I'm drowning in Johnlock feels and it's ruining my life. But in a good way. I think.
Summary: The months after the reveal of Mary's true nature and Sherlock's hospitalisation give John far too much time to think. A 221B ficlet (221 words long, the last word beginning with B, for those of you that are unfamiliar). Implications of pre-Johnlock.
Reviews and concrit always very welcome
After Sherlock goes back into hospital, John spends most of his days alone. He sees Mary only when unavoidable, dodges Mrs. Hudson's well meant but overbearing concern, takes to wandering around London and trying to organise the cacophony of thoughts inside his head.
How had everything gone so wrong so fast?
Sometimes, in the lowest moments, he returns home and gropes around in the back of his wardrobe until he finds what he's looking for – a crumpled envelope with "Dr. and Mrs. Watson" inscribed in his old flatmate's unmistakable scrawl.
He sits on the floor and runs his eyes over the waltz that Sherlock had composed for them. He can't read the sheet music, but he can remember the hauntingly beautiful melody that he danced to that night.
Too often he finds himself wishing that he'd gone after Sherlock when he'd left the reception, that he hadn't run from the look on his friend's face after announcing Mary's pregnancy. He realises that he'd made a choice in that moment. A wife and domesticity over... whatever it was that he and Sherlock had, or could have.
This is where that choice had landed him. Alone on the floor with only a battered sheet of paper to remind him of the life he had given up. Of the love he had left behind.