John had nothing to do. Nothing at all. He'd never step outside their flat- his flat- more than twice a week.
The other day he'd gone out for new batteries for the remote, and the next he'd gone out for a new remote, to replace the smashed one. Well, at least he'd come out more often now. Days would go by with no movement to take place in the flat. The flat was haunted by the ghost John had become. Except, it wasn't, because John was still unfortunately alive.
Mrs. Hudson used to get him tea at times, and had recently begun getting him all his meals. She never had agreed to pamper him, she'd made it clear the very first day that she was "not their housekeeper". But seeing how little he'd eat anymore, in fact remember to eat at all, worried her.
Mrs. Hudson had found him curled up on the couch, on his side due to his heavy nausea, too weak to lift even a finger, this one time. She'd reckoned he'd be stronger than that.
She had realized she was one of the very few people left in his world. Another was Mycroft. He used to come by at times, with obvious excuses to see John. He never let it show, but he did miss his brother. John was the closest anyone had ever gotten to Sherlock, so his presence felt… consoling. Mycroft scoffed at himself for being this vulnerable, to actually need solace.
John drove them all away, with negative vibes and a sour soul. His visitors did not give up that easily to keep a check on him, but the visits sure did recede. He was pretty alone. He found it almost comfortable.
He kept the flat dark. The curtains drawn, the lights off. He'd literally growl at at any sunbeams that managed to get through the curtains. The only luminescent objects would be his laptop and occasionally the tele. Watching the television got hard after a while. He'd get lost in imagining how Sherlock would have ridiculed the show. How he would have racked his brain to understand the suspension of disbelief. And well, thinking about Sherlock hurt. It was emotionally scarring, but this hurt was so intense that it would reach out and pain John physically. On his laptop he'd go through his blog, over and over and over again. He hadn't posted a thing for months. Not since Sherlock… he'd just stare into old posts, from times where he still went on adventures with his companion, those posts that described everything so vividly.
He'd get headaches now, from his eyesight weakening. But he didn't care. He could break a leg and still not care. Not that he did enough to have the risk of breaking his limbs.
Oh, depression. That's what they call it, isn't it? It's such a dull state of mind. It's not pleasant. But one thing it is is comfortable. John never wanted to leave that state.
Night fell. John could only tell by the time displayed on his laptop. He shut everything down, slowly and groggily, and got into bed. It was well made. How sweet of Mrs. Hudson. He shut his eyes, though he wasn't sleepy. He just wanted to reach that state of oblivion where he wasn't obliged to do anything. Not obliged to get better, not obliged to stop worrying everyone, not obliged for anything at all. He was groggy because of his terrible rest cycle, but not sleepy. He never was. Maybe he'd dream again? He could either dream something nice, have a nightmare, or just a simple, weird, nonsensical dream. Or he could dream about Sherlock again. Now, those dreams were sweet dreams and nightmares all rolled into one.
Two hours he had been rolling over, continually. He was exhausted from the depression, but couldn't he tell. He wasn't sleepy, though, not at all. It was very quiet. Rather unsettling. He thought of playing some music, for some noise. But he was too exhausted to make the effort to listen to any.
In those two hours he hadn't once opened his eyes.
Until he did.
Wide open.
It was the sudden realization that he was empty. The loneliness had hollowed him out completely. Hm. Does it even matter, he thought. It's not as if it made any difference anywhere, him being of no use. The world was functioning before, and it still continued to function with no interruption. He wasn't significant. This thought vindicated him. It assured him it was fine to live like this. No one was being hurt.
His sleep was completely blown away now. No chance of it coming back. The bed was comfortable, thanks to the lovely quilts and pillows Mrs. Hudson had set up for him. That lady really cared for him. She actually tucked him in the last week. John gave a slight laugh at that.
That felt… different. The change in the movement of his face felt weirdly refreshing. Wow. That was sad. He could but sigh. It was not like he would start crying. He wasn't like that.
His bed was comfortable, he knew that. But it wasn't comforting. He could use some comforting, even though he'd only realized that subconsciously. Outwards he made it clear that he didn't need soothing. He even had himself convinced. He swung out of his bed at once. In five seconds or so he wondered why the hell he'd suddenly do that. He stood up. Dragging his quilt, he began walking out of the room. He was giddy, and couldn't see a thing, so often he hit himself against the walls. He gave the worst of swears whenever he'd hit his foot against anything. Swearing, classic John.
Before he knew it, he was in Sherlock's room. He didn't even know what was going on, but he instantaneously fell on the bed, hard. He pulled himself to fit the bed, and partially covered himself with the quilt. It was cold, intensely so, and his exposed bits should have almost frozen off. But they didn't, or he simply didn't notice feeling cold. A warmth spread throughout, surprisingly. He could hear his heartbeat, an organ he thought he'd lost when he had hollowed. His face moved in that peculiar manner again, making him feel lighter.
And was it… raining? Oh for fuck's sake, he couldn't be possibly be crying. Great. He was. And he could not stop.
John looked up from his pillow, once Sherlock's, and imagined how Sherlock would have been there too. He wouldn't have been in his bed with him, of course. But he sure as hell would love to at that moment. He wouldn't care for the world about laying there with Sherlock, seeming so utterly… gay. He just really, really missed Sherlock to bits. He did realize there was no chance that would ever happen. Sherlock was far, far away. Distance didn't even matter, the situation was irreversible. John choked a bit. His sobs were dying down.
That was Sherlock's bed. That was where Sherlock used to be, some points of time. John felt a bit close, a bit near to him. He couldn't believe he'd succumb to this spiritual crap. But he did.
He took the other pillow, placed it parallel to himself, and hugged it. He lay his head on it, embraced it, and became more and more comfortable. Sherlock was tall, very tall, and the pillow barely made one-third his height. But fuck that, that didn't matter.
"I was wrong," he whispered, "I will cry.
"I will love you till the day I die."
He hoped that day would come already.
With Sherlock right there with him, he could finally for the first time in months fall asleep.