A/N: Thanks for all those reading and loving on my first serious fic piece. You're awesome!


He kept seeing things. Things that continually ruptured the fission in his heart.

One day, as he was walking home from the market, John saw a man. Taller than the general crowd, this man moved swiftly through the sea of people, dodging each member of the swell with an annoyed grace. As the sun emerged from the wall of rain clouds, sunlight glanced off of the man's face, illuminating a smooth plane of ivory skin stretched over severe cheekbones. Remembering how to walk, or how to breathe for that matter, became a hassle for John.

John found himself running full keel past unfamiliar faces, crashing into strangers who absent-mindedly got in his direct path. The tall man quickly ducked into a small musty bookshop on the main street, and John desperately strained his eyes and craned his neck to look through the window. Odd looks from patrons reading books and sipping tea made John aware of his awkward position, and the fact he had three grocery bags swinging wildly from both fisted hands. One last check told him the tall man had escaped into the dark stacks of the shop, once again out of reach.

Desolate, John turned back towards Baker Street. The exhilarating glimpse of the tall man brought forth John's overwhelming emotions. His shoulders slumped, simply no longer able to hold themselves up against the onslaught of despair. Slowly, rivulets of salty tears coursed along John's cheeks, gathering under his nose and along his chin. John couldn't be bothered to wipe them away. Each step became forced, his feet feeling leaden and his limp returning. John cursed himself for ever thinking he could walk around London without his metal companion. He finally reached his destination: the black door with gold numbering. He really should move, ask Mrs. Hudson if he could switch flats. She'd most likely oblige. She understood John's pain, at least a bit.

He shook his head at the thought. He couldn't possibly part with the flat he once shared with Sherlock. How could he possibly move, disregard all those memories, all the mornings waking up to Sherlock pacing the floor, wrapped in his sheet, proverbial steam pouring from his ears as he furiously analyzed another crime. How could John leave the skull? Perched upon the mantle, eyeless sockets peering into the dark parts of him without so much as a blink to give away his bluff, the skull had been there for John when no one else was. He couldn't begin to fathom peering into another fridge, when he knew that no other fridge would hold a severed head, or a colony of cheese-eating maggots, or a mason jar of eyeballs. What other kitchen had more beakers than mugs? What other flat had worn floorboards as a result of an unsuccessful experiment? What other flat had hideous floral wallpaper smothered in bullet holes and smiley faces drawn with yellow spray paint? What other flat had an unused MacBook sitting on the coffee table, untouched for almost two years?

What other flat… What other flat smelled like Sherlock?

What other flat would feel like home?

A wistful smile briefly touched John's lips. No other place in the entire universe would ever feel like home, because no other place in the universe had ever contained Sherlock Holmes as a flat mate. And no other place ever will again. An ever-present knot returned to John's stomach as he processed that thought. He shuffled to the kitchen, unceremoniously dropped the grocery bags to the floor, and placed the kettle on the stove for tea. He momentarily entertained the thought of making Sherlock a cup of his own, realizing fractionally too late that his therapist advised him to end that pattern as a sense of closure.

"Damn her and her sense of bloody closure. I don't need closure. I'm closed. Why the hell does she think I'm paying her?! To make me less accessible, to help me bottle myself up more?! Sure, why the bloody hell not?! Let's just keep the good doctor in his own little bubble of pain. Don't let him do things that would ease the pain, OH NO. Just keep pretending to be alright Johnny-boy. One day, you'll finally die and it'll all be okay. You can finally feel whole again as soon as you open your bloody dead eyes and see the twit who made you this way."

John turned to go slump over the couch and came face-to-face with Mrs. Hudson. She had tears in her eyes and was looking at John with heartbreaking pity.

"Oh my dear boy, come sit down." Mrs. Hudson gestured to Sherlock's armchair. John desperately wanted to go lay down on Sherlock's bed and cry himself to sleep like any other Tuesday evening, but he felt obliged to Mrs. Hudson. He sank into the soft material and wriggled snugly into one corner of Sherlock's chair. Immediately a debilitating fatigue overcame him, and he began sobbing. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment at this sudden onset of emotion in front of Mrs. Hudson; she seemed unfazed by his tears. She darted into John's bedroom, then into Sherlock's bedroom, and returned to the sitting room arms overflowing with pillows and blankets and a scarf. She proceeded to swaddle John, still heaving great sobs into the still air, with her finds, and as a final gesture she gathered Sherlock's scarf around John's neck, the end falling into his grasping hands.

"Th..th..thank yyyy..ou." John managed between gulping breaths. His outbreak had subsided as his former flat mate's scent enveloped him. The soft sheets and scratchy scarf made John's heart stutter slightly. He could never repay Mrs. Hudson for her never-ending patience and love.

"No thanks needed dear, I know you've had a tough go of it without Sherlock. I miss him myself every day. Quite boring without him 'round, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson quickly scanned the room, a solemn crease touching her brow as she passed over the skull. Now is not the time to mention removing Sherlock's things from the flat you loon. She shook her head, and swiveled back to face John. "If you ever need me, you know where I am John. I'm not your housekeeper, but I am your landlady. Your well-being is my business, don't you bloody think otherwise." She chastely kissed his temple and headed downstairs.

As he settled into the encasing Mrs. Hudson had provided, the absolute silence of the flat became deafening. He clutched the end of Sherlock's scarf tightly to his chest, praying morning would come swiftly, and that tonight wouldn't bring any more dreams about falling off buildings or falling in love.