Empty Inside

My stomach growled but I didn't really feel it, I couldn't eat if I tried. Sherlock's obituary was pulled up on my computer screen and I had been staring at it for hours now, trying to make myself believe it. This has been a daily activity for me. Wake up, convince myself to get out of bed, look at the stranger in the mirror, pull up Sherlock's obituary, go back to sleep. How many days has it been?Mrs. Hudson came in two days ago and forced me to eat some crackers and left me some soup that I poured down the drain. She usually comes in every Tuesday or Thursday and she's only been in once this week. I guess that means it's Thursday. Of what month? Who knows...

My phone buzzed, waking me from my thoughts. I pulled it out eagerly. Hoping, wishing, praying for it to be him. My heart sank seeing Lestrade's name. I should have known. He usually checks up on me around this time. I ignored the message, already knowing what it said. Hey how are you? We should catch up, call me? He's like an annoying ex. I can't even remember the last time I lef the flat. Yes you do. It was to go to Sherlock's had been a closed casket. Molly hadn't cried as I thought she would. Why was that? I don't know, but her calm, quiet manner had caught my attention before the service started and the absence of my friend sunk in. He's gone. Sherlock's gone. He's dead and buried in the ground. Am I? Yes. He's dead and I will never get to see his face light up again with the excitement of a new case. No one had been lucky enough to preserve that look in photograph. All that was left were memories of a great man and articles that portray him as a fake.

A knock came on the door and Mrs. Hudson called to me, "John, love, are you up?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." My voice cracked.

"There you are, dear. I made you some tea, will you drink it?" She offered me a trat arranged with crackers and a cup of tea. You need to eat, John. I nodded and sat the tray on the table, "Drink up, dear. You look awful."

The cup was warm in my hands and the liquid soothed my throat. I closed my eyes and breather in a sigh before taking another sip. Nothing had ever tasted so good but felt so bad. It caused the pain in my chest to swell, making me flinch. Mrs. Hudson looked worriedly at me. She glanced at my laptop screen and regained her composure, "Now dear, you need to stop reading that. And the articles as well. You and I both know very well that Sherlock Holmes was not a fake. He was more real that you or I. Now let me take this blasted thing away and you go get cleaned-"

"No!" I shouted as she reached for the computer. I said more quietly, "No. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but please. Leave him there."

She looked at me with her sad old eyes, nodded and left. I was alone once again. My eyes found their way back to his face on the screen, going over each familiar crease and angle again and again, trying to remember the warmth he used to bring. My phone buzzed again but this time I ignored it completely. I had just had a thought that made all others disappear.

I stood up, closed my laptop and went to my desk where I began writing furiously. Writing, rewriting, scratching out, getting another piece of paper until finally, finally it was perfect. Leaving the papers on the desk, I went to my room where I freshened up, put on clean clothes and grabbed my jumper. I paused to glance in the mirror. The man staring back was very thing and had sunken eyes. His face showed a life's worth of struggle that I was sure I had never seen before.

I returned to the desk, folded the papers in thirds and placed them carefully into an envelope. Before slipping it into my pocket I quickly wrote a name on its front. With a shaky hand I opened the desk drawer and removed my service piece. It felt foreign and cold in my sweaty hand.

I sunk to my knees on his grave, staring at the headstone. I placed the letter on the base, "I miss you, Sherlock." I know.

My phone buzzed again and again I ignored it. Instead I pulled out the gun and placed the barrel under my chin, "I miss you so much." John. No!

Tears trailed down my face as I pulled the trigger.

A shot echoed through the cemetery causing the group to quicken their pace. As they neared the grave, Lestrade, who was in front, stopped dead in his tracks. Someone sped past him but he felt the others stop behind him, "Oh god."

The tall figure stooped to check John's pulse. His face became grim and cold, "Lestrade." The man called, his deep voice calm and dead.

Lestrade started giving orders to the team and they got to work silently. Lestrade came to his side in time to see the long, pale fingers tuck a letter into his coat. Lestrade didn't speak. He didn't know what to say. He just watched as the blue eyes that he would have previously described as cold lose all the warmth they ever held. He saw the man that he would have sworn was incapable of emotions truly die inside. He followed Sherlock's gaze to John's face, the seeping hole just visible under his chin, "Sherlock..."

Sherlock's tear-filled eyes met his and whatever he had planned to say vanished form his mind. He just stared into that sad blue eyes.

After the body had been removed and the scene cleared, one of the workers came to Lestrade with a curious look, "We didn't find the gun sir, but we found his phone."

He handed the phone to Lestrade. He looked at the screen:

1 missed call from Sherlock Holmes

1 new text

He opened the text: John, I'm coming home -SH