this is my very first fanfic so reviews are very welcome! english is not my first language, so i'm sorry if this contains any grammar mistakes or anything (do please tell me if you find them :')), and yesss there is going to be johnlock
oh yes and i don't own sherlock or john or anything from this story, all the credit goes to BBC's sherlock and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, enjoy!
It was raining in London. Baker Street was full of people trying to get to their destinations, whatever those were, as soon as possible. It was summer and 7 in the evening but the sky had a deep grey color, and combined with the rain that made it seem like at least october or november.
The rain was pouring down out of the sky as if it would never stop, delaying people and traffic in London.
This , John Watson observed as he looked out of the window of his flat at 221B. Standing there, leaning on his cane, he thought about the things Sherlock Holmes would say. Probably something similar to "Look at them, John. All dashing around and hurrying because of their 'jobs' and their other so-called 'privileges'. All quite dull and pathetic if you ask me."
A little smile formed on Johns lips at the thought, which was quickly followed by tears welling up in his eyes. He quickly blinked them away and wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
He turned around, now facing the living room of his flat. He glanced around.
It now had been 8 months, 2 weeks and 5 days and even though nothing of the interior of the flat had changed, the place was completely different now. The atmosphere was cold and depressing, and seemed nothing like how it had been before. There was almost nothing left of former 221B, that place seemed gone. "For good" John thought, trying to suppress that thought at the same moment. He sighed and stumbled in the direction of the kitchen to make himself some tea.
John had thought about moving out shortly after Sherlocks death, but had suppressed that thought, too almost immediately. Moving out would mean that he would be completely on his own again. He was alone already, but living in 221B with all the stuff Sherlock had owned still in its proper place almost made it seem like a part of his friend was still there. His smell still lingered in the flat, mixed with a vague smell of chemicals. All the equipment he used to use for his experiments still stood on the kitchen table, untouched. It almost seemed like he could just come storming through the front door with something from the mortary to do some kind of funny experiment with. Not talking for hours as John would watch him curiously doing his thing.
Like this John tried to keep his friend alive, even if it was all in his head. He liked the idea of his flatmate just being gone for a while doing some shopping at the grocery store, or imagining him being at Scotland Yard, solving some crime puzzle or anything.
This, John Watson was more willing to tell himself than to face the truth, which was that he once again was completely and utterly alone with something of him missing that never could be replaced.
Lestrade had offered to store Sherlocks stuff at a safe place. "Because of the memories, maybe." he'd said. Of course John had thanked him and declined his offer, saying that he didn't want anything that had belonged to Sherlock moved from 221B.