John had always been the social one.
He could talk about a number of subjects and laugh, get angry, be upset, and comfortably share ideas with others. He was easy to look upon, had a good sense of humor, and was simply a good friend. In fact, he had many friends. From the army, his uni days, work at the surgery, and from all of his cases with Sherlock.
And he had a picture frame.
Who knew where it had come from, maybe a fellow comrade, or maybe an admirer of Sherlock's. In which case the gift would've been poked, prodded, and analyzed within an inch of its life until it walked out the door of 221B itself.
But that didn't matter.
What mattered was that he had kept the frame for a long time now, maybe 5, 10 or even 20 years, and it had been empty the entire time.
What mattered was that although the frame was labeled 'Friends', there wasn't a picture to be found sandwiched between the wood and the metal flaps that kept the picture, if there had been one, in place. Maybe John didn't have a decent picture of a friend of his, or maybe he just didn't like pictures.
But that didn't matter either. In fact, soon after his first case with Sherlock which he so graciously labeled "A Study in Pink" on his blog, the frame became occupied. And then, it was a reminder of his friendship with a certain person, and so the frame wasn't dusty and cold anymore. It was perched on a table, cheerful and happy, where John could see it everyday.
But time had passed, Sherlock had fallen, and John was curled up on his chair. Watching Sherlock's seat and the picture frame that occupied it, and reflected his sorrowful feelings.
Because it had shown him how he had not belonged when it was empty.
Because it had shown his happiness when it was full.
And now there was no picture.
And now the picture frame. The lonely, cold, tired, heaving, sobbing, devastated picture frame.
Was empty once again.
