John Watson ran his hands over his face and slumped into his armchair, pulling the cushion from behind his back and placing it on his lap.
The flat seemed empty without Sherlock and his usual experiments, or his snide remarks about Sarah or the quality of John's tea. He missed the man, missed the thrill of the adventure and chase. He had the work at the surgery, but it was dull compared to running through London at the heels of the world's only and greatest consulting detective.
Mrs Hudson had tried to keep morale up, but nothing that she said seemed to have any effect on John or his emotions. He felt like a part of him was missing, bigger than just the chaos that usually surrounded him, bigger than the next adventure. He missed the part of him that was the man who introduced him to it all.
He went to bed early these days. There was a time when he didn't sleep for days, caught up in one of Sherlock's cases. Nowadays he went to bed at nine pm every night, on the dot. Sometimes he would gather himself enough to push open Sherlock's bedroom door before retiring to his own room. Sometimes he'd push the door open and switch the light on, then go to bed with the light streaming outside his door, almost as if the man himself was in there conducting an experiment or reading. At his lowest, John could almost swear he could hear the man's slender fingers tapping away on the keyboard of his laptop, which was open but not turned on, on his bed. Just where he left it.
Once, about two weeks after Sherlock had gone (John refused to call it anything else), he had gone into his bedroom, laid himself on the bed without disturbing the laptop and cried, great racking sobs that shook his bones so much that he thought they were rattling in his body. He hadn't cried since.
Sarah had been extremely understanding. She'd given him a month off of work (a month of which he spent in his pyjamas, brushing his teeth in three day intervals and drinking around six cups of coffee to stop himself from falling asleep only to be woken up by nightmares) with the usual sympathetic look that lots of people had given him since...well since Sherlock had left. He resented it but said nothing.
The nightmares were the worst thing about losing Sherlock. The man's eyes as he toppled from the edge of the falls, the surprise on his features, the howl as he and Moriarty, locked in a grip so intense that it made John's stomach clench, fell to the rocks below. Actually no, he decided, the nightmares weren't the worst thing. They were horrific, soul destroying images conjured from his own sub-conscious to taunt and torture him as if to say "You could have saved him," but they were only the tip of the iceberg. The worst thing about losing Sherlock was the crushing, heart-wrenching weight in his chest, as if every breath was a hardship, gut wrenching and hollow in his lungs. Breathing wasn't easy like it was before. He had to think about it. Sometimes the steady intake of his own breath would frighten him in the silent flat and his heart rate would pick up, leaving him to fight off the effects of his latest panic attack.
He'd never suffered from panic attacks before Sherlock left. Not even when he came back from Afghanistan. Post traumatic stress, yes, but never panic attacks. As a Doctor he knew they were a result of the stress and worry and the sleepless nights, but as a man, he knew that one) he wasn't going to get rid of them anytime soon, and two) he didn't want to get rid of them. Truthfully, they were the only thing that made him feel alive. The pounding of his heart and the dryness of his mouth would bring him back down to earth with an ear shattering thud (or so it seemed in his head) and it would remind him "you're alive, you're here," when he felt like he wasn't. The slightly hysterical part of his mind would yell back "Why should you be alive when Sherlock isn't? What are you without Sherlock? You're pathetic and if you were any sort of a friend to Sherlock Holmes you would have done something to save him you worthless piece of useless flab!" It's odd how the brain processes criticism isn't it? How the brain chooses to believe the negative over the positive?
John wasn't even sure his mind was working properly. There would be periods of time when he would forget what he had done or what patients he had seen or whether he'd put the cat out or did he even have a cat? It felt like time was skipping and then fast forwarding. He would wake up in bed not remembering climbing into it the previous night. No, this was not living. This was merely existing.
He knew Sherlock would not approve, in his heart. He knew he would fix him with a steely, icy glare and exclaim exasperatedly "You're killing yourself John! Snap out of it man!" but he just couldn't get the fog to clear. Everyday was a struggle. His mind would constantly repeat "He's gone, he's not coming back, Sherlock is gone," like a morbid mantra and he was sure it was slowly driving him mad.
Lestrade was worried about him, he knew. Sometimes he met him for coffee and he would fix him with a half pitying, half worried gaze that John found to be so intensely penetrating that he would have to look away. On the rare occasion that John visited the Yard, Anderson and Donovan would give him half smiles and he would fight the urge to punch them in their faces because he knew they were not grieving for Sherlock, they were just attempting to lessen the blow that the whole Yard felt. After Sherlock left, the Yard had fallen into a state of quiet appreciation for the man that had helped them so much. Half of the police officers and detectives owed their reputations to Sherlock, including Lestrade. John would look around and his face would break into a smug half smile to know that nearly everyone in the room owed everything to Sherlock. At least, if he was gone, he was still here somehow, in the jobs of everyone around him.
It wasn't good enough though. There needed to be more. The only reason he went to the Yard was to ask developments on whether Sherlock's or Moriarty's body had been found. It was the same every week. No new developments, no bodies, no witnesses, and John would go back to 221B with another sunken feeling in his heart. He'd heard that Mycroft had gone to the Falls, and even he, with all his power, had found nothing.
He hadn't spoken to Mycroft since that day. He didn't know quite what to say. John was his friend, but Mycroft had been his brother. Still was his brother, John berated himself. He'd nodded curtly in greeting and Mycroft had offered one in return, before John had said a quiet "I'm sorry," and felt angry with himself for doing so. Mycroft had regarded him with an almost surprised stare, but then his face softened and he'd said quietly back "Me too, Doctor Watson." That had been it.
John moved from the armchair (how long had he been sitting there?) and rubbed his bad shoulder. It was cold in the flat, always was now, since he could remember, and that aggravated his shoulder even more. He padded through the kitchen and boiled the kettle. Mundane everyday tasks, but they always brought back memories of Sherlock. It had been nearly three years, but John could never rid himself of the thoughts of his friend, tinkering silently away on his chemistry set, reading the paper in his own armchair, playing the violin on the sofa, smiling as John handed him tea.
He banged his fist on the counter and rattled the cups.
Two.
He had never been able to make just one cup of tea anymore.