John hated walking around London alone. He saw Sherlock at every street corner, down every alley, on the patio of every cafe. There were so many times he could swear he had seen him...but that wasn't possible, was it? He was dead. He was buried. Dead people didn't just rise up out of the ground to get a morning cup of tea. John was depressed as all hell, but he wasn't crazy.
He sat down on a bench and took out his phone to send Sarah a text.
"Dinner tonight? -JW"
A few moments later he received a response.
"My place, 7pm. Take away. -SS"
He smiled. Staying in was good. They could spend some quality time together. When Sherlock was alive he was such a cock block...
Was. Was alive. John choked as he mulled over the word in his mind. Past tense. Was, was, was...Sherlock WAS...
John shook his head violently, trying to expel the depressing thoughts.
A man who was passing by put a hand on John's shoulder. "Are you okay, mate?"
John looked up at the man's face, startled. "Yeah, um, fine. Just a headache."
The man smiled doubtfully and walked on.
God, I look crazy...
John took a bottle from his coat and popped another milligram of Klonopin before standing up and starting off back towards the flat. Three milligrams in an hour was a bit much, but he wasn't having the best day.
I'll take a nap before I head to Sarah's, John thought. She'll know I've been taking too many of my pills and won't be too happy about it.
He slowly climbed the stairs to the flat, removing his jacket as he did so. He hung it up and removed his shoes before walking over to and entering Sherlock's bedroom.
He curled up in the warm bed. It still smelled like Sherlock. John didn't fight the tears that came as he began to drift off to sleep.
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