Hello lovely readers!
Thank you for taking the time to actually read this!
All mistakes are mine as I have no Beta.
Please review!
Disclaimer: No… I do not own Sherlock. If I did, season 4 would already be out.
John Watson rushed into their flat, balancing the groceries and his cane in one hand as he struggled to open the door. "Sherlock," John shouted, "I've got the groceries." He walked into their little kitchen, surprised not to see Sherlock hunched over the counter, eyes glued to the microscope, one hand making minute adjustments to the image, the other scribbling down notes in tiny cursive writing.
He sighed and decided that Sherlock was simply in his room, and went to put the groceries in the fridge. He opened the door and was shocked to see… nothing. There were no body parts scattered around the fridge in little metal pans, no strong scent of formaldehyde emanating from the fridge, or unmarked chemicals that would probably kill them both. John put the groceries away, surprised and worried by the normalcy of it all.
"Sherlock!" He called loudly through 221 B. "Where are you?" He walked through the flat, passing the living room and bathroom without incident, but froze when he finally did reach Sherlock's room. It was full of cardboard boxes, Sherlock's carefully organized things strewn around the room. And then it hit him.
Sherlock Holmes, his best friend and the greatest detective who had ever lived, was dead. Had been for over four months. How could John have forgotten?
He stared at the wall opposite him, trying to get a grasp on what he had just realized, when he noticed the newspaper. It was from one of their cases, and Sherlock was wearing his usual black coat and scarf, except this time he was wearing the deerstalker hat that he always said had two fronts. Suddenly overcome with the need to see it at least one more time, he searched the room for the knitted blue scarf that Sherlock always wore. He searched around the room, tearing through the boxes, furious need forcing him to move even faster than he had been a moment before.
Unable to find it, he sank down onto the sheet-less bed that Sherlock had rarely used. Fighting back salty tears, he tried to remember the crisp, clean smell of the aftershave that Sherlock had used, but he couldn't remember even that small detail. He couldn't remember what Sherlock's long, black coat felt like. He looked around the room, "Sherlock, please, just, don't be dead." He paused as if expecting a response, but none came. Tears cascaded down John's cheeks and he fell back on the bed, curling into a loose fetal position.
Sherlock never came, and John was left all alone, with only his thoughts for company.