John sat on the misshapen sofa and stared without seeing at the bullet-hole ridden wall. The yellow lurid smile of cartoon graffiti seemed to blur his vision. Or maybe that was...he blinked. No, no tears. Just emptiness. It felt like something had been extracted from him without his ever realising it existed in the first place. He felt the air seep out of his lungs and heard the sigh as if from another man's chest. Perhaps, he thought, it was because he wanted it to be. He didn't want this emptiness to continue. He felt useless; more useless than returning from the war injured. What could he do now, what would he do, he thought, as he sat in quiet contemplation. Quiet contemplation, a little voice in his head reminded him, masking utter despair. He glanced up dazedly, taking in the flat. Before, the fingers on the kitchen counter hadn't bothered him, the harpoon in the corner was a mere antique. Now, the objects returned to their more sinister connotations. It was their connection to ... to Sherlock that made their presence acceptable, an eccentricity, even the macabre became endearing because of the animated manner Sherlock talked about his 'experiments'. 221B hadn't changed, but somehow, in John's mind, it had. It was like waking up with a hangover, free of beer-goggles. The skull leered at him, the body parts from St Bart's that John knew still resided in their fridge seemed to mock him with their existence, the violin ...
The violin.
At 4am, waking him up to the dramatic overture of one of Mozart's symphonies (or so he was informed later, John recalled telling Sherlock he didn't care if it was Mozart himself returning from the dead and plucking bow strings with his arse, it was 4 am for fucks sake and he wanted to sleep.) Sherlock's disparaging comments about idiots unable to appreciate beautiful music.
Sherlock's hands as they returned to the strings, putting the bow aside.
Sherlock plucking the strings softly, and then launching into a sarcastic rendition of a lullaby, with certain word replacements.
John telling him to bugger off and take up a quiet hobby like knitting.
The violin.
He blinked. Everywhere he looked in this flat he recalled memories of Sherlock. Sherlock being obnoxious, Sherlock being rude, Sherlock being witty, Sherlock insulting Anderson...the one time when Sherlock called Lestrade and his entire division over to report a sexual predator only to show them rather graphic and questionable porn files apparently from Anderson's own home computer (given the argument that ensued...)
He couldn't do this. He couldn't be here, wallowing in memories. Because sooner or later, he would remember the last time he saw Sherlock, broken and bleeding, his face a mess, the limbs lifeless.
More blood, more bodies blurred his vision. The war. He had lost people before. He would lose them again. But something, something was somehow worse about this. Perhaps it was the way it happened. Perhaps it was that he was losing not only a friend, but a flatmate, perhaps it was the way that everyone else believe he was, he was... not Sherlock. A fake. A weirdo. A psychopath . "I'm not a psychopath Anderson, I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research" swam into his head and out again. Was he though? A Sociopath? He showed all the signs of it, sure, but John would have liked to believe that...that there was more.
He needed to get out. He put on his coat, grabbed a scarf – it was cold- and left. He was halfway across the street when he realised he forgot to lock the door, and that the building was probably empty at this hour, Ms Hudson was spending a lot of time with the man from the local newsagents lately. He was two streets away when he realised he should have gone back to lock it. But what for? None of it mattered now. The world wouldn't end because his laptop got nicked, the world came to a close on the precipice of a rooftop, when Sherlock...when he left him. A chill breeze wrapped itself around him and he pulled the scarf tighter around his neck.
It smelt like...
It was one of Sherlock's.
And then he saw the street start to blur slightly.
But he hugged the scarf tighter around his neck as he realised he would never, never be close to Sherlock again enough to recognise his scent, and that eventually all his things would get washed and nothing would be left of his presence, his, his friend.
"You had to go and die on me didn't you..?" he mouthed into the material, which was now a little damp.
And he walked on, not caring where he was going, cursing Sherlock.
For leaving him.
The heartless bastard.