John Watson
John walked wearily into the hotel and muttered his greetings to the staff before going into in the elevator, up to where he had been residing for the time being.
Until he moved. Again.
As the elevator came to a halt and the doors opened with a ding, he struggled out with his cane as his limp had gotten worse over the years. He limped over to the door with numbers 221 in brass plating, fumbled with the keys to open the door and went in. He pulled a chair over into the four indents in the carpet that the chair had created, and then he collapsed in the chair with a groan and watched the city skyline dim down. John had been here too long and he knew it.
His cane was placed on the drawers and he pulled out the diary he had kept during the 3 years without Sherlock. He flicked through the smooth white pages and stared at them.
In those 3 years, not a single word had been written.
Sherlock. Sherlock was always on his mind, if not the front then the back. 3 years had passed since the fall, and he hadn't felt any better. He had dropped everything and ran.
All he did was run. Over and over.
He had met a nice girl called Mary, and they had gone out on a few dates, all proving to be wonderful, but John knew a part of his heart was missing, and he knew exactly what would fit perfectly.
Sherlock.
With Sherlock gone, the past few years disappeared with him, no more running, no more adventures, no more thrill. John had become a lost little boy now, lost in his thoughts and lost in time.
And no more heart.
He snapped the very-not-empty book shut and cradled it in his lap.
"Please Sherlock," He began, "Just one more miracle." He sat in his chair and stared out the window and watched the lights flicker on and off as the city that never slept mimicked him.
For me.
Sherlock Holmes
His footsteps rocked the quiet night of Baker Street, his steps seeming like thunder down the quiet London street. His cold blue eyes watching for any sudden movement, an old habit, calculating how much time he had left to get inside without being noticed, and then the corners of his lips upturned, remembering the truth.
He had died 3 years ago. Out of habit, he turned to the thin air next to him and words nearly spouted out, ready to tell the man that should be there everything.
He snapped his mouth shut and turned back, ready to finish it under the cover of darkness.
The lock was still the same, the surroundings were still the same, and 221B Baker Street was still the same. His mind flurried through the many scenarios that could, and thought of the best way to deal with any of them. He brushed them aside in his mind and instead decided to go with a direct approach to the situation.
Sherlock had come back, 3 years had passed since he faked his death, he had come back to 221B Baker street, only to find nothing.,
"John, I'm -," His voice broke off halfway as he realised that he wasn't looking at John. In fact he was looking at nothing.
No John, no new occupants, no new or old anything. Just dust, dust had gathered everywhere.
Sherlock tenaciously walked to the window and look out of the window at the small street lights flickering and struggling to glow in the shadow of the night.
John was gone. Sherlock had broken him. And so John ran.
He had to get out quickly before Mrs Hudson came back and found him there. He moved away from the window, treaded carefully down the stairs and out the door. He closed the door and leant against it momentarily, before speaking.
"I'm sorry John, come back."
He strode off into the distance, pulling down his hat over his eyes and flipping his collar up as he melted into the dark alleyways of London like the invisible man that he was. Is.
For me