To hold you in my arms again, John Watson, is all I will ever need.
Sherlock slips in and out of sleep most nights. His thoughts are usually occupied by the hunt. Who's next? Where are they? Trace of sulphur in the fabric sample... Abandoned shopping centre, south Manchester. Travelling. Travelling. Hunting. I've found them. Turn them in. Sleeping under the bridge. Next one, next one... hunt hunt hunt.
It keeps him occupied, most of the time. He has no time to think of other things. He dares not imagine the feel of his violin strings under his taut fingers, the bow dancing under his will as he frantically flips the pages of his favourite piece. Not when there's someone else to find, someone else to lock up. He never dreams of imagining the fresh corpses in the hospital, a murder victim... two murder victims. Interesting murders, too... murders that would take him weeks to solve. No. Not when there's someone out there who could hurt his John.
No. He cannot think of such luxuries. Luxuries he craves and wishes after. He wants to hear Mrs Hudson skipping up the stairs even though the air composition must not be disturbed or the eyes will swell and his experiment will fail. He wants Greg to force him to have drinks with him after he solves a huge case, however much he despises those silly little London pubs and their overpriced peanuts. And most of all, he wants John. He just wants John.
When Sherlock is not hunting, or drifting in and out of a restless slumber, his thoughts are nothing but John. He is glad he had every detail memorized now. If he stared at the stars too long, he saw the freckles on John's back, as he kissed the flesh there and rested his head between his shoulder blades. If he listened long enough to the river as he lay on the ground, he would hear John's hushed footsteps; the ones he used when he first rose out of bed in the morning. If he savoured the paper cups of tea that people sometimes brought him for too long, he would remember John's eyes, and how they sparkled when he was presented with a mug from Sherlock, full of the brown liquid. And his smile, the way it filled his eyes and cheeks so delicately.
When it was cold, all Sherlock wanted was to feel John's muscled arms wrap themselves around his frozen body. He wanted to feel John's heartbeat on his skin, as it beat in time with his own; Feel his tongue as it glided slowly along his bottom lip. So much so, that it made him shiver with want. His hands would shake and there would be tears, sliding down his cheek.
He needed John. He was lost without him, out at sea without a paddle. Stranded in a land of despair.
He wondered how John was now. Months had passed; no, years, surely. Had he found someone new? Moved in with them? Who were they? Did they treat him right? Because if they didn't...
No. Those thoughts scared him. The list of things he would do to anyone who hurt his John was too, too long. Which is why he needed to go back. Someone could be hurting John right now, and he wouldn't know. He should go back, see if he's OK...
But he was tricking himself. John was fine. Of course he was. If he wasn't, Mycroft would have found him and told him by now. That was his only request; if John is in danger, he is the first one to be alerted.
Sherlock sighs. Selfish, selfish man. John is fine, and he has survived another day without him. Soon, he will return. But not yet. John doesn't need him.
For now, Sherlock waits. He sleeps, he hunts, and he dreams of holding the only person who matters in his arms again.