AN: So here is chapter 2 a bit ahead of schedule. Yay!
This is my first time writing for Sherlock's POV. Hopefully I've done an acceptable job of capturing him – though I fear I've hardly done his character justice.
I find John rather easy to write, but Sherlock was a bit of a battle.
Let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I'm praying to Santa to bring me the rights to Sherlock Holmes; until he brings them I don't own anything.
Sherlock couldn't explain it. That was a rather unusual feeling for him.
John was gone. He'd left 221B Baker Street almost a week ago. He said it was all too much. At the time Sherlock was disappointed.
He thought John was enjoying himself; he thought they were friends.
He told John he understood; and he did.
He was too much for ordinary people; and although he wouldn't consider John ordinary, apparently he was still too much. He understood all of this perfectly.
What he didn't understand where him emotions towards his departure.
He was used to people leaving. In truth he expected John's departure to be the same as everyone else's. Tinged with a bit of disappointment, but easily recovered from.
He should have known better though; because John is most certainly not the same as everyone else.
The day John took the last of his things Sherlock felt an odd sort of twinge in his chest (heart?)
This was something more than disappointment. This was...
Hurt.
Sherlock was hurt by the fact that John was leaving. But why? John was simply overwhelmed with everything; he didn't mean it as a personal slight to Sherlock.
So why was it painful?
Sherlock didn't have an answer, so he shoved the irritating and confusing emotions aside;
said farewell to John, telling him to keep in touch.
However Sherlock had the sinking feeling that he would never hear from John again.
People never kept in touch. Not with him anyway; and usually he was fine with that.
His life had little time for socializing.
Yet the though of never hearing John's voice again; or seeing his face bothered Sherlock immensely.
Luckily he had several experiments to keep him occupied for the rest of the day.
It was the next morning when he really began to notice changes.
He awoke with the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Was someone in his flat; an attacker waiting for him?
Slowly he climbed out of bed, crept to the living room; his senses on "high-alert" for anything unusual.
Nothing. Everything was in order; or as close to order as things ever came in 221B.
So why did he have the sense that something was terribly wrong?
"Because it is." said a strange voice in his head. "John isn't here and that is terribly wrong."
The voice was inside his head, yet he had no idea where it came from or what it meant.
One thing he did know was that it was driving him up the wall. All day it went on about John; no matter what he was doing. He simply couldn't stop thinking about him.
He even considered "deleting" John so he could have some peace.
But that damn voice came back saying "That's cold Sherlock. Even for you."
Cold. That's what was wrong with the flat.
It was bloody cold and empty. All because John wasn't there.
Irrational sentimental notions.
Perhaps the absence of another body generating heat was responsible for the chill; he tried to convince himself.
Hoping for some distraction he pulled out his violin to play. It always cleared his mind.
However it didn't work, because he found himself waiting to hear John scold him for killing the violin.
Finally he decided he should try and sleep. Utterly dull, but at least he wouldn't think.
He laughed wryly at that. It had been a very long time since he'd fought not to think.
That plan however backfired; because when you sleep you have dreams.
Or in his case nightmares.
If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway,
KP