Hello all! This is a Sherlock fanfic of after Reichenbach! I really hope you enjoy!

John Watson stared bleakly at himself in the mirror, his eyes dull and devoid of any hope that had previously filled them. His hair had grown out from its military issued crew cut, shaggily shaping his face, which held 6-day old facial hair.

John didn't care to shave. John didn't care much for anything anymore. The only reason his beard was 6 days old and not 6 months old was because of Mrs. Hudson's constant nagging at him to fill the Sherlock shaped gap in his heart.

Three years. Three years of this. Three years of loneliness and missing pale porcelain skin and soft dark curls. Three years of alcohol induced fits of rage and three years of emptiness. Three years without his Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson's figure appeared behind him in the mirror, breaking his silent reverie. She gave him a hesitant smile, as if she didn't trust him to react in an appropriate manner. He supposed there was evidence to support her fear, but it still hurt that his adopted mother figure always had her guard up around him nowadays.

"Love, don't you think it's high time you left the house? It just won't do having you all miserable for days on end. How about you and I go for a shop, yes?"

John's expression morphed to a strained smile.

"No Mrs. Hudson, you go on though. I have work to do."

"Are you sure love?"

"Quite sure. Do have a nice time. Be careful, alright?"

"I always am dear. I'm not made of glass you know!"

As Mrs. Hudson left the room John sat up and flipped open Sherlock's phone. Sherlock had made his last call on John's mobile as he had yet again nicked it from him so that his number wouldn't be recognized. John scrolled through his recently sent texts forlornly, still desperately clinging to the last pieces of his long gone friend. John had memorized every conversation on this device. However he still loved to look at them again. It made Sherlock seem more real. Without this proof of Sherlock, this proof that he hadn't been lying all along, he would never have survived. Even Sherlock would not have gotten so far into his character. He read over some conversations between Sherlock and Lestrade. A chuckle escaped his lips. Only Sherlock would say 'you need me because your humanoid animals can't seem to function without a ring leader, and that keeps you from actually accomplishing a job you are already only half-decent at doing.' A tear had dropped onto the screen, he realized. John wiped it off. He hadn't realized he had been crying.

John-the soldier with nerves of steel-cried often lately. He hadn't realized there were so many different types of misery, So many different ways to cry. There was the sniffles and sad eyes that Mrs. Hudson was prone to do. There were the pathetic whiny tears of Molly Hooper. There was the scruffy throat clearing and tear wiping of Lestrade. John cried like lestrade in the public eye. But in the privacy of his bathroom, sobs that had been ricocheting inside of him finally sprng loose, the pain to deep and too intense to remain inside him. Sometimes he could barely breathe and he would begin to hyperventilate. Those were the sobs of someone with a broken heart. John usually cried in the manner of a broken man. It wasn't just his heart that was broken. It was him as a person.

John silently cried, shaking, tears streaming from him until he had none left in him. Today was a day with the very worst crying. Today John had no more tears left. All John could do was stare ahead at the smile crudely painted over Mrs. Hudson's ancient wallpaper. The bullet holes in the smile reminded him of how dangerous Sherlock could be when he was bored. John hated when Sherlock got bored. When Sherlock got bored he was cruel and thoughtless and ridiculously irritating. He used to wish Sherlock didn't exist when Sherlock got bored. Now all John wnted was Sherlock back again.

I don't care if he's rude and harsh. I don't care if he is constantly bored or even if he constantly shoots the wall. Hell, I don't care if he's a bloody maniac. The thought of a maniacal Sherlock made the ghost of a grin turn up the corners of John's seemingly permanently turned down lips. Sherlock is a bloody maniac already. Was. Is. I don't care if he marries fucking Moriarty. I just want him to come back.

John stared at that panted smiley face and felt rage curl up inside of him. His mind went blank and a scream overtook him. His mind was chaos and he had no idea what was going on but then again he never knew what was going on anymore. Not since he left.

John found himself a breadth away from the face staring maliciously at him from the wall. Two dimensional. Not him. Not moriarty. Not Sherlock.

"I hate you! I hate your smile I hate your face!" screamed John, his fist rapidly slamming against the wall.

When John calmed his fury his fist was red, raw and bloody. His voice softened and his eyes filled with tears for the third time today.

"I hate you…" he whispered forlornly, his fist sinking to the ground and his knees instinctively curling into him for a fetal position.

John laughed a miserable hollow laugh, his voice shaking almost hysterically .

Outside the sounds of life, as Rich-Jim Brooke-Moriarty described the city sounds, soldiered on, oblivious to the fact that the soldier had stopped soldiering on and had lifted his white flag to the sky, waving it in shame.

It was then that the Soldier realized that he couldn't survive without his consulting detective.

"Sherlock" He whimpered, his voice wavering softly.

"Sherlock, I believe in you."

I will update soon! Please R and R and I'm sorry for being so unactive but I've been in and out of treatment and kicked out of school due to my depression and eating and anc]xiety! Love you

xxxgem