First chapter! It's short, sorry, but I'll put more in soon! Rated M for...probably a lot of slash later on.

John walked slowly up the stairs of Baker street, his limp unerringly apparent, carrying a bag of groceries. His phone vibrated, and beeped three times. Mycroft was texting him. Well, he'd have to wait. No way was John pulling out his phone and falling down the stairs trying to respond just because Mycroft was in a meeting.

He reached the top step, and made his way into the flat. Dumping his shopping on the counter, the doctor checked his phone.

"You need a new jumper. MH."

John sighed, and shook his head. He wasn't getting a new jumper. He wasn't wearing a new jumper, either. He wasn't wearing any jumper other than the one he'd worn the last time he saw Sherlock. The one he was wearing now.

"Not happening. Sod off. JW."

Mycroft didn't reply. He never really did. Only when John asked a question, or made a request. Other than that, he only ever began conversations.

It had been six months since Sherlock had jumped off that roof. Six months since he had told John he was a liar, and a cheat, and that nothing he'd ever said had been true, and jumped off the building. Six months since Sherlock had left John behind. Forever.

John put away the food he'd bought, and made tea. He poured two cups, as he always did, one for him, and one, out of habit, for Sherlock. He had never wanted to break the habit. He had never had any desire to. He had never cried for Sherlock, sobbed his heart out like his therapist said he should. He had just continued making two cups of tea, setting two places out for dinner, making enough food for two. He had gone on with his life exactly as it had been before, except that now he was empty inside. Sherlock was dead. He had no friend, no flat mate, no detective, no adventuring partner. He didn't have Sherlock. He did't have anything.

John took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. His heart thudded against his chest. His pulse got faster, until he stopped breathing completely. For a minute, John sat in his chair, silent as death, not moving, not breathing. Just sitting.

Then the panic attack passed, and oxygen flew into his lungs again. These attacks had become more and more frequent since the fall. The therapist had prescribed him medication, but John didn't need someone to prescribe him medication. He had access to all the pills he could ever want or need, working at the surgery. That didn't make it any more likely that he would take them. Sherlock would have expected him to stick to his morals, and who would want to disappoint Sherlock?

John glared at the alabaster tabletop. He felt weak. Stupid. Worthless. He hadn't associated with anyone since Sherlock. He hadn't even had a genuine conversation with Mrs. Hudson in several weeks. Mycroft was his only real connection to the world outside his work.

This was what being alone felt like. This was what the absolute,irrefutable loneliness that widows and people who'd lost children felt. John chuckled. Sherlock would probably have made some smart remark about his apparently self-centered feelings of pity.

He missed Sherlock. He missed literally everything about him. He missed the experiments, he missed the cold stare he'd get on days when Sherlock was in a bad mood, he missed Sherlock's undeniable inability to accept social structure.

John stood up. His leg ached, but he'd stopped caring. Walking over to the sofa, he massaged the back of his head. The doctor plopped down on the couch, and turned his body so that he faced the wall. He'd begun doing this a few weeks after the fall. One of the many, many things he remembered about Sherlock was his constant habit of sleeping on the couch, something John had never really understood. But now it didn't matter, because the only person there to sleep on the couch was him, and by damn he was going to do it.