John opened his eyes, trying to forget that Sherlock was gone. That he would never come back. That the spark that lit a fire in his life had flickered out. But then John saw the smiley face. He remembered Sherlock firing at it boredly, remembered how angry had been. Remembered that Sherlock Holes was dead. It was too much, all of it. The world so dark and abismul and dull. Sherlock gone. Those words shook John to the core every time they crossed his mind. Even worse, was just the one word. Sherlock. Because the death was never the first thing in his head then. It started with the best things, the happiest moments that they shared. Then it came like a wave, crashing over John. The pain. He was alone in 221B. There wouldn't be haunting melodies being played on the violin, no experiments ruining the kitchen, and no dissapointed glances at John every so often. John missed every tiny bit of Sherlock with every fragment of his heart. He didn't know what to do anymore. He just sat in the flat in silence, missing. Missing the yells, missing the whispers, missing the calm, level only thing that ever changed was his location and an alternation between two reactions. John would either be staring into nothing, enveloped in silence, or his army strength would break and he would resort to racking sobs. Any productive action John performed was mechanical and hollow. Nothing was right, nothing would ever be without Sherlock
Never without Sherlock.
Never without the man who had worked his way into John's heart, and then tore right back out again. The man who was clever, who was sociopathic. The man harboring so much emotion under the surface. The man who lied. Lied about not caring, lied about being a fraud. Lied for no reason whatsoever. Or maybe there was one. John didn't care. That man was dead, leaving his best friend a lonely husk. Nothing would be the same. Everything had changed and every day John wished it hadn't. Every waking moment John wished that a darkly clad man would dash up the stairs, starting a long and enticing explination. Every sleeping moment John dreamt of that moment that dragged Sherlock away from him. Of the phone call. Of the words he could never say. Of the fall. All of it. Sometimes he watched from the third person. Seeing himself, helpless as Sherlock abandoned the world. It was worse then after the war. Worse than remembering the bodies and the blood. It was a lonliness. A hollowness that engulfed his heart.
It was hell
