Empty.
Empty had defined John Hamish Watson's life from his very first moments.
Empty lunch box.
Empty pockets.
Empty heart.
Even when he left the neglectful family home, empty followed him.
Empty pockets.
Empty bank account.
Empty life.
War gave him something.
It gave him reason.
It gave him purpose.
It gave him hope.
But it wasn't to last.
When he was invalided back to England, empty found him again; welcomed him back with its long, suffocating arms.
Empty pockets.
Empty fridge.
Empty flat.
Empty heart.
And then... then there was Sherlock.
Once more, John had hope.
Empty abandoned him and his life became full.
Full of excitement.
Full of hope.
Full of life.
In time, there was more.
Full arms.
Full bed.
Full heart.
John's life was filled: utterly, totally and blissfully.
Full of love.
Full of passion.
Full of Sherlock.
But not now.
Now, empty has John in its sights once more.
It slips slender, winding fingers around his body; his lungs; his heart.
He fights it.
Full fights empty in an agonising, painful battle.
There is loss, grief and tragedy but, ultimately, there is only one thing that is full now.
Full grave.
And so John Watson; lost and broken Captain John Hamish Watson, embraces empty.
Empty sofa.
Empty bed.
Empty heart.
Empty whiskey decanter.
Empty pill bottle.