During the day, it was easy to remember that Sherlock was actually gone.
At night, the shadows lengthened and the Consulting Detective could have been around any corner or out chasing a criminal.
Old tea cups, most of them still half-empty, littered the flat in seemingly random patterns. Several places held more than others, the kitchen table near the microscope being one of them. They were markers of where he spent most of his time, spots in the flat that were innumerably his.
The smiley face adorned the wall, brightly mocking the remaining tenant.
The silence in the flat was deafening. There were no murmured musings or the indignant shout of "bored." The Bunsen burner was silent and the unstable chemicals were stored away properly and not roiling threateningly. It was all heartbreakingly absent and left John curled up on the couch with his knees clutched tightly to his chest.
His eyes were glued to Sherlock's chair across the room. There was an imprint in the stuffing that was pushed in on itself and sagging because of the owner's constant abuse. The picture of Sherlock crouching along the top of the chair with his fingers steepled and eyes vacant was painfully clear to John, but he couldn't close his eyes. The dent would probably never completely come out of the backrest.
