AN: This is my first story exploring the relationship of John and Sherlock, but I wouldn't quite classify it as Johnlock. Please be kind, it's only my second attempt at Sherlock fanfic. Reviews would be lovely!

"SHERLOCK!"

John watched helplessly, feeling all the breath leave his lungs, as he watched the detective spread his arms and fall forward from the building. He was frozen in place, unable to breathe as the world slowed around him. The surrounding air began to suffocate him, his blood running cold as he watched the tall man disappear from his sight. His heart lurched as he rushed forward, only to see the body of his best friend motionless on the pavement. Suddenly pain engulfed his body as he fell towards the pavement in agony.

But the pavement wasn't as hard as he expected, and he opened his eyes to find himself tangled in his sweat-soaked sheets. His body shuddered as the sobs overtook him, and he felt the hole in his chest grow infinitesimally. Two weeks. It had only been two weeks, and yet the image of his best friend cold and lifeless shook him to the core. He was not okay. He knew that he wasn't. He hadn't slept properly since before it had happened, and now every chance of he had to rest was shattered by the nightmares. He curled into a ball, hating himself for being weak as the tears poured down his cheeks and he choked on the air he was desperately trying to take in. It was as if he had died along with Sherlock that day, but he knew that wasn't the truth. If he had died, too, Sherlock would be with him now. Not six feet under. The tightness in his chest finally eased up enough so that he could finally crawl out of bed and into the bathroom where he was promptly sick. A knock sounded on the bathroom door, and Mrs. Hudson slowly slipped into the bathroom to place a tentative hand on John's trembling shoulder. He nodded weakly, and slowly climbed to his feet. Tightly gripping the sink, he managed to steady himself, and he slowly lifted his head to stare at the image in the mirror. Pathetic. You're absolutely pathetic, John. Look at you, you're a trainwreck. He shook his head, trying to quiet his subconscious. He noted his pallor as well as the alarmingly dark circles under his eyes.

"John," she whispered quietly, "I think you need help." Her eyes were damp as she watched him, and it was clear how worried she was for him. If he had any heart left, it would have ached for her. But that was impossible, for his heart was gone forever. It had stopped beating the moment its thief stopped breathing. He turned on the tap, splashing some water on his face before turning to walk past Mrs. Hudson. He had to swallow hard as he passed the empty chair of his friend. Upon entering the kitchen, he paused to stare at the microscope upon the table surface. It was covered in dust, and this sent a pang to his stomach, for Sherlock had always kept it clean. He lightly traced his fingers over the cool surface, and he felt the tears rush forward again as he recalled the last argument they had in that very spot.

"Are you kidding me? Please tell me that there is not actually a bag of tongues in our bloody fridge," John shouted. Sherlock didn't even bother to look up from his experiment, and John only grew angrier. "Hello? Do you ever listen to me? Sherlock!" He snapped his fingers above the microscope and finally Sherlock looked up, an annoyed expression on his face.

"What is it, John? Can't you see how important this is," he asked angrily. "What are you shouting about?" John gave him an incredulous look and held up the bag of tongues. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, they're tongues. What about them?"

"I know what they are! I want to know why you have them," John yelled, shaking the bag in his face. "This is where I draw the line, Sherlock."

Sherlock returned his attention to the microscope, "Obviously they are for an experiment. Now will you relax? You're going to frighten Mrs. Hudson." His slender fingers adjusted the dials to his liking before settling back in. John watched him for a long moment before reaching for the microscope and sliding it off the table, holding it out of reach. "What the HELL are you doing, John? You're ruining my data," Sherlock lunged for the microscope, knocking John off balance and back against the sink where the base of the tool hit the countertop hard, putting a small chip in the surface.

John wrestled Sherlock backwards, making him hit his tailbone hard off the corner of the table, "You cock! I don't care about your bloody experiment! They are nothing more than busy work for you, and all they do is drive everyone else crazy!" Sherlock shoved at John, but John held his ground. "No more body parts! It's unsanitary, it's wrong, and I don't even think it's legal!"

Sherlock scoffed, "Mycroft is the British Government. There are ways around limitations that normal people have to endure. They just aren't bright enough to achieve the things that I can. Stupidity doesn't deserve reward." John had glared at him before slamming the base back down onto the table, gathering his coat to go. Sherlock straightened his shirt, "Where are you going?"

"Out," John said loudly, "Before I kill you and stuff you into the fridge instead." His voice was frighteningly calm as he turned to go down the stairs. It wasn't until John reached the sidewalk and began to walk that he received a text.

Need milk for the tongues. Hurry back. It's important.

SH

John threw his phone into the street, shaking his head as he stormed off in the direction of the grocery.

The tears burned hot against his cheeks now as he ran his fingers absently over the chip in the counter, visibly shaking as more sobs escaped him. He felt arms surround him, and for several minutes, he simply cried in the arms of his landlady before finally regaining what was left of his dignity. He wiped at his eyes, his voice weak, "I can't do it, Mrs. Hudson. I can't stay here any longer. Not without him."