A/N: Just another drabble I wrote for another user on Tumblr. This one was actually quite some time ago. Anyway, I hope you like it~ Enjoy~

It had been quiet all night. Too quiet. And it reminded John of his days and night with Sherlock Holmes before…

Well, just before.

Fuck, it has been three years since that dreadful day when…and John still wasn't able to talk about it. Not completely anyway. His emotions always seemed to get the best of him, even when he tried to distract himself from the torment he caused himself. Because, yes, everyone grieves differently, but there comes a point where the the natural reaction crosses over into personal, and self-maintained, depression.

He didn't eat. Didn't sleep most nights. And when he did it wasn't for very long as the recurring images of Sherlock falling, falling, falling, calling him, speaking in that broken voice, just jolted him awake only moments later. He hadn't even left his chair for the first few days after the incident, not until Mrs. Hudson had yanked him off of the cushion and shoved him in the shower…

Even after that, it took all that he had—had left, anyway—for him to get dressed, seem presentable enough to even look at Mrs. Hudson in the face for he knew how hard Sherlock's…fall…had been on her as well and him behaving in this way wasn't helping anyone.

He had blamed Mycroft, of course, as he should have, but before long, hating the wretched man just became too much effort and wasted too much energy. He hated himself for longer because he couldn't have done more even though he thought he should have—what could he have done? Sherlock made up his mind and you can't make Sherlock change it back—and he hated living without the other. The apartment wasn't the same without him, and it never would be. But it was where he felt the most at home even if his home was broken now.

For him, crossing the line of hatred into utter indifference and apathy about everything altogether was so sudden. Two years ago on the anniversary of Sherlock's fall, he woke up and just…did nothing. He didn't feel anything. And that was most sad of all.

Now, two years later, that hasn't changed much. Yes, he works, and yes he keeps Mrs. Hudson company—or rather, he allows her to come into whatever room he is in—but no, he doesn't sleep well. And he doesn't willingly start conversation with others. And he doesn't speak unless spoken to and even then, sometimes, one has to startle him out of thought.

See, Sherlock wasn't just a friend. He wasn't just a man. Not to Watson, anyway.

Sherlock was so much more. So very much more. He was John's one and only companion; he was the doctor's best mate; he was Watson's better half, as some would call it. The way his mind worked, even if it was complicated to the rest of humanity, astounded and blew the doctor's mind. The way his eyes bore into your sole, seeing everything there was to know about you in only a matter of seconds boggled the minds of even the greatest detectives. The simplistic way his lips quirked when he was amused or smug; his hands would sometimes be more excited than he; the way his fingers caressed his viloin like it was his lover or his child, or the way they would unbutton his coat or stroke over the ends of his scarf or tap on the desk or flitter away at the keys on their laptop. Everything he did, everything he ever said, meant so much more to John—because it wasn't just some mannerism. It was the very essence of Sherlock. It made Sherlock become more than just a man. Almost god-like, even.

A small sniffle made its way into the disturbingly quiet room, a shaky hand coming to rub away at the tears that trecked down Watson's face as he just sat and stared at the other's empty chair. Blinking away the rest of the burning sensation behind his eyes, John cleared his throat and leaned forward, running his hands through his mussed hair. "…Sherlock, I swear…" He shuddered once and then rose, straightening up his shirt and dusting off the invisible dirt that clung to it.

As he walked out the door, he couldn't help but stop on the way out and notice that Mrs. Hudson has already grabbed the post and set it on the side table beside the staircase. Oh, well, he'd just look at it later. No need to make himself even more late than usual to his work place. They wouldn't be too happy with him. Not that he cared. But he still needed to be able to pay rent, didn't he?

And, perhaps…the most tragic thing of all about this entire incident was the fact that John had only realized his feelings—god, he hated that term; he wasn't enough to explain what he felt—towards the other. And by the time he came around to the idea, by the time he became comfortable with it and himself, it was obviously too late. He couldn't tell Sherlock, no matter how many times he muttered what words he could manage at the other's gravesite hoping he would somehow hear him, because the other wasn't around and would never be again. So, yes, he'd have to forever regret not coming to his conclusions sooner.

Because, at one delusional point in the last three years, John had convinced himself that Sherlock might have felt the same about him, too. Delusional, being the centric word here. God, he was a mess, a wreck, that night…

But enough of that…he couldn't very well work in the emotional state he was in and, hopefully by the time he arrived, his eyes would be their normal, sleep-deprived white, rather than their puffy red-rimmed counterparts.

He hadn't even walked in yet when he heard the slightly annoying voice of Molly—it wasn't just her, though; he had been getting annoyed with everyone who wasn't Sherlock—asking him to come with her for a moment. Not really paying attention, nor caring, he followed, only wishing that this day could end so he could return to the apartment and wallow in his depression. Couldn't people tell that he wanted to be alone? Sure, it wasn't like a soldier to behave this way, but this was simply John. This was the army doctor side of him. This wasn't Sherlock's 'partner'. This was John. And John wanted to be alone.

John wanted his Sherlock back.

They walked down a hallway, a few doors opening, lights automatically turning on in their arrival and then suddenly, he felt a small envelope being thrust into his hands. The contents unknown yet it was clearly adressed to him—his name, John Hamish Watson, scrawled out in the familiar perfect handwriting of the man he had been so desperately missing and wanting for the last three years.

He blinked, eyes widening, throat tightening. "U-um, what's this?"

"Open it." Was all he heard. He didn't care how she said it, or what movements her eyes made, or the way she was wringing her hands into her lab coat.

He couldn't care about that right now.

Because this envelope was making black spots appear in his vision; this envelope was making his entire body quiver.

"Food goodness sakes, John, open the damned thing!"

He shook his head a little, dispelling whatever it was that was threatening to overcome him. Leaning against one of the experimentation tables, he ran his finger under the seal, breaking it, the paper ripping.

He was expecting some sort of letter not a card with a picture of a frighteningly gorgeous waterfall on the front with the white font at the top reading "I know you're dealing with a lot right now, and I just want you to know that it's going to work out…".

His breath caught in his chest, the pain at reading it, at seeing the image, was all too much. But for the little life he had in him, he opened it. Nothing.

Except three little words and a signature.

"I believe in you—SH"

Not a moment later the bottom right corner, just underneath Sherlock's initials, did there appear a single tear and the only thing one could hear in the silence of this particular room was John's broken sob. "Sherlock, I swear."