Chapter One
Sherlock was smoking again. He needed stimulation. Distraction. He told himself that he was fine without John, but the flat was so empty now. At times, he would yell for John to come help him. He would wait a while, thinking to himself that he would eventually show up. The logical part of his brain, the part he most cherished, told him John would never come. But the other part, the part he normally suppressed, was telling him not to give up.
He knew John was dead. There had been an exhaustive investigation, with the police involved and everything. Sherlock had determined quickly that the chances of John being alive were nil. The blood of John's armchair and the pattern by which John was dragged were obvious signs. Sherlock could only focus on one thing now. Finding the killer. All possible clues seemed to be led nowhere, and the killer must have been very meticulous.
Sherlock couldn't get excited about playing games with the killer anymore. He just wanted this case to be over. He just felt empty. He should have known someone was going to kill John. How could he have missed it?
Sherlock was currently lying on the couch, smoking what must have been his tenth cigarette today. His mobile was ringing, but he didn't want to answer it. He didn't like talking to people anymore. He refused to even speak of John as dead. He knew that he must leave the house at some point soon, and seriously start his investigation, but he also knew that as soon as he started it he would have to talk to people again.
People who tried to sympathize with him made him absolutely sick and they would never understand what John had meant to him. Even the death of his parents hadn't affected him like this. He blamed himself for the death. John must have been killed because of him. It was the only conceivable option. Sherlock knew John well enough to know that he didn't make enemies.
He was the perfect doctor, he thought, blinking a few times, refusing to cry. He sighed. He knew it was time for him to finally start on this case. He already had a few leads, simply by reading the papers and doing some web searching. There he would start. The police advised him not to get involved in the case, but Sherlock never listened to them.
He wanted justice to be served. He got up off of the couch and walked over to the drawer, opene it and pulled out John's gun. He then walked to the countertop where his gloves and scarf lay. Something about his scarf made him feel extremely angry and he threw it down. He didn't like the familiarity of it. The way it just laid there, being static. The way it always was. Things were not the same now.
They would never be the same.