Title: Phantom Pain
By: Serpentsrose
Disclaimer: I do not and will not make money from the writing of this Fanficiton. Sherlock does not and never will be mine.
It was like a phantom limb, he knew he was gone, hell he watched him fall. It relayed every night in his nightmares stealing his sleep and peace of mind like a phantom thief in the night. But there was no consulting detective to solve this case, this theft of his happiness. No, he would walk into the living room and open his mouth to tell him something, anything, only to stop and stare into the empty chair.
He could see him, at night when he should be asleep out of the corner of his eyes as he makes his tea, which he heavy dose with alcohol more often than not these days, he would be hunched over the kitchen counter working on some experiment or another for a case before turning and requesting something from John.
Then John would turn around an answer on the tip of his lips before remembering. He was alone. It was at times like those when the alcohol would find its way into is mug, drowned out the taste of tea just as it drowned his senses, the pain from the missing part of his soul. One that he never thought was so critical, until it was ripped away. Funny how that worked, you never knew what you had until it was gone. He had never been one for clichés but as he stared into his alcohol, he didn't even try to pretend It was tea not tonight, he wonders how Sherlock would feel if it was him. Would he feel so broken? So, empty? And yet at the same time so complete, he felt as if he were living a paradox. His mind says one thing and yet his heart says another.
You see he isn't drinking because his depressed, everyone assumes so, but then Sherlock did always tell him that people see the truth but fail to actually observe it. No he wasn't drinking because he was depressed, he was drinking because he was alright. Sounds like denial, but there it was.
It wasn't what you see that help you solve the case, but often it was what was missing. Sherlock taught him that on his very first case. He may not be Sherlock, but that doesn't mean he can't put two plus two together and get four. Or in this case take four away from two, to get to the most logical conclusion. Which in this case was, that Sherlock wasn't died, but he need to make everyone think he was. Everyone, of course, meant mainly him.
He knew everyone thought he was a horrible actor. That he wore his heart on his sleeve. Good old honest John Watson couldn't lie to save his life. That may have once been true, but that was before he met Sherlock Holmes. While he was teaching Sherlock to be more human in his reactions, Sherlock was teaching him how to hide his. Not that Sherlock knew that, it would be giving the game way. You couldn't lay your cards on the table until the game was over after all.
All he had to do was wait, wait and wallow; he knew Mycroft was watching the flat, waiting for the time when he would do something unforgiveable. He glanced at the kitchen cabinet where he stashed his gun after that night. He would get it out every once and a while and clean it, wanting it to be in working order for when Sherlock returned, he was sure he was going to need it. Sherlock always did have a head for trouble. And it was his job to make sure he would get out in one piece, no matter in what capacity that may be. If Sherlock needed him to be a broken hearted, half their wrath of his former self, then he would do it gladly. As long as it got him back to him once more, he would be contented, glancing at the calendar on the wall marking the months since his world turned upside down, and gave a small seemingly broken smile.
The pain was like a phantom limb, but that was the beauty of it, if you managed to be quick enough even a severed limb could be reattached and you can be made whole again. Closing his eyes he took in a shuttered breath and stood up placing his half empty mug into the sink before making his way up to Sherlock's room, he never slept in his anymore, it would be depressing enough and he had to give Mycroft a show. Closing the door he rests his head against the grain of the wood and closes his eyes absorbing the cold into his skin and the temporary comfort it gave him. He hoped whatever was keeping Sherlock away would be over and he would come home soon, because as a doctor he knew he was running out of time before this Phantom pain became real. And not matter how good of a doctor has was and no matter how much of a genius Sherlock could be, they could never be one again.