This little story was inspired by this post: the-notebook-allie-what-happens-if-a-car-comes

And this is what I listened to whilst writing it: Reichenbach's Lullaby (/!\ spoilers)

I hope you are all pleased/distraught with my lovely little Johnlock angst

Late night, tired eyes. Everything is like a blur as I stare out the windows of the taxi that's taking me home.

I don't want to go home.

There's nothing for me there. Just memories. Horrible, wonderful, terrible, perfect memories that I can't escape from, no matter how desperately I try to. Every time, I'll betray myself and always pull them back in, back to my heart, where I can cradle them close to me and mourn for the loss of the one who help me create them. It's like telling your child that their father has died at war. That's he's gone and he will never be coming back. You sugar coat it for them, but deep down, you know it had been so sudden and painful and terrifying, he was so strong, but he was so scared and he had not wanted to–

I take in a shaky breath, I hadn't noticed I'd stopped breathing. I have to rub the tears out from my eyes, the last thing I need is the driver seeing me cry. The last thing I need is more unnecessary pity from people who just don't know – just don't understand – how this feels. I know I'm broken and I know I'm lost and I know I am very likely to never be found again, now that I've lost him – how lucky I was to have even found him, or have him find me… Now that I am without him, I am to be left here to wither away like some clipped flower, so suddenly severed from the thing that keeps it alive. It survives in shock and false substance until it finally realizes what its lost and by then, it's simply too late.

I'm still in shock. I still try and move on with my life, but deep inside. I know I have to accept my fate.

Sherlock.

Oh, Sherlock. I'm nothing without you.

Please, come back.

Living, like this.

It's worse than death.

Come back to me.

I need you.

I–

"'Ere we are, sir." The driver pulls me out of my thoughts, I'm thankful. I wonder if it shows in the sad excuse of a smile I try to give him as I hand over the fare. Not very likely. It probably looked more like a grimace.

I make my way out of the vehicle, weary of the curb until my cane can get a good grip into the cement. I've gotten good at ignoring that bubble of anger that arises every time I look at the blasted thing, this is how it's been ever since he'd left me. I'm malfunctioned, faulty and unable to be repaired. It's maddening to know that I can't be fixed, that no one alive knows how to put me back together. Hah, no one alive, indeed….

I hobble up the steps to 221B Baker Street. There was never any point in leaving, practically, it would have been a mistake. Ms. Hudson kept the rent low for me, she understands how hard it is to live in London these days. She understands I don't want to leave the memories behind and I'm not sure if I should thank her or let her know these memories are killing me. Dear God, they are killing me. Every step, I feel my heart clench painfully in my chest. Each step, I have to blink to keep my eyes dry. Each step. Every step.

I don't look at the couch as I walk in, or I'll see him there with his hands pressed together under his chin and his eyes closed in thought. I don't look to the windows or I'll see him playing his violin or voicing out his latest plan of action. I don't look to his chair, because I'll see him shouting at the telly or flopped over complaining of his boredom or fast asleep. I don't look. I don't look. I don't look.

I still see him everywhere.

I see him rush by me like a child at Christmas or I see him pace through my vision as he encounters another problem. He carries on and on by the fire place about schemes and peoples idiocies and points of interest. He digs through the flat looking for any signs of a cigarette. He tells me to make him some tea. He works restlessly at the kitchen table on experiments that, more than likely, involve another one of my things. He smiles at me over his cup of coffee. He plays his violin because he knows I'll appreciate it after a long day at work. He says a joke that shouldn't be funny, yet it is. He chuckles. He talks. He walks. He breathes. He looks at me – I see him.

Everywhere.

It's always too much. Every day, all day, I always see him and he's always there and I sometimes forget that he's dead. I ask him something and he gives me a reply and I look to say more, but he's gone and it hurts, because I forget and I always remember and I can't do anything to change it.

When I'm alone. All alone in ou- my.. Flat. When I'm all alone. I can't stop myself from crying.

I never know when it's started. I'll see him and the next thing I know, I'll be sitting on the floor and I'll be trying to remember how to breathe. It's only when I cry that he seems to be well and truly gone. There is no violin playing in the background, there is no deep voice and rich laughter. There is nothing more than the sound of cars driving by outside and my quieted sobbing. It's silent and I am alone.

Sherlock is gone.

I am alone.

Sherlock is dead.

And I am all alone.

I am all alone.

Sherlock.

Won't you please, just come back?

Please, just come back to me.

I miss you so much.

I need you more than anything.

I love you.

…

I never told you I love you.

Sherlock.

Come back.

I love you.