Sherlock pulled his collar over his pale neck white he walked, fast and far, far away from what he just encountered. Memories of John very vivid in his over active mind, making every step excruiating. Further away from 221b Baker Street. Further away from John.
Every person he passed, he stripped to the bone. Who, what, where, when. Getting to his destination, running up the stairs, taking two at a time, holding back the tears that would attack him at night. When being away from John got too much. He must stay away, he must. Nearly three years now, taking his seat infront of the window, darkness surrounding his shadowy figure. No one could see his tears, no one could see the pain this man endured to save his friends lives, no one could see the grip on the chair, the determined look on his face. A voice echoed in the head,
Just one more miracle, Sherlock. Don't be dead.
Dead. Depressed. Much the same thing really. He would go back, but would things be the same? What would John do? Punch him? Probably. That got a slight smile, the corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk. Break down in tears? Maybe he would. Actually, Probably Him.
Three years. Three years and three hundred and sixty four days. Tomorrow. The darkness will clear, the light taking over. He will see John, his blogger. He'll never leave his side. The doctor, that was it. His home. Home seems like a good place to be right now. He eventually falls asleep in the chair, loud silence filling his dreams.
Dawn breaks, light filling the room where Sherlock spent his days. Except the fact that he no longer resided there, the chair empty. The dark figure with the great mind gone. The chair remianing the only thing that stood in the room. He'd gone home. Home, to his John.