John sighed, while he rolled out of bed. It was the first time he spent the night back in his old apartment. The one he shared with… Never mind. Either way, he didn't sleep. How could he? His best friend was gone.
John changed into some comfortable clothes and left the flat. He missed something, he never thought he would miss. And this something was Sherlock, playing the violin, in the middle of the night.
It sounded ridiculous, even to his own ears. John always got mad at his former flat-mate when he started making noise at 3 am. But – he had to admit – he missed everything about him.
Sherlock Holmes.
John walked down the street, not really knowing where to go. He really didn't know what to do since the last month. Everything happened so fast. No time for planning. No time for realizing, that this one moment would be their last.
He hated thinking back. Remembering. Remembering, how his friend stood on that roof, looking down at John, his phone on his right ear…
No, John told himself. Stop it. It's too much. Way too much.
Too much pain.
If someone would have told John, that he would once die a little bit along someone else, he would've laughed. Laughed, because he never thought he would meet someone so important to him. And know he could never get over this. Never, he knew.
John blinked. He hadn't realized. Why hadn't he realized where he was going?
Sherlock Holmes, read the gravestone. John took a step back. He wanted to leave again, forget, that he lay here. His best friend.
But he couldn't. Simply couldn't. So he sat down. An uneasy smile on his lips. "So, uhm… hey there", he said and tried not to sigh again. "What should I say? I'm talking to a gravestone… You wouldn't appreciate that, would you? Of course not. You're dead and you won't return…" He laughed coldly. "That would be something. I'd love to see that. How you come back from the dead and then doubt it yourself. 'That's not possible', you would say. I really want to see that… Really, really want to see that… Can you do it? Just for me, Sherlock. That's all I want. To see your baffled face…" He breathed in. His voice trembled and John had to try, not to cry. "No", he warned himself. "I won't cry. You would not want to see me cry. Feelings, am I right?"
John waited a bit. He then let his hand drive through his hair. "Couldn't sleep last night. Think I miss you too much. You should know… I never wanted something more, than to just have you here. Listening to you, while you play the violin. I really miss this. I haven't touched her, by the way. I packed everything into a box. But I couldn't touch your precious violin…" He laughed again. "I must sound like a moron to you."
"Not at all, John."
John stopped breathing. He just imagined this. That hasn't been the voice of his best friend. His best friend was dead. He just missed him so much, that was it.
"No, John. You may be good in imagining, but this is real."
He took one breath. And then he turned around…