John sat in his chair, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he sipped his coffee. He glanced at the clock. 3 am.

Sigh.

He had started taking sugar in his coffee. He didn't know why- he hated the taste. All the sugar made it syrupy in his mouth, and he grimaced with each swallow.

Lies. He knew why.

The first week after Sherlock had….John had prepared himself a cup, absentmindedly brewing and pouring. Before he knew it, he had created his coffee.

Except it wasn't his.

He didn't take sugar in his coffee.

He drank it anyways, relishing in this little reminder of who Sherlock Holmes was. From that point forwards, that was how he would make his coffee. Two tablespoons of sugar. One tablespoon of creamer.

Three months later, and he was still grimacing over the taste of the sickeningly sweet liquid sloshing around in his mouth. He still drank it, though. Only at night, however, when he woke up late from a sweat- inducing, energy draining nightmare.

This night was no different.

John Watson rubbed at his temples, glancing with disinterest at the newspaper lying on the desk. He had already read it over so many times, he had lost count. Every time he opened it, the same picture was there.

The picture of his one friend. His one true friend, lying on the ground.

Broken.

John groaned, leaning on his temple and nursing his headache. That's what he got for taking sugar in his coffee.


Sherlock was miserable. It had been three months since his staged death, and he was still being forced to keep his distance from John. He supposed he ought to be thankful to Mycroft for hiding him this long, but he couldn't help the bitter resentment that swept through him at being kept in the shadows.

John had been having nightmares again.

Just because Sherlock was meant to stay away from John didn't mean he had given up on keeping track of him completely. Before he had gone, he set up cameras in the flat, where he knew the good Doctor Watson would never notice. They covered every angle, and Sherlock kept tabs on them constantly.

He watched solemnly as John sipped his coffee. Three in the morning. Sherlock had watched painstakingly as his only friend suffered through his nightmare, knowing that he wouldn't be there to shake him softly back into reality, or even dab a cold cloth on his head when John refused to waken.

John had called Sherlock's name several times while he tossed in bed, and Sherlock's nails dug into his palms. It hurt.

It hurt.

The detective had noticed the change in coffee as John had prepared it, the doctor not even thinking about what he was adding. Sherlock noticed that it was the exact same brew, the exact spoon, the exact mug.

The exact image of the coffee Watson would get him, when he was in the middle of a case.

Sherlock wanted so badly to go to John, he had to withhold himself from jumping out of his seat when John, after glancing at the newspaper strewn on the desk, broke down.

These weren't emotions Sherlock was used to having. He wasn't used to having emotions at all, actually. He was so accustomed to casting them aside, to feeling nothing, that the outbreak of sadness in his heart caused him physical pain.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to Mycroft's face frowning down on him.

It was then that he realized he was crying.

"Let's go," Mycroft said gently, slowly closing the laptop.

Sherlock couldn't say anything, for fear of sounding like a total buffoon. He simply nodded, and stood, leaving his laptop behind him as he closed the door.


I don't own Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.