You Can Spell Loss out of Sherlock Holmes

by Maddi Paige

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell." ― Edna St. Vincent Millay My post-reichenbach, 221B format drabble. No slash, just friendship. Rated T because I don't understand ratings really.

Author's Note: Well, here it is. The obligatory post-Reichenbach peice I've been meaning to write since the fall. It's in 221B format, with hopefully 221 words. Please enjoy whilst I hide in my corner and suffer from the feels.

You can Spell Loss out of Sherlock Holmes

You can spell the word 'loss' out of 'Sherlock Holmes'. You can also spell 'lose'. John Watson smirked at the irony of it. It had been two years, fifty-one days, three hours and eight minutes since Sherlock, his best friend, fell. He supposed it was silly to keep track, but it was also silly to be drowning his sorrows in a beer and mourning the event he was keeping track of.

John hated every minute that passed without Sherlock Holmes. He despised everyone's pity-filled glances, consoling sentences, and sad eyes. All he wanted was a cluttered flat, filled to the brim with consulting detective, body parts in the fridge, and new holes blasted in the wall. He sat in Baker Street and loathed it's emptiness.

"Here's to you, Sherlock." John would rasp, and lift the bottle in salute. The beer would slip easily past his teeth and into his protesting stomach. Tomorrow, he would be so hung over that Sarah would force him to go home and sleep it off like she did every day. But John couldn't go home. Not really. Sure, Baker Street was his residence, and Ms. Hudson didn't bother him about paying the rent, but home was supposed to be where the heart was, and John's heart was six feet under. The hole in his chest burns.

Still hiding, still feeling...

WHY DO WE HAVE TO WAIT SO LONG FOR SEASON THREE? It's not fair...