John sat in his chair, as he did every night, waiting for the sound. Every night he waited for a sound which he knew would never come, he remembered the sound so perfectly that he often dreamt of a night where it happened. He often dreamt that his best friend would walk through the door, that he wouldn't have to sit and wait any longer.
Every day John did the same thing, he got up, went to work, got home, waited, then slept. He was getting tired, not matter how much he slept he always seemed exhausted. He passed through the work day quickly, faces blurred past him as he examined people, he didn't have the same familiar, friendly chit-chat with patients, he just examined them and let them go. He wished he could say the same about his home life. Every night was the same. He just sat and waited. He wished it sped by just as the work day did but every time he looked at the clock it was mere minutes that passed, not the hours that John usually thought.
He waited, he looked at the picture on the mantelpiece of his best friend. And just seemed to enter a dreamlike state where everything was slow motion. He cooked dinner in a blur and seemed to always be waiting again in seconds. He tried to be extra careful with the dishes, wiping them until they gleamed, but he knew that he would have to wait again.
He knew this knock would never come, he knew that any knock wouldn't be Sherlock, but he held on hope. He just couldn't accept that his best friend was dead. Every now and then someone would come over, clean things up, it was usually Greg or Molly, John felt it was a blessing when they came round, but he pushed them away. He would stare at the clock while they were talking, or he would zone out and not hear what they would say. They would leave and he would go back to waiting.
Until one day, John couldn't stand it anymore. The endless waiting was driving him insane, he went for a walk, a stroll in the park. He sat on a bench and just watched the world pass. He thought he could see Sherlock everywhere, someone had a long, dark, black coat on and John jumped up, only to realise it was just a passerby, or they had thick dark curls and John would stare intently, trying to find a trace of Sherlock in this world.
He walked back to his home, 221b Baker Street, he still hadn't moved anything, even though it had been weeks, Sherlock's last experiment was still on the table and the eyeballs were still in the microwave. He opened the door and stepped out of the freezing rain, he took his coat off and hung his scarf up. His woollen jumper was slightly worn at the edges but he went and sat back down in his usual seat.
I'm alive. Meet me at Trafalgar square tomorrow at noon, if you still want to see me.-SH
John hadn't even realised that as he opened the door a piece of paper was circling him in the wind, he shut it out in the cold and the dark. The note that could change everything for John and he hadn't even realised that it existed.