Tick tock. Tick tock.
It was three o'clock in the morning – and that was all John could hear,
Tick tock. Tick tock.only the sound of the clock, loud and insistent in the empty flat.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
'Any minute now.' He thought, 'any minute.'
Tick tock. Tick tock.
He kept expecting to hear something. Anything.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Anything to show to him that this wasn't really happening; that it was just some elaborate nightmare, and everything was okay.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
He waited, and waited.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
His eyes began to sting with tears that refused – no matter how hard he tried – to fall.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
His heart was like ice - cold and numb. He heard nothing but silence.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
It pressed down on him like a suffocating, endless weight; and he couldn't even cry – the oppressing power of grief wouldn't let him.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Each tick of the clock was a reminder that life would go on without him. It should have been a comfort.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
But it wasn't.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
He had lain on this floor for hours, just waiting for Sherlock to come home.
But he hadn't.
Now John felt like Sherlock's body.
Tick tock. Tick tock.
Broken.