Sherlock yawned and looked over at the clock on the stove. It was 4:37 am. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head before he wandering into his room, shedding all of his clothes and falling into bed.
John didn't come back was his last thought before he slipped from consciousness.
Around noon the next day Sherlock adjusted his sheet as he dipped a spoon into the little sugar canister on the counter, frowning when it clanged against the sides. He leaned over to look inside the little pot. Nothing, not even a dusting left. He turned to look again at his full mug of tea.
"John," Sherlock called. John didn't answer.
Sherlock wrote a quick text to buy sugar and put his phone back on the counter. He stared at his mobile a moment then picked it up again, scrolling through his texts to John. He'd already asked John to get the sugar, twice.
"Mrs. Hudson!" He called. No one answered. Back on with the baker. Tedious.
The tea really was atrocious without sugar. He angrily pulled on trousers and a shirt and hastily tied his scarf before walking out the door.
He arrived back at 221B in a foul mood, aggressively disgusted by the Commonwealth.
"John!" He called out again. John didn't answer. He opened the fridge and retrieved the same bag of toes, slamming it shut so hard that it popped back open again without Sherlock's notice.
The next afternoon Sherlock woke up and nearly gagged. Botrytis cinerea, Erwinia carotovora, Rhizopus, Alcaligenes. He walked into the kitchen without his sheet and cursed loudly at the open refrigerator door.
He attempted to boil the kettle, but wretched almost continuously until he gave up and went back into his room to dress, seething. Before he left for St. Barts, he opened the not-cold refridgerator and scanned its contents, settling on a bag of tongues and dumping them over John's mug in the sink.
Sherlock was holding a fresh John Doe's heart when his mobile rang later that day; it clanged in the weight pan as he snapped off his gloves and dug into his pocket. He experienced an unprecedented pang of disappointment when he read the name on the screen.
"Lestrade."
He listened to what sounded promising and hung up with a muttered "yes" without mentioning how busy he was.
He caught sight of John's name in the caller ID from two days ago as he gathered his things to leave. Something heavy creeped over him as he shrugged on his coat.
"Where's Doctor Watson?" Donovan was smirking at him. Sherlock said nothing as he walked past.
"Lover's quarrel?"
Sherlock whipped around. He wanted to tell her that bit of cat fur clung to Anderson's leg, and that his hair smelled like artificial passion fruit. Donovan did not have a cat nor did she use passionate fruit shampoo. Neither did Anderson's wife. He'd add that a lover's quarrel was impossible between her and Anderson because it suggests that the love was requited-
Donovan looked nervous.
Sherlock frowned - had he already said something out loud?
Lestrade caught his eye and motioned with his head to the body on the floor. Sherlock turned away from Donovan and snapped on his gloves.
A disappointing twenty-four hours later, Sherlock sat in the window booth at Angelo's observing the foot traffic outside. His phone was under his hand next to his plate.
Publisher. Barrister. On his way to see his mistress. On his way to the liquor store. He leaned back in his chair and exhaled, moving his hand to the side for a moment to glance at the screen.
On his way home Sherlock texted "where are you?" to John, then deleted it.
When he arrived back at the flat he froze, sniffing the air once before taking the stairs two at a time to John's room. Not here, but just left. He paused in the doorway, scanning the bed, the table, the chair. He walked over to his chest of drawers and opened all of them, cataloguing their contents. T-shirts, jeans, and jumpers were missing.
Sherlock's ears went numb.
Nothing askew. No ruffles in the fabric. No drawers half-open. Inference: John acted deliberately.
He closed the drawer carefully and walked into the bathroom. Toothbrush, razor, deodorant all gone.
Something was cutting him inside of his throat. He wanted to rip it out.