Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I make no profit from writing this other than receiving lovely reviews.
He wakes in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat again. It all comes rushing into his mind, a blur of noise of traffic, and the sticky blood on the pavement.
Sherlock.
His Sherlock.
Dead.
He goes down, as he always does, to make himself some tea. And just like last night, and the night before that, he closes his eyes, and pictures Sherlock entering the room, making a comment on how unhealthy it is to drink tea at 3am in the morning, all the while wrapping his arms around John from behind.
He lets out a soft chuckle. Funny how much easier it is to love someone when they're gone. Had Sherlock still been here – and he has to rush quickly on from that part of the sentence because it hurts too much to dwell on – he would have pushed such images to the back of his mind.
He turns to lean against the counter, and quietly sips on the tea. That being said, he wonders how Sherlock could have missed it. Sherlock Holmes who deduced Irene's attraction to him simply from her pulse and other behaviours, somehow missed the way John said his name. He missed the way John looked at him.
John remembers how easily he would turn the conversation to Sherlock with his past girlfriends, and shakes his head, a sad smile fast appearing. How blind he'd been to his own feelings.
And now it was too late.
He clutched the mug tighter, feeling a familiar lump in his throat, his eyes tearing up so much so that his vision blurred. Closing his eyes he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Sherlock." The word came out choked in the darkened, empty room. "How could you leave me like this? I can't stand it!"
