He couldn't believe it.
It will be a month tomorrow. A month since Mary left. She left nothing behind, not even a note. John awoke to an empty bed and a bare closet.
He supposed it was something to do with her past. He never did look at that bloody memory stick, so he hadn't the faintest idea what it was, but he was sure his hypothesis was true. She left no signs of her ever living there, even taking all the pictures she was in from the mantel. She, all of her, was gone.
The only thing that John got from Mary was a text a few days after she left, containing only a sentence.
"I love you. -Mary"
Now it's been a month. After the initial shock of it all, he moved back to 221B partly at Sherlock's request, but also because he was lonely. It was clear that she wasn't coming back and John needed a friend. He needed something normal in his life, and this, he realized, was Sherlock and Baker Street. Normal was eyeballs in the microwave and skulls on the mantelpiece.
As he got back into his everyday routine, he surprised himself. He wasn't as devastated as he would expect. In fact, it was much worse when Sherlock was gone. Of course, he presumed Sherlock to be dead. Still, he would've predicted himself to be more upset at the fact that his wife had just left with no notice, but he was more shocked than anything else- and then there was the baby. Sometimes he would actually find himself smiling to be back in his old flat with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and the various dead people in the fridge. It felt right to be there. It felt natural.
His thought process came to an end when Mrs. Hudson came in with tea and biscuits, cheerily greeting him as she walked by and setting the tray among an abundance of experiments, including a group of Petri dishes which appeared to be growing a mold which was the most beastly shade of purple. She wrinkled her nose before turning and giving John a smile.
John got up and flicked the dark haired man, who was on the couch, right on the forehead, dragging him from his mind palace and back into reality. He slowly opened his eyes and glared at John's turned back as he slowly sat up to join them for tea.
Sherlock was trying his best not to be as much of a dick to John as usual, due to the circumstances, so he bit back an insult. Mrs. Hudson offered him a biscuit when he sat in the chair across from John. He had just eaten yesterday, but he took it anyway with every intention of putting it back when she wasn't looking. Sherlock knew she wouldn't leave him alone if he didn't.
John and Mrs. Hudson sat and drank tea and had a dull conversation about politics while Sherlock was silent. He wasn't bored, however, despite the conversation. No, Sherlock wasn't bored in the slightest because Sherlock wasn't listening, he was watching. Watching John. He watched his lips move, forming words with his beautiful voice. He watched every twinkle of his eyes, every hand movement, and every occasional smile. He watched the most interesting, beautiful, and non-boring person, and it was the best conversation he'd ever had, despite the fact that he didn't even know what they were talking about.
When tea was finished and Mrs. Hudson had left, Sherlock went immediately to his purple petri dishes, carefully putting a sample on a slide and examining it under his microscope while John attempted to clean the flat.
Sherlock could barely focus on his data. John was making far too much noise with all his shuffling about. He looked up and watched his blogger some more as he cleaned. going back to his eyepiece whenever the man could see him.
Just do it. He's unnatached now.
No, he couldn't. John would be too distraught to even think about such things. Of course, that's what Sherlock would think. He must be, right? He was never wrong in his deductions, and John didn't seem to be very upset at all. Then again, he was gay.
Don't deny you haven't noticed. He obviously loves you. You're never wrong.
He told himself this over and over, but it was no use. He wouldn't dare. He ran his fingers through his hair and, after much arguing with himself, just went back to his slides, his pen scurrying across the paper just as John was scurrying through his mind palace, breaking things and causing mayhem.