a hard time finding the keyhole and stumbled up the stairs. He had been out with Greg; they had gone to the next sports bar to watch tonight's game. It hadn't ended in their favour, so they had had a couple more pints than usual. But to him it really only was an excuse to get out of the flat, get his mind off other things and he sure hadn't minded the alcohol either.

The light from the streetlamp outside the living room window was bright enough for him to find the couch and the remote control for the telly. He really didn't care much what he was watching, as long as there was some background noise so that he wouldn't feel quite so alone.

After only ten minutes John had fallen asleep on the couch and only woke up two hours later to the sound of music. A slow song emanated from the telly, it was a new version of a song that he vaguely remembered his mother listening to in his childhood.

One less bell to answer
One less egg to fry
One less man to pick up after
I should be happy
But all I do is cry

The words slowly seeped through to his mind. It reminded him of all the times he had silently complained to himself about everything he had to do for Sherlock – when he was still around. He practically had to force him to eat on a semi-regular basis and he had to clean up after a hundred experiments gone wrong in the kitchen. He should be glad that he didn't need to play the governess anymore. Yet here he was, missing the man that had made his life so much more difficult.

I only know that since he left my life's so empty
Though I try to forget
It just can't be done
Each time the doorbell rings I still run

Yes, it had been more difficult, but also so much more stimulating and exciting; it had made him feel more alive than he ever felt before. John thought of the good times they had had, all those laughs they shared, the excitement of a new case, their bickering, the comfortable feeling of being safe because there was no threat that his friend could not have seen coming from a hundred miles away. He missed Sherlock, the man whose snide sarcasm could cut through his hard armour, the man with whom an inside joke meant so much more than just shared laughter, it meant intimacy.

He didn't want to, but John knew that deep down he was still hoping. Hoping that he had missed something, that Sherlock was still out there, that one day he would return to 221B and everything could go back to the way it was.

I don't know how in the world
To stop thinking of him
'Cause I still love him so
I end each day the way I start out
Crying my heart out

Tears welled up behind his eyes – again. Each morning, after seeing his friend jump from the roof of Bart's in his nightmares, John's first thought went to Sherlock and the shock hit him all over again. There was no more Sherlock. And each night when he lay in bed he couldn't fall asleep because he still missed the soft noises of his flatmate bustling about downstairs, or the sound of the violin playing a lullaby.

If anybody asked him what he took away from his time with Sherlock he would reply that now he knew what people meant when they said "you don't realise what you have until it's gone". He had taken their friendship for granted; the soldier in him had forgotten that in civilian life it wasn't normal to be okay with the thought of dying for somebody you only just met. Sherlock hadn't been his comrade in war, he was far more than that and John had realised it too late. Ella had encouraged him to say out loud what lay heavy on his heart, but he couldn't. Not in front of Sherlock's grave, not in front of his mirror, instead he had written it down, sealed in an envelope that he put underneath Sherlock's mattress, one corner sticking out just the tiniest bit. And then every morning and every night there were those silent tears that he just couldn't fight anymore.

Since he went away...
A chair is still a chair
Even when there's no one sitting there
Well, I'm not meant to live alone
Turn this house into a home
When I climb the stairs and turn the key
Oh, please be there
Still in love with me...

John's eyes wandered to Sherlock's armchair, the one he never sat in. He wondered how much longer he could live like this, hoping against all odds that Sherlock would come back so that he would have a chance to tell him that he had been a bloody idiot for jumping off that roof. A chance to tell him that he had come to believe that such a thing as soulmates actually existed. He wanted to see Sherlock's reaction when he told him, see if his best friend had come to the same conclusion.

One less bell to answer
Each time the doorbell rings, I still run
One less egg to fry
One less man
To pick up after
No more laughter
No more love
Since he went away
All I do is cry