Sherlock stared out the window of the run-down motel he was staying at in a city in Iowa that he kept forgetting the name of, because he honestly couldn't care less. He knew that for John's safety he would have to hide himself well, and what better way to do that than go to the States. With him he had very few possessions. He had his coat, two scarves, two pairs of pants, two shirts, three pairs of boxer shorts, and a scrapbook that he didn't think he could ever live without.
Mrs. Hudson had been a 'memory preserver' as he liked to call it. She was constantly taking pictures and scrapbooking them. At the time, Sherlock found her behavior to be quite unbearable but due to recent events he blessed her name because of it. Being away from his first and only friend, John, was not easy for the genius; having not ever been close with anyone before, he didn't really know how to manage the feelings that went along with deeply caring for someone and then being separated with that person. He resorted to looking through old photographs while drinking cheap liquor and smoking two packs of cigarettes a day.
During the day he was able to occupy himself by solving crimes on American television minutes into the shows, and talking to one of John's cardigans that he was able to snag before his fall. He would often both begin and end his conversations with, "I'm sorry, I wish you could understand. I'll see you again soon." Nightfall, however, was when his strong composure usually began to fall apart.
Sherlock watched the sun finally set while he finished his third glass of the cheapest liquor he could find. He stared at the vacancy of the glass and remembered how he used to go drinking with John on special occasions. He would drink significantly less than John would and he would greatly enjoy watching his friend descend into to effect of the alcohol. The more drunken John got the more he would start to share. The conversations were always the same:
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?" Sherlock answered almost routinely.
"Have I ever told you that you are my first real friend. I mean sure, I had war friends. We didn't want to be friends though. None of us really met under good circumstances. But you. Sherlock Holmes. The man with no friends who is almost unable to relate to anyone? You're the one who I can really call a friend? " John would slur out.
"Yes, in fact you have. Coincidentally they were all in situations exactly the same as this one." Sherlock would reply, smirking. He found John's drunken back-handed compliments to be rather amusing.
"Well, you are. Even though you are an insufferable dick most of the time I think you're the most brilliant man I've ever met." John would add on putting an unnecessary accent on the word, 'dick'.
Sherlock would laugh and stare down at his first drink which was only half gone even though they'd been there at least two hours. There is no doubt the drink had gotten warm. He doubted he would be able to finish it because in one more shot John would be vomiting, which would mean it was finally time to help carry him back to the flat.
Sherlock opened the first page of the worn-out scrapbook. He'd memorized it by now, but he still found comfort in its pages. The first four or so pages were kind of an awkward mess. He and John weren't exactly used to, or comfortable with Mrs. Hudson taking pictures all the time so they were usually standing stiff looking away trying to pretend that the camera didn't exist. However, as the pages went on you could see their composure gradually get more relaxed; that's where Sherlock's favorite pictures were.
Before John came into his life Sherlock had absolutely no interest in having any type of social life. John would often pull him out of his comfort zone and he would throw little dinner parties which consisted of himself, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft on occasion, and Molly. Sherlock started to become genuinely happy when John mentioned that he'd like to have another one. The pictures from these parties brought Sherlock the most happiness. There were a few of Mycroft and Lestrade laughing over something John said, Molly tripping over everything because she had one too many drinks, and the occasional few of Mrs. Hudson covering her face after John had stolen the camera and tried insisting that she be in a few pictures, but she always argued and said that the photographer was usually never photogenic. Mixed in with these were Sherlock's favorites. They were of him and John laughing together on the sofa, in the kitchen, or somewhere in between tripping over each other. Laughing with John was a surreal experience for Sherlock. He questioned whether or not he had properly laughed before his blogger came into his life; he highly doubted it.
One moment, Sherlock was laughing in nostalgia and the next he was hiding his face in his hands sighing deeply. John had left a sizeable hole in him. He glanced up at the pictures that were now scattered around him. He looked over at his phone and grabbed it. He scrolled through his contact list and left the cursor highlighted on John's name. He almost couldn't take it anymore. He didn't know how much longer he could keep up with his charade. One text. One text was all that it would take to let his best friend know that he was still alive. One text would let his best friend know that he couldn't stand to be away from him anymore and that he was back on his way to the flat immediately with take-out. He clenched his phone for a few more seconds before he tossed it on to the musty floor. It was still too early to risk. John's life was still in danger.
With misty eyes Sherlock glanced back at the pictures and moaned out a barely audible whisper, "John…" was all that he said. He wondered if John even thought about him. He wondered if he stayed at 221B Baker Street or if he had moved on and gotten involved in another relationship. Drudgingly Sherlock pulled himself out of the chair, clumsily walked across the hardwood floor, and sank into the bed clutching John's cardigan with white knuckles. He lightly sobbed into it trying to remember the last time John wasn't on his mind. Glancing at the clock he saw that it was already 1:15AM. He'd spent nearly four hours tonight reminiscing about John; that's longer than most nights. Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could go without his army doctor.
