Hi There! So this is my first Sherlock fic and my first song fic. Hope you enjoy! Please send me a review, no flames please. Constructive criticism is welcomed. This is based after Sherlock's faked death.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or Lovesick Fool. I am making no money from this work.
John was alone. He had holed himself up in 221B Baker Street determined to ignore the world. Mrs. Hudson had tried to talk to him for the first few days but now just left food and tea by the door. John tried to imagine that there was still life in his lonely little flat. That he had not seen a falling body, blood on the sidewalk, felt a still wrist.
He sat on the couch and it felt too big. He was used to Sherlock laying claim to it, or sometimes laying down his head or feet in John's lap. John sat in his chair but the moment he sat and looked around he collapsed in tears. It wasn't the same if Sherlock was not across from him. He sat in Sherlock's bed, wrapped in blankets and sheets that still smelled of Sherlock.
John was stuck in a loop. He remembered Sherlock in the beginning. "I don't have friends", "I am not a hero". But he did, he had John and John…John needed Sherlock. While there was never a confession on either part they both knew how the other felt. Sherlock let John touch him, hold his hand, kiss his cheek, and run his fingers through his hair. And Sherlock would cuddle with John, blocking out the world to enter his mind but with the comfort that John was there. They would fall asleep curled around each other and wake up the same way.
And now, John was alone. He would wake up in the strangest places. One time he woke up kneeling on the floor, his head in Sherlock's chair. Another time he was on the kitchen floor, Sherlock's favorite tea in his hands. His limp was back and his back constantly ached.
John did not know what to do. Alone, he was alone. Yes he had people coming by, Ms. Hudson, Greg, Molly, Sarah, even Mycroft would come over. But John refused to let them in. They would disturb things, remove the Sherlock from the place. This was home. But Sherlock was not there, and Sherlock made it home. The flat was his prison, containing all that was left of Sherlock and holding John prisoner.
John needed Sherlock. Sherlock was his air, his life blood, Sherlock was everything.
How could John survive without Sherlock? How?
John was going crazy. Days bled into nights, time was nonexistent. Sherlock's smell was long gone but John could not bring himself to leave. Then one day (after weeks, months, years?) there was a knock on the door. This was not new, people knocked nearly every day. It was the way that the knocks came. Not the soft knock knock knock of Ms. Hudson. Not the booming knock knock knock…knock knock of Greg. It was not the rhythmic ones of Molly or Sarah or the perfectly spaced ones of Mycroft. There were three slow, deliberate knocks, three fast ones and then three more slow ones. That was a Sherlock knock (the one he used when he knew John was mad and wanted to apologize). John threw himself up from the floor and limped to the door, impossible hope lifting in his heart.
John opened the door. Drew in a breath and fell forwards only to be caught by strong (unexpectedly so) arms and lowered to the floor where a forehead rested against his own.
"I'm home my love"
Yes John was a lovesick fool, but he was not alone as he gazed into the soft, loving eyes of the world's only Consulting Detective.