John slumped back against the sofa, hugging the blue scarf to his chest.
If he inhaled in just the right place, he could still smell him.
Could still smell life; excitement; adventure. Could still smell... Sherlock.
He closed his eyes, imagining his flatmate; his friend still sat across from him.
His long-limbed, sharp-featured friend.
His impetuous, infuriating friend.
His mad, crazy, beautiful friend.
A tear fell, landing on and disappearing into the soft fabric folds.
If only grief dissipated as quickly, John thought.
He closed his eyes against the pain and moaned as his mind began showing re-runs.
Sherlock: bent over a microscope
Sherlock: running through London streets
Sherlock: arm outstretched.
Sherlock: falling...
His breath caught and a sob echoed through the emptiness of 221B
Sherlock: staring; bleeding; lifeless.
John curled himself on the sofa, staring blankly at nothing.
"Why, Sherlock?" he whispered to worn leather and soft wool. "Why?"
Everything was gone; dead; buried.
Now no more experiments.
No more excitement.
No more adrenaline-filled chases.
No more stolen kisses.
No more secret touches.
No more undying love.
He closed his eyes once more, imagining those kisses, those touches and the love of a man who was thought heartless by most.
"Please", he sobbed, pressing the scarf of his dead lover to his face, "Please come back."