John Watson was a soldier. Sherlock's suicide had taken a great emotional toll out on him, but, the fact still remained; John was a soldier. He maintained a fairly regular scheduled life. He did what was needed to be done to survive, which consisted of eating three times per day, slept 6.5 hours per night, and worked 40 hours per week at the surgery. He met with Mrs. Hudson for lunch once per month and got a weekly phone call from Lestrade at five o'clock every Friday. He and Mycroft had not spoken in god knows how long, and he stopped returning Sarah's phone calls. John was able to keep a strong and collected composure almost one hundred percent of the time but like every other human, he had his weak spots.
John came home late Friday night from surgery. He had ignored all three of Lestrade's phone calls and he had skipped dinner. He barely made it all the way to the sofa before he was pulling out a bottle of bottom-shelf whisky that he had just picked up from the liquor store down the street. He took one shot of it before he collapsed into the leathery cushions. Six shots later John lay sprawled out on his back on the couch, his eyes fixed on the front door. If at that moment John could have one wish, he would wish that Sherlock could just walk through that door again exclaiming about a case or the recent affairs of the neighbors. Tossing over onto his side so he was facing the back of the couch, John wondered where Sherlock was. He wondered if he was in some sort of afterlife. He chuckled to himself at his picture of Sherlock's personal heaven. He figured it would look like some sort of middle-school science fair but with more body parts. Wherever Sherlock was, John wondered if he thought about him at all since John barely went one moment without thinking of him.
John sat up and looked around the flat. The ghost of Sherlock was in every corner. By the window he saw him playing an original composition on his violin. When he glanced in the kitchen he could see Sherlock placing blood samples in glass jars and placing them in the refrigerator. When he looked directly next to him he could see Sherlock laughing and smiling up at him before looking back towards the television, something that happened quite often during their newly adapted movie nights.
Mycroft was constantly badgering John about what he had to do to make Sherlock 'lighten up'. John wished that he had an answer for him, but the truth was that he didn't. Their relationship, though questionable at first, really sprouted into something quite remarkable over time. Sherlock and John both had their fair share of issues when they were first introduced to each other, and during their time of living together they were really able to bring out the best of each other. Sherlock was able to become somewhat less reliant on nicotine, and become a relatable and surprisingly normal, and humorous person (with the help of social drinking), while John was able to fight through his post-war depression, and not have such a need for a romantic relationship.
Early in their times living together there was usually silence throughout the flat. John would be on his computer blogging while Sherlock was in some room doing some sort of odd experiment that John didn't even bother to question. The only time they really clicked and spent time together was during a case, but after the case was over they went back to their normal places. After their third or so case together, out of the blue, Sherlock asked John what time of take-out he liked best.
"Uhm, well, anything Chinese, I suppose. Why do you ask?" John replied looking at Sherlock quizzically.
"John Watson, you are in luck. I happen to know the best place to get Chinese take-out in all of London; and perhaps even all of Britain. I'll have it ordered to the flat tonight along with some pay-per-view. How does a little mystery sound?" Sherlock asked, smiling.
"Sounds lovely," was all John was able to reply. He wished he could see into Sherlock's mind because he was constantly being surprised by it. Was Sherlock really making an attempt to properly befriend him?
That night at the flat was one of John's fondest memories of Sherlock. They were able to connect more than either of them thought possible over simple take-out and old mystery films. Nights like that became somewhat a routine for the two of them. After about a month or so John decided he would suggest something else for them that was way out of Sherlock's zone; dinner parties. Mrs. Hudson helped out the most, of course. She would cater to everyone and caught every moment on film.
John sighed deeply and got up. He staggered over to Sherlock's room and pushed open the door carefully. He walked in and was immediately overwhelmed to the point where he fell to his knees, weeping, at the end of Sherlock's un-made bed. "Sherlock! Sherlock, you bastard. You son of a bitch how could you leave me here alone!" John shouted to the air. "You selfish prick! How in god's name could you commit suicide. I bloody loved you, Sherlock, and you knew it! You knew it! After all we did together! After everything we helped each other with! After all of that, you still—you s-still left!" he finished with his voice breaking at the end so instead of sounded like an angry drunk he sounded more like a hurt and confused child. John's whole being was filled with regret. He didn't know if he and Sherlock would have worked out romantically, but the more he thought about it the more he wished that they had at least talked about it. He wished that he would have at least told Sherlock about his feelings.
After a half hour of sobbing, John took a deep breath and stretched out onto his back with his hands folded behind his head. His breathing slowly steadied to a normal pace. He glanced around the room. He could see Sherlock around the entire room still. John had to come to terms with this reality. Sherlock was gone. He was never coming back. The pain in John's chest helped remind him that Sherlock was real. As long as the pain remained, he would remember the depth of his love for his best friend. He supposed that was better than feeling nothing at all. Exhausted, John rolled over on to his side and slowly drifted off to a place where he could see his best friend's face again.