Hullloooooooo Fanfiction World! Wow, haven't updated in literally ages. How long has it been? Six months? A year? I apologize if my writing quality's a bit wibbley (wobbley timey whimey)!
Anywho (get it? Anywho-Doctor Who? Oops, wrong fandom), I present to you, with pudding cup in hand . . .
One Week
Sherlock Holmes
Sherlock. Holmes.
Sherlock bloody Holmes.
John Watson spit his name out with remorse, bitterness slipping its way into his little soup of pity. John was sat up in bed, the light off. A week. One excruciating week. Today was the deadline John had mentally gave him. One week is enough, yes? One bloody week should be enough to show himself to John. To show him he was still alive.
In all honesty, though, it was really a deadline for himself. One week until he can finally accept that Sherlock was never going to this one last thing for him. That day was imprinted into his mind, the sight of Sherlock falling seared into his mind as if someone had branded it into his brain with a poker, white hot pain searing itself into every waking moment. Only in his dreams could he retreat into what could have been.
He would do just about anything right now just to hear Sherlock's routine ruckus during these late hours of the night. His heart ached for the sound of gunshots that would have been directed at their wall. It would have drowned out his sorrows. There would not have to be any sorrow drowning at all, actually, if Sherlock would have just been alive.
John felt like a little kid, who had been searching for the perfect puppy. Desperately searching up, down, left, and right. Is there a puppy there? No. What about there? Still no. Finally, after all hope had been lost, he would look up after walking around town, his head hung. He would look up and in one those shop windows, the perfect puppy. Streams of happiness flooding through his veins, he took the puppy home. Now, imagine, he was playing with the puppy and he told it he would come back in just a second. When he comes back, the puppy is on a ledge of a tall building and imagine as it slowly tumbled down, crushing his love, his heart, as it hits the pavement below, its blood as red as his vision. Then, imagine as-
Trying to settle into his bed to catch as much needed shut eye as he can, John took a deep breath to clear his head.
Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you to hell.