Authors Note: This is the first fanfic I've ever written so please leave reviews (good or bad) telling me what you thought! Thanks for reading!
Former army doctor John Watson walked down Baker Street towards 221, one of his arms loaded with bags of groceries, the other clutching his cane as he leaned on it for support. He limped up to the battered black door and slipped his key into the lock. After a moment it swung open on creaking hinges and allowed him entrance. John proceeded through the door, slamming it shut behind him, and he began to climb the old wooden stairs that he had come to know so well, shifting some of the bags into a more comfortable position as he went. When he arrived at the door to his flat, 221B, he pushed the door open and looked inside hopefully; there was no one else there. He let out a soft sigh, he had expected nothing else of course, but he still held a small sliver of hope that one day, the door would swing open to reveal a familiar slim, dark haired figure inside.
It had been 7 months to the day since 'The Fall', as John liked to call it, and he hadn't been the same since. Ever since Sherlock's death his limp had returned and he had gone back to seeing his therapist frequently. The first couple days had been the hardest. He would sit for hours, talking to no one and try to think of how to continue without Sherlock around. Even now he had a hard time socializing with other people. Every time he would start to talk to someone all he would be able to think about is what Sherlock would have said about a comment they made, or how he would be able to deduce their whole life story at a glance. He couldn't sleep, would barely eat, and only went outside if it was absolutely necessary. He still had most of these problems, although not as severe.
John sighed again as he set the bags down on the kitchen table. It had been cleared of all its scientific equipment and had even been repainted. Mrs. Hudson had put all of Sherlock's belongings away in boxes but John had been unable to make himself throw them away. Somewhere deep down John still held on to that tiny sliver of hope that one day his best friend would return for him and they would run off together in search of yet another ridiculous case to solve.
John proceeded to put away the many groceries he had brought back and noticed that he had forgotten the milk again. Well, he thought, there was still a little left in the other carton, it should be enough for now. A thought appeared suddenly in his mind of Sherlock yelling at him to get more milk because they were out again. The memory made him smile; he closed the fridge, hobbled over to his favorite chair and sat down. He gazed out the window, deep in thought. There had been so many things that he had wanted to tell Sherlock. There were so many things that he had wanted to say, but he hadn't said them. John longed to be able to tell him, just once, how much he had meant to him. How much he needed him. How much he loved him. Now Sherlock would never know. He would never know that when John had looked at him he saw not only his best friend, but the love of his life. He would never know that John had loved him ever sense the beginning and that he had only gone out with all of his numerous girlfriends to make him jealous. He would never know that John thought that he was the most beautiful and brilliant man to ever walk this earth. He would never know any of it.
As he sat in the plush cushions of his chair he noticed Mrs. Hudson walk out the door of 221. He knew Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were worried about him, they thought that he was depressed or going insane. They were probably right. John found it hard to enjoy anything in life now, everything reminded him of Sherlock. He had even stopped taking cases; they just brought back too many memories. It's not like he was much of a help anyways. Sherlock had always been the smart one; he was just there to keep him company. I am nothing without him, John thought, he was my other half and without him I am worthless. The more he thought about this the more it made sense, why was he even here? He had no purpose anymore, Sherlock was gone and without him he was nothing. Making up his mind he got up, walked into his bedroom, and searched around in some of the boxes of Sherlock's old things. Finally he found what he was looking for: small white pills with pink spots in a little glass jar. Unknown to Lestrade, Sherlock had kept the pills from the taxi driver case, just in case he ever had need of it. No one but John had ever known that he had kept them. I am nothing without him; he thought sadly, there is no need for me to be here anymore. John unscrewed the cap.
