Yellow cars
John sighed and rolled his eyes. Sherlock was being, if possible, more frustrating then ever.
'So,' Sherlock said slowly, 'You have to…punch the person next to you when you see a yellow car? Why? Why yellow?' He fixed John with a curious stare.
John huffed.
'Sherlock, it's just a game, for gods sake, you don't need to analyze every single part of it.' He looked away, feeling angry.
Sherlock looked hurt, but only for a second. They walked home in silence and didn't speak of it again.
That was until a month later. They were walking to St Barts, because neither of them had any cash for a taxi, and were standing at the crossing.
A yellow car drove by. Grinning slightly, John raised his arm into a fist and lightly punched Sherlocks left arm.
He couldn't suppress a giggle when Sherlock turned slowly to face him, his lips pursed.
'I suppose this is part of your game then?'
John nodded, still smiling. They continued in silence.
John carried on with the yellow car game and whenever a yellow car drove by, John would punch him without fail. The funniest thing was probably Sherlocks reaction.
Every time, he would get more and more angry until he was standing there gritting his teeth and clenching his fists as John hit him once again.
Of course, this made it harder for John to contain his laughter and he erupted into a fit of giggles. Sherlock muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'childish' and they carried on.
Over the past year, John had become so accustomed to Sherlock and being with him that the thought of being without him had never crossed his mind.
When Sherlock had jumped off the hospital roof, John had been devastated. He didn't leave the flat for weeks on end and only did to get food.
Finally, he decided he couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't stand wallowing in sadness and self pity. Nightmares plagued his sleep, but no relief came from waking up.
His mind started playing tricks on him. He saw Sherlock on the bus, in an alley, sitting in the back of a shady bar.
And still, a part of John felt hope and his heart leapt when he thought he saw his companion, which made the fall afterwards even worse.
Walking back from the shops, John stopped at the crossing. He stared blankly at the lights as he waited. His mind ran over the day, and he counted one, two, three times he thought he had seen the detective.
He looked down at the ground, his head heavy and his body tired. However, he looked up again when someone joined him at the lights.
A yellow car drove by. Smirking slightly, he raised his fist into the air.
'Yellow-' he stopped. The smile disappeared and his face fell. His hand dropped limply to his side and something inside him felt like it was breaking.
The woman beside him looked at him sympathetically. Everyone around here knew about the tragedy and thought they understood the pain John was feeling. There estimations weren't even close.
He distantly heard the beeping, telling him to cross, but his mind ignored it. A single tear rolled down his face and it was then, that he finally managed to accept the truth.
Sherlock was gone, and he wasn't ever going to come back.