Thanks for reading everyone; I really appreciate it XD (like basically as much as I appreciate Benedict Cumberbatch's face). There are about three more chapters to come- please review if you like it! ~Daniel
It was just a Tuesday night.
A normal, bloody Tuesday night… and everything changed.
John stared at his tea until it went cold. The emptiness inside of him was still just too unbearable. He sat on the kitchen floor, his back up against the kitchen cupboards in the dark. He ran his fingers through his hair repeatedly, slipping into his grief again.
Everyday was the same routine.
John woke up in Sherlock's bed, usually with a headache from his nightly weeping. He went downstairs, took two pills with a mug of tea. He then left for a walk in the park, no matter the weather. The two hours he took to just walk were his time to escape the flat. It was always nice to be away from things that reminded him of Sherlock, but then the need would come back. The need would come back to him and fill him. He'd need to be back there, to see Sherlock's books, his clothes, his science equipment. He needed to be surrounded again or else he might lose all of his sanity.
After he came back, he'd spend the afternoon ignoring phone calls and flipping through some of Sherlock's old workbooks. The man was truly a genius, and John would often mutter compliments under his breath just like he used to do when his friend was still there with him.
Afterwards he would stare at his computer for a while, his hands ready to type his daily progress.
Words could never come to him.
Then he would join Mrs. Hudson for dinner; the two sat in silence the whole time. Mrs. Hudson seemed to understand better than most, John found. She saw more of Sherlock than the others – she knew all the reasons why John was hurting so much and why he would continue onto hurt. After he had thanked her quietly, and she nodded her head, he left her flat and went up to his own. He'd then make his tea, set it down on the table, and weep quietly in the dark flat, the only light coming from the lights outside. His weeping would drag onto the night as he settled down in Sherlock's bed and the process would begin again. It had been that way for months.
But today wouldn't end the same.
Because as John was getting ready to go to bed that night, he noticed something small and blue across the street tied to a streetlight.
It was Sherlock's scarf